Harriet S. Okot
11 August 2008
opinion
In this second and final part, Harriet S. Okot tells of unconventional meals, curfews and corrupt police officials during her trip to Burundi.
On the way, it became clear how corrupt policemen in this nation really are. We were stopped by one who demanded that we give him money if we wanted to go anywhere. We had no option but to give him what he wanted.
As I sat there waiting for this soldier to take his bribe and leave, I saw a young boy who must have been about 14 or 15 years old light a cigarette. Before I could process the information, I saw another one who was only about 10 also puff away.
A young man called Excellence introduced himself as our escort and drove ahead of us in his car. We were driven straight to where the Pam awards launch was taking place. I was watching the clock closely because all I wanted was to eat and sleep. Finally, we were taken to a restaurant on the other side of town. By the time the food was brought, we had eaten most of the salad. The pieces of meat were almost the size of my hand but very delicious.
On getting to the hotel, we had to scramble for keys for the various rooms. I settled in very well and dozed off very soon. At around 3a.m., I heard the banging. At first I thought it was one of the people in our group being silly, then I heard voices speaking a language that I could not understand.
Although at first they were not knocking at my door, they soon started when the occupant of the next room refused to open his for them. I was forced to get out of my bed and attend to them. They began demanding for something that they had left in the room and really needed. So I gently knocked on his door and asked him to open up. After a long wait, he opened the door only to hand over a shoe brush. All that knocking for a shoe brush!
In the morning when I woke up I could not wait to see what is really on this side of Lake Tanganyika, only to be told that there is a curfew and travelling around in large groups is prohibited before 10.30a.m. Then there was the issue of breakfast which was soda and roasted sweet potatoes. I had earlier declined to eat sweet potato chips and was not about to have roasted potatoes for breakfast so I hung in there.
When we finally got on the road to head back home, we had to make stops for police checks. We soon realised that each and every officer wanted a bribe and were not giving up until they got what they wanted.
As we were getting to the border, we noticed a young couple walking along,
The newly wed couple that had us scrambling to take pictures of them. PHOTO BY BRUNO BIRAKWATE
escorted by a group of other villagers singing along with them. The bride had decorated her head with wrapping paper and they had a multi-coloured umbrella to protect them from the scorching sun. We were all desperate to take photos of the couple that Emmanuel, a cameraman from a local television station decided that he could not do without the footage.
He leaned out of the window and all of a sudden, he was on the ground screaming. We rushed out of the vehicle to see what was happening when we noticed he was in intense pain. We carried him back in and placed him at the back of the bus while we debated on what to do; whether it was easier for him to be taken back to Kampala or to a hospital in Kigali. We realised that we were not getting home that day because the border would be closed by the time we got there.
We were stuck in Kigali. One young man in our group who knew Rwanda well insisted on taking us to a private hospital which turned out to be a pharmacy. There, we were told to go to the national hospital. We took the patient to the hospital that from the onset had all the features of a state hospital in Africa.
We then went in search of a hotel but found that the only hotels left were either too expensive or too disgusting. Finally, I found somewhere to rest my head. The next morning, most of us were awake by 6a.m. but the driver was nowhere to be seen because someone had taken him to an unknown hotel.
After hours of arguing, he finally appeared. Then we set off. The rest of the journey was less eventful. Only when we got onto Ugandan soil did the travellers jump up and down and refuse to hear any words that reminded them of Rwanda or Burundi.
A crate of beer was loaded and we were soon on our way to Kampala. After a few more stops and fights, we were back to a traffic-infested city that I can proudly call home.
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