chris and becka warner

Yesterday I finally succumbed to the temptation and bought a pocket radio. It cost a whopping six dollars. Actually, it should have cost three, but I got the “mzungu” (white-skin) price. I wasn’t in the mood to haggle, however, and six dollars is a small price to pay to have the endless entertainment of the BBC. BBC world radio is the soundtrack to every traveler’s life: News in multiple languages, world music, weird documentaries, and a constant stream of engaging British accents. What more could a person want? Today I listened to the news in English (who else covers the political situation in Bangladesh?), and then in French (just to see if I could understand it). There was also part two of a documentary on Iran, which was interesting, but made absolutely no sense if you missed part one. BBC isn’t the only choice; local tunes, Congolese beats, French ballads, and American imports are all options too. Those of us who have been exposed to satellite TV and high speed internet may be tempted to think radio is an archaic form of receiving information, but this is not so. The vast majority of the world’s population still tunes in to a different frequency.

The market is where it all happens. The sterile, air-conditioned malls of the western world can do nothing to prepare a foreigner for the open air produce market of Bujumbura, or its neighbor, the indoor bazaar. Actually, there is only one market but it cannot be confined to the one building. From its dark inner corridors, it spills out under the sun, flowing down steps, down alleys, and nearly into the streets. Every few days Chris and I work up the courage, grab a bag and brave the chaos. We can find all kinds of treasures there: exotic fruit (passion, papaya, tree tomatoes, etc;); household necessities (like candles for the off-power nights and giant bars of spotted soaps); clothing from the east, the west and everything in between. But it isn’t as easy as spotting what we need or want. We have to contend with the sheer volume of people: vendors shouting out “Muzunngu!” (”white-skin”) when we pass by; a gaggle of women who remember my name and yell it out, waiting for me to come over and speak my embarrassing little Kirundi, and perhaps buy a pineapple from them; there are the bag laden-porters yelling out loudly as they run with their heavy loads, and though I don’t know what words they are bellowing out, I can probably safely assume that it is not, “Excuse me, please!” The crowds do part for them, but that’s about the exception. The rest of us have to find our way through solid walls of chatting, stopping, going, buying, arguing, greeting, sitting, begging, working, masses.

The market is loosely organized into sections, with invisible boundaries: produce on little blankets or in baskets; flour in sacks or in great piles; little grey fish displayed on tables; the ready-made clothing and fabric booths; the miscellaneous food-stuffs; shoe stands; electronics; everything weaved and wooden, etc. All sense of direction is lost as we immerse ourselves in the labyrinth of activity. All the while, people are trying to pull us this way and that way, a steady line of beggars are imploring us for money and the occasional youths are assessing whether or not we are worth the effort to rob. Sometimes we stop to speak with some of the vendors, finding they are genuinely helpful and concerned for us; they are quite excited to see a muzungu in the market!

The heat of the African sun blinds us as we exit into an alley; the strange and wonderful experience of the market is suddenly over. I’m left with the feeling of being violently ejected from some wild and magical place, to find myself in the streets again. In a few days, we’ll be ready to do it all over again.

From a woman’s perspective, being invited suddenly to meet a head of state is a stressful thing. There are questions of protocol and dress that not many people can answer! Last night, after being out of the house most of the day, Chris and I received a message that we were invited to a service that evening at the president’s house. There was little time to prepare, and I found myself rushing around to find something appropriate to wear. I tried to communicate this need to our landlady who speaks no English; after a long, humorous episode, she finally showed me the missing accessory and I was ready as I could be. (Chris, on the other hand, did not seem to be worried about any of this. Oh, to have that same confidence!)

Our Burundian friends (a couple that we are working with) arrived to pick us up and we began the drive to the presidential palace. After gaining access to several blockaded roads, we reached the compound perched high in the hills above the city. Walking from the parked car, our first impression of the place was the music coming from the presidential choir. The Sunday evening service was just beginning.

The service was located outdoors, with the rear entrance steps of the Presidential palace serving as the platform. We were ushered to a series of white-clothed tables; Chris and the Pastor who invited us sat close to the president’s main table. The Pastor’s wife and I were seated just behind our husbands.

It was a beautiful evening; there was a cool wind blowing off the large pool behind us, soft light, and the music of a choir of former combatants and orphans leading us in praise to God. Everyone was dancing, even the president, vice president and their families. We observed the genuine joy of those who had formerly been involved in things too terrible to describe, but now have forgiveness and a new hope in Christ. Chris and I also joined in on the dancing, although it could hardly be called dancing when compared to the locals!

The rest of the service was quite long; we understood later that people who were meant only to introduce themselves abused the privilege, possibly trying to impress the president. The night dragged on because of this problem. One of the main highlights was the gracious words spoken by the president regarding his testimony and hopes for Burundi. He and the First Lady appear to be such genuine people; it was a shame that so much time was wasted on rambling visitors! There was also a gospel singer from the USA who performed several songs in English (with Kirundi translation). When the evening ended, we were greeted again by the President and the First Lady and left the palace.

We left with a renewed sense that God is at work in Burundi. The genuineness of the president and his wife is unmistakable; however, it would be naive on our part to say that this alone is enough to rebuild the country. There are still so many challenges facing Burundi, and the government leaders need great wisdom. Please continue to remember Burundi’s leaders in prayer.