Paradise Lost

Travelling brings out the best and worst in people, particularly international travel. I have learned this the hard way on numerous occasion, yet am always astonished when I find myself on a weekend where we’re leaning much towards the latter. Coupled with the somewhat inevitability of the artificial, superficial expat world, one typically finds it completely acceptable to by-pass niceties, jump in with both feet, and force oneself into a level of closeness that would otherwise simply not jive in most other settings. It’s part of the transient lifestyle, the adventure, the attitude. Therefore, it didn’t require second thought when planning a weekend trip to Burundi (a short, five hour drive to the small country south of Rwanda) with four other people I have barely known a shade over a month.

There is also something to be said about expectations when travelling, personal perceptions of culture, and overall cohesiveness of groups. My travel companions in a nutshell: a 50-something Indian man who has spent the majority of the last two decades shuttling around East Africa for business. He is more Kenyan than he is Indian…and a complete wild man. Add his silent counterpart: a shy, 20-something, non-drinking Indian Muslim; a 24 year-old sassy Dominicana Americana who also attends Tulane; and a Pittsburgh native and fellow-RPCV from Togo. We were a regular old Benetton advertisement.

I learned quickly that my own expectations were being challenged before we even left Kigali. Evidently Indian time is not a far stretch from African time. Leaving at 10 am really meant 12:30…and that was pushing it. Breathe. The drive was gorgeous as we climbed hills and fell into lush valleys, watching the vegetation become more tropical as we drove farther south. Indian Punjabi music blaring on the semi-functional stereo system; escaping into novels; Ipod salvation; resentful silence; napping…ahhhhh; polite chitchat.

We arrived in bustling Bujumbura just around sundown. At first glance, Burundians are a bit more of a lively bunch that the peaceful calm the Rwandese project. Outgoing, lovers-of-life, energetic, colorful, welcoming. These were my first impressions.

Hindi, Kiswahili, French, English (and I assume some well-warranted choice words in Spanish muttered under the breath)…Burundian francs, US dollars, Rwandan francs. And I wonder why we’re not getting along? It was pure mayhem across the board. Utter confusion every step of the way. Wait, you don’t eat ANYTHING but Indian food? Really? I thought YOU had enough Burundian francs to pay for dinner! Alcoholics socializing with non-alcoholics. Workaholics frustrated with pending deadlines and lack of internet access. Pasty white gals needing too much sunscreen. Disastrous.

I have to say overall, against all odds, I really did enjoy myself. We stayed on the beach at a lively joint which had a dance party going at all times and an amazing view of the mountains and Lake Tanganyika, Africa’s deepest freshwater lake. I spent much of Saturday hopping waves with some Burundian teens, who asked me endless questions about hip hop and Michael Jackson. I fell in love with a four year old named Ritchie, who basically shuffled between my beach towel and my lap all afternoon and giggled uncontrollably while drinking his Fanta and hiding bottle caps in the sand. Magical.

Saturday night, we somehow ended up at the Indian restaurant (again) and got swindled into attending the expat party of all expat parties…karaoke night at the Marine Corps house. Now THIS is what I call cross-cultural exchange. Seriously? I have to say, my Bobby McGee rendition was a bit weak due to the small crowd (and lack of cocktails consumed) but overall, it was interesting to see the expat scene in Bujumbura compared to Kigali. Shocker to discover that it was basically the same. A bunch of Westerners over-indulging in their beverage of choice, chain smoking cheap African cigarettes, and listening to their favorite MJ tunes while figuring out how to score for the night. Pretty standard.

Sunday I stayed on the beach all morning, laying around on day beds plush with pillows and sparkling pools and fruit smoothies and small, inquisitive toddlers wanting to befriend the very pale American in her bandanna and tankini. (Please don’t judge me about the hairy legs. I haven’t had hot water for days). It was a really beautiful day. I started reading a fabulous book. I was consumed with sunshine and music and breeze. It was lovely.

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the drive home. Bickering. Fighting over where to eat lunch. Hindi. English. Hindi. English. KiSwahili. Go. To. Hell. Stupid. Ass. Face. Racing to the border before it closed. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again! Oh dear Lord, was I happy to reach Kigali and peace out to my travel companions. I’m not entirely sure I’ve processed the weekend entirely, if I will ever subject myself to such social turmoil again. Maybe there’s something to be said for riding solo…at least to the restaurant of your choice =)