Lake Tanganyika

Bujumbura doesn’t really feel like a capital city. There is hardly any traffic (to our delight). But there are also very few paved roads (we’re not counting cobblestone streets that are worse than unpaved). The lake has swallowed some of them. Fuel is often unavailable, the gas stations are fenced off by razor wire. When there is any, it costs at least 3 dollars per litre, our AirBnB hosts tell us.

We’re staying in town for a few days, to nurse our colds, but also to extend our visas. We heard that there is a guy we can pay to go through the process at the immigration office for us, while we sip juice in a café. He seems professional so we hand over our passports and 20USD each and hope for the best. One day later we get the passports back with the visa extension. Oh, the beauty of the black market.

In Burundi cash is king, more specifically dollars are king. The locals don’t put much trust in their own currency. The official exchange rate is 2900:1, but the street price is more like 7400:1. Power outages are the rule, not the exception, even in the affluent parts of the city. The restaurants have fancy menus but most items are not available. To our dismay, even fresh juice is in short supply.

After a few days we feel a lot better (though with some lingering snotty noses) and ready to cycle again. The road along the lakeside can’t quite decide whether it wants to be tarmac or dirt road, so it switches back and forth a lot. It’s also fighting a losing battle with the lake which encroaches more and more.

On our last night in the country we are staying at the same hotel as someone important. At first we’re not sure why we’re being prodded with metal detectors to get to our room. The next morning people are decorating SUVs with balloons. We say good morning to the soldiers armed with grenade launchers.

Later on we find out why. On the road towards the Tanzanian border a random guy tells us to wait for a bit while the president’s convoy passes. And sure enough there are the SUVs we saw earlier accompanied by truckloads of chanting party members. We wonder whether their enthusiasm is bought or genuine as we huff and puff up the pothole-ridden main road.

Burundi is very similar to Rwanda in many ways. They are both small countries – it only takes a couple of weeks to cycle through each one. They have the same climate, hilly terrain, ethnic groups and colonial history (first Germany, later Belgium). They even share the historic episode of genocide, though the Burundian one happened in the 70s and it was Tutsi killing Hutu. We now understand better why the countries aren’t on open-border terms.

But for all the similarities, the experience is very different. While Rwanda has undergone a remarkable transformation since the 90s, Burundi seems stuck in the poverty trap. There are fewer goats grazing by the roadside (a sign of wealth) and shockingly we see a couple of kids who are clearly starving, not just skinny. In a tropical country with abundant food, this is especially tragic.

Given the circumstances, we’d understand if the people weren’t inclined to treat the white tourists kindly. But we are surprised again and again by their friendliness, which surpasses everything we’ve experienced so far. Since we don’t know the word for money in Kirundi, we can’t be sure. But hardly anyone asks us for it in any other language.

Still, we are somewhat relieved to be leaving. We gently decline to bribe the Burundian authorities at the border, switch sides of the road yet again and jump forward in time. Tanzania beckons with chips mayai (an omelette with chips fried into it), a reliable supply of fresh fruit and real/cold Coca Cola. We can’t wait.