Grenade launchers and running shorts

I spent last week in Gitega (refer to map on my first post for reference!) at a BLTP retreat. In case you were wondering about my work, these retreats are what we do. We didn't have internet access and it's taken a while to gather my thoughts so this is the late but long and a little disjointed description.

The retreat

Howard captured it best when he said to me, “What humility, these presidents.” (Not that the seven term congressman and former American ambassador to the Great Lakes peace process who insists on being called Howard doesn’t have his own fair share of the stuff.) But he couldn’t be more right. Tucked away for four days way out in the country and put in the hands of a young team of foreigners, every living former president of Burundi laughed and ate and talked with all of us during the BLTP training last week. All of us being himself, two professional trainers, the BLTP staff, 3 young program assistants and 30-something of the most powerful men and women in Burundi. Men who led a country let themselves be trained in leadership skills, ate meals alongside people who vehemently oppose their policies and even sometimes, without pretense, talked to me.

It was probably the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced. Just to get a feel for who was in the room, aside from the four presidents: the chairs and the most senior members of the party in power, senior members of all the other parties in power, three generals, the chief of staff of the army, the director of the national police, and a handful of other deputies or senators, ambassadors, and ministers. The American equivalent would be something like Howard Dean, Chuck Schumer, Mel Martinez, Mike Duncan, George Casey, George W. Bush, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, probably Hilary too, and a couple of Cabinet members and Congressmen all shmushed in a room. Throw in some hopeful extremists - the Michigan militia? - and you've got yourself a retreat lineup.

The most remarkable thing about the workshop was just how well everyone got along. Three years ago, some of these people couldn’t be in the same room as each other, at least certainly not without heavily armed guards at their flank. At least one participant founded a break-off faction of a political party represented by other participants. Some of the participants are still part of an armed struggle against the government. And nothing beats the Bagaza-Buyoya ish: one of the participants (Buyoya) performed a coup d’etat… against another participant (Bagaza)! And yet here they were, sitting together in a stuffy room for a few days of dialogue, and every last thing went off without a hitch. (Unless, of course, you count the moment when former President Ndayizeye fell out of his chair in the middle of a session.)

My only real job during the week was taking pictures, which was pretty much the best job imaginable: I got to get in the faces of important people with a camera and an excuse that made me not sketchy. And if it was impressive that they all got along with each other, it was incredible that they made any effort to get along with me. But really after a day or so, I was pretty much one of the gang. The FNL members said hello to me each day, President Buyoya laughed at something I said, President Bagaza told me at dinner that I looked a little bit Japanese, a party chairman asked for copies of my pictures, and at least two senators asked me if I was related to Charles Taylor. We were chatting up family stories in no time. “Oh Mr. President, you're such a cut-up.”

All in all, I was most struck by how able the workshop was to suspend reality. In real life, these people are not chummy. Real life is not necessarily the news that paints all of Burundian political leadership as rife with animosity and men constantly at each others throats, but it is somewhere between that and the pleasant morning scenes of rebel leaders taking coffee with the head of the ruling party and a slight breeze floating in from the entrance. In real life, these people do not spend all day in one spot following the directions of people who weren’t elected – the constant darting in and out of the room for cell phone calls was just one indicator of that separation. And in real life I would be thought a bit odd (if not a security risk) for incessantly taking pictures of generals chatting over a coffee break. But I think the reality suspension speaks both to the power and weakness of the BLTP trainings. On one hand, it is extremely effective in bringing people together for a week outside of Bujumbura. On the other, that’s just a week outside of Bujumbura.

Running on a dirt road

I was afraid to run most mornings during the retreat. I actually laid in bed turning off one alarm after the other, then one snooze after the other, not because I was tired or really really really didn’t want to run (which is usually the case) but because I dreaded the idea of stepping out of the seminary building and passing the clusters of uniformed men who hold really big guns instead of smiling and stare, and be wearing shorts. The highest profile people brought entourages that would make Hollywood types look petty and Secret Service agents look Hollywood. Because by entourage I mean two trucks loaded with armed men, and by big guns I mean grenade launchers. Intimidation exists on a whole different plane here.

But I actually regretted my hesitation on the last day when I went on my first run, and not only because my diet had consisted mainly of french fries and rice all week. The conference ended early on the fourth day so with my afternoon free I put on my white running shoes and white socks and headed up the dirt road, which then turned them to dusty red shoes and socks. And I’m not kidding when I say up, it was nothing but up for 10 minutes which quite sufficed to tempt my return. And even so… it was beautiful. Hills, colorfully clad people, banana groves and smiles: a perfect combination for an onslaught of cultural discovery.

The hills first of all, that I could look onto from either side of my road. In spite of my ongoing personal battle with hills, the relationship has to be termed love-hate because I can't deny their prettiness and I do like pretty things. The banks of the road I was on careened into valleys that rose like an about-face into a wall of green, spotted with dusk-time shadows – the shadows that are less shade on light than light on shade. Note: remember to look to the side when running.

But the overlook was only scenery in the end, begging photography for itself as much as to frame the people on the road. In Bujumbura people are interesting enough, dressed in recycled t-shirts and jeans, dress clothes and windsuits, and women in a traditional skirt with a t-shirt on top. But on this road, everyone was outfitted entirely in traditional clothes, which meant colors and patterns and more colors and a sense of complete displacement for me. My pink Nike running shirt looked like it came from another universe. Kids ran out from their homes and stopped at the road to stare or laugh, calling to their brothers and sisters to come see. Their homes are mudhuts and their feet were bare

Alongside the large and impressive views were tiny, discreet but equally impressive views into footpaths. When we used to drive to track meets in high school Coach Espo would look out the bus window, usually while driving, to the side of the road and scan for hidden trails. He would point them out when he thought he found one and he probably never did but in part because of that I have always loved the look and the very idea of trails. Since roads and sidewalks only exist here as paths taken by a larger public, everything else that goes anywhere is a trail. I’ve never seen a trail quite as mystically beautiful as one leading into a grove of banana trees on the dirt road in Gitega. Banana trees have these huge wavy leaves that fan out from the trunk to form a canopy letting yellow-ish light cascade through slits in the electric green leaves. They’re not too tall so you can actually see the ceiling from the ground. And the path that led into one, in this particular spot, cut a little dirt stream through the forest so thin that you’d have to enter single file and which disappeared from view about 10 steps up the way. If Pan’s Labrynth had been filmed in Africa (and maybe had been a little less dark) the Guillermo del Toro would want to use that path. In my head I heard “Send Me On My Way” and ached for a camera.

All that aside, the single best moment of the run was passing a group of women for the second time, on my return. They had giggled coyly when I first passed them and I didn’t hear much because I was listening to Nancy Griffith. On the way back, we saw each other coming from afar – ten or so colorfully bustled women are almost as hard to miss as a ponytailed white girl in running shorts in Gitega – and I turned down the music. Just before reaching them I eeked out “Mwiriwe” – “Good evening.” Complete and utter delight. The women keel and laugh and hold each others’ shoulders and show beautiful smiles. I’ve used the word plenty before but never has it created such a reaction and never have I felt so bonded by a greeting and I was so happy to run across women who reminded me how great women can be and how easy it is to discover that.

As if that wasn’t enough, when I got back a group of kids was walking into the seminary and they didn’t speak a word of French other than oui. I asked their names and told them mine and then let them listen to my iPod and they stood captivated until I put on 2Face Idiba and they started dancing and turned the volume up to unadvisable levels. Perfection.