by Dan Doyle
“Well, how do you tell which family is which?” asked the coach.
“Damned if we know,” roared Abbot. “But somehow they figure a way.”
As the jeep approached the outskirts of the city, Burundians stopped to peer at what for them was obviously an unusual sight. Their looks revealed no malice, just curiosity.
“There are very few cars in Burundi,” said Abbot. “Most people walk or ride bikes. The few cars you’ll see are mostly European imports, and they’re generally ten or fifteen years old. This big ol’ open-air jeep is one of just twelve in the country, all owned by the Marines. The combination of the jeep and our pale faces makes us quite a sideshow.”
“Speak for yourself, Mr. Abbot,” quipped Corporal Roberts, an African American.
Jim could see that Roberts was one very handsome kid, not unlike Muhammad Ali when he was Cassius Clay. He stood about 6’2”, and his short-sleeved khaki shirt revealed muscular forearms and biceps. Roberts had an easy laugh, but Jim sensed an underlying intensity about him, perhaps related to his surroundings or, Jim thought, simply because he grew up black.
Bujumbura was unlike any city Jim had ever seen, but then everything else he had seen in the previous half hour was exceptional, too. While the main roadway was paved with asphalt, the surface of the city’s side-streets was a mix of gravel and crushed stone, which caused major difficulties for motor vehicles, even the jeep. Most of the buildings were one or two stories high, made of either red brick or a white stucco-like material. The Novotel Bujumbura, an eight-story hotel located in what Abbot referred to as “the financial district”—which was really made up of only six or seven businesses—had a distinctly European look.
“It’s owned by some Belgians,” continued Abbot. “As you can see, they decided to spend a lot of money renovating it. Did the job several years ago. Unfortunately, when the violence broke out, business travel into this country became virtually non-existent. I don’t know how they’re making it. It’s a damned nice place. Beautiful rooms, color TV, air conditioning—rarities in a Burundi hotel—and a new tennis court. And with its eight stories, it’s Bujumbura’s Empire State Building.”
As Abbot spoke, Jim eyed two tall, handsome Tutsis— both at least 6’7”—standing formally in uniforms at the hotel’s front door waiting for customers who were not likely to show up.
As the jeep wound through the streets, what was most striking to Jim was the dramatic variation in size among the people.
“I’m sure you’ve heard this stateside, Jim, but the Hutus make up about 85 percent of the population,” said Casey. “Most Hutu men’ll range anywhere from 5’2” to about 5’10”, and the Hutu women are several inches shorter. There’s a very small population of Pygmies—only about 1 or 2 percent—and they, of course, are generally less than 4 feet tall. And then the Tutsis make up about 15 percent of the population. The average height of a Tutsi male is about 6’7”, and a Tutsi female about 5’11”—so they’re easy to spot! If you see a man about 6 feet to 6’2” or a woman about 5’4” to 5’7” then sometimes it’s as a result of a mixed marriage. Believe me, mixed marriages can cause major problems for people in this country. In fact, many murders happen as a direct result of mixed marriages.”
Moments later, Corporal Roberts pulled off the main road onto a rutty side street and stopped in front of a small restaurant.
“I read on your bio sheet that pizza is one of your favorite foods,” said Casey. “Well, welcome to the only pizza joint in Burundi!”
20
Corporal Roberts parked the jeep at the side of the road in a spot that would allow the group to keep an eye on the vehicle. “Coach, if we don’t keep watch while we’re eating, you can be certain something’ll be missing when we get back to the jeep . . . if not the jeep itself,” said Abbot.
The five Americans entered a tropical-like, open-air restaurant with no roof and only a gray tarp for walls. The branches of four cocoa trees—one at each corner—shaded the sitting area; the only color was provided by several yellow and white acacia plants that anchored the tarp. “What happens if it rains?” Jim asked. “Well,” replied Abbot. “June to August is the dry season and it never, and I mean never rains. For the rest of the year, with the exception of the rainy season, it doesn’t rain much. When it does, the cocoa trees provide pretty good cover, and people just raise the awnings at each table!”
A very short waiter poured water into small glasses, and Jim’s facial expression showed concern.
“I mentioned on the ride in about dysentery from the water,” said Jack Casey. “Well, it’s no problem in a place like this. Restaurants in Bujumbura have to boil and disinfect the water. But if it’d make you feel better, order Coke. It’s flown in from France, and it’s generally thought to be the safest thing to drink.”
“What about the malaria? Is it as bad as I’ve heard?”
“It can be,” replied Abbot. “But in addition to what you received in DC, we have some very good pills at the Embassy—take one a day and you’re usually fine. We’ve all been here for at least a year—in my case, nearly two and a half—and we haven’t had any problem.”
Just then, Jim looked up at the waitress approaching the table. He was nearly spellbound. Obviously a Tutsi, she was tall, slender, and statuesque. Her high cheekbones, raven-dark eyes, full, sensuous lips, and firm breasts under a loose jersey coalesced to create a vision of ethnic beauty. In DC or in Brussels, he had not seen a woman so striking.
In a soft, warm voice, she said, “Bonjour. Puis-je prendre votre command, s’il vous plaît? Good day, may I take your order, please?”
For the first time in longer than he cared to remember, Jim Keating felt a sudden surge of romance in his soul. She was standing right next to him so, fortunately, he couldn’t stare at her. But with her hip only a hand’s breadth from his head, he was certain his heart rate had spiked. He was pleasantly surprised, for antidepressants had kept a decidedly tight lid on his libido.
After the men ordered the pizza and Coca-Cola, Abbot turned to him.
“Jim,” he said quietly, revealing a slight quaver in a voice that was usually strong. “Do you mind if I address a sensitive issue?”
“Of course not,” Jim said, perhaps a bit too emphatically. A trace flustered that his reaction to the lovely waitress might have been rather obvious, he guessed what the subject might be.
“A man’s personal life is his own business,” said Abbot. “But as Barry may have told you, the Tutsi women find Americans very attractive.”
“Surely not an old codger like me!”
“Well, I’m not sure I think of you as an old codger, Coach, but yeah, I’m sure the women here will be very attracted to you. You just . . . need to be careful,” Abbot said.
He went on to explain the history of the AIDS virus in Burundi: how it started in the city, because most of the jobs and people are in Bujumbura, but then spread throughout the whole country. The virus, he said, was getting worse. So bad, in fact, that the situation was in danger of becoming a pandemic. Although most Tutsi women were careful—many were religious, not promiscuous—Abbot stressed how prevalent the virus was, even among those who were actively trying to avoid it.
“Now, as you just saw, many of the Tutsi women are quite beautiful. But, my strong advice, Jim,” he said, “and you can take it for what it’s worth, is that you stay away from any, shall we say, liaisons. Temptation will be there on a regular basis. Tutsi women realize that any type of a relationship with an American could get them a better quality of life.”
Casey nodded in agreement with Abbot’s warnings. He shared a story about a former employee who had been sent back to the United States only one month earlier with AIDS.
“We’re still pretty shaken by it. Out in the country, you can go from hill to hill and literally see no one from the ages of eighteen to forty. In many regions, the virus has wiped out almost all people of that age. Just last week, President Buyoya formed a blue-ribbon commission wit
h an alarming, but accurate, name—Save a Generation. You’re well aware of the terrible violence here. Yet, in our judgment, the biggest safety issue for Americans is the damned AIDS virus,” Casey said.
“Enough said,” said Abbot. “Let’s talk about other topics.”
By the time the pizza arrived several minutes later, Jim’s attraction to the waitress had abated—got enough to worry about—and Abbot was providing more facts about Burundi. He reminded Jim that the average life expectancy in the country was forty years—thirty-eight for men and forty-one for women. Similar to what it was in the eighteenth or early-nineteenth century in the United States, Jim thought.
Jim had read that the population was just under six million, but Abbot mentioned that the fleeing of refugees to Tanzania, Zaire, and Kenya had most likely decreased that number. Those left in Bujumbura had been dealing with a steady increase in crime ever since the outbreak of violence ten months earlier. He had to keep his eyes open in certain neighborhoods, Abbot told him, or he’d be mugged, pick-pocketed, or worse.
“So many people are armed who shouldn’t be, Jim,” Abbot said. “Anytime you go out at night, you’ll be accompanied by someone who is armed—Clive, Jim, another Marine, or me.”
Abbot reached for another piece of pizza while Jim sipped his Coca-Cola. He hoped he wasn’t overwhelming the coach, but the picture he was painting was accurate. And these were things Jim needed to hear.
“You know,” Abbot continued, “I used to jog, but ever since one of my colleagues—an attaché from the Belgian Embassy—was mugged and robbed on a public road bordering Lake Tanganyika, I confine my jogging to the grounds of my home, which is fortunately a large area.”
“Thirty loops equal three miles—I don’t know how many times I’ve heard that,” Casey cracked.
Jim laughed lightly and then cleared his throat to ask a question he’d been contemplating for a minute or so. “How do the locals view Americans? I mean, in the jeep ride, it seemed that they were more curious than anything else.”
“Before the Soviet Union began to teeter,” said Sergeant Rush, “the United States was essentially in competition with the USSR for the loyalty of the people here—and in many other African countries as well. But now, with the collapse of the Soviet Union near at hand, Burundians look to America as really their only potential ally—or hope.”
“Amazing,” said Jim.
“How so?” asked Abbot.
“Well, I don’t think more than 1 percent of the entire United States population had ever even heard of Burundi until the violence broke out. Yet, you’re saying, Sergeant, that they look to us as their only hope. To me, that’s incredible.”
“You’re right. It is incredible,” said Rush.
“How ‘ bout the Peace Corps? I read that they’re mostly gone.”
“True,” replied Abbot. “And the ones who are still here work in agriculture. As Barry Sklar probably also told you, the vast number of employed Burundians work in agriculture as well—almost 94 percent. The rest are split up between government, industry, commerce, and services. But, as I said, the few Peace Corps people who are still here—no more than twenty or twenty-five—work on agriculture-related projects.”
“What about basketball?” asked Jim. “How popular is it?”
“Very popular,” replied Casey, his voice rising in excitement. “In the late ‘80s, an American organization sent coaches here to do clinics—one guy came over from Boston College. They also sent over a lot of equipment and even put together a Burundian National Team that traveled to the States two years ago. All of this really helped the growth of the game until the war broke out and completely stopped its progress.”
“Yeah, I read about that trip,” said Jim. “They actually won a game or two, although they picked up an American guard— a kid from UConn—who really helped them.”
“That’s true, they did better than anyone expected,” said Abbot. “But, as Jack said, when the violence broke out, all of the good that had been done by putting Tutsis and Hutus together on basketball teams seemed to evaporate. That’s why the ambassador thought that a guy like you coming over could have some type of, in her words, chipping effect—chipping away at the hatred that’s been part of this country for centuries.”
“Let me ask you something,” Jim said, struggling for words. “Do . . . do the basketball players actually hate each other?”
“Not really. In fact, when the State Department got the idea of bringing someone like you over, the ambassador held a meeting with some of the basketball folks. They all thought that this could be part of a larger plan to stop the violence. They also made it clear that they—the real hoops people— don’t hate each other. But, as I said, they really haven’t been able to get together much lately, for fear of some type of violent reaction from others in their tribe.”
“But Jim,” continued Abbot, “let me tell you what lines the ambassador is thinking along. She’s thinking about having you not only conduct clinics for kids and coaches, but also put together a national team. She’s also considering how to get some funds from the Peace Corps and, possibly, the US Information Agency. She’d use these funds to host a couple of games in Bujumbura, including a big opener. As you’ll see, the place you’ll practice is an outdoor court. The only indoor court is at the university, and it’s very small. But this outdoor court has plenty of room for people to both stand and sit. After you put the team together, her idea for the first game is to bring in a squad from Rwanda, which would also be made up of Hutus and Tutsis. Have a game!”
Sergeant Rush expanded on Abbot’s points. “We Marines have often heard about a famous England-Germany soccer game played between the trenches during a World War I Christmas truce. Never got nearly as much publicity as the ping-pong diplomacy in China back in the 1970s, but it supposedly happened.”
Abbot added, “Ambassador Foster thinks that a game between Burundi and Rwanda could have a very positive effect on lessening the violence—and on the way people think about each other. She also believes that forming various leagues and conducting clinics around the country would help to restore some confidence in the peace-building process and be good for the American image. Even though Burundians consider us to be their best hope, we’re always mindful—here and in other African countries—of the importance of enhancing our image in whatever way possible.”
“Are the Hutus athletic?” Jim asked.
“Very athletic,” said Abbot. “Most of them are point-guard size at best, but they’re quick. The ambassador, who, as you know, is a hoops maven, figures that they can play guard, while the Tutsis can play inside!”
The group finished their pizza, which Jim found to be delicious, no doubt because he was so hungry.
“We’ve got a big night planned for you, Jim,” said Abbot. “How ‘ bout if I take you to the apartment and let you get some rest?”
21
Atop a hill on the outskirts of Bujumbura, with a breathtaking view of Lake Tanganyika, Jesse Abbot’s home was as elegant as it was secure. A fifteen-foot-high cast-iron gate with spear-like rods served as an imposing bulwark.
Seated behind the gate in a small guard-house was Ntare Bagaza, a Tutsi armed with an Uzi who held the dual roles of gatekeeper and receptionist. Ntare would open the gate only for members of the Abbot family, US Embassy and Marine personnel, or individuals whose passage was cleared in advance by the Embassy. All others were turned away, and if anyone attempted a forced entry, Ntare’s charge was clear: “Shoot to kill.” Thus far, it was an order he had never been forced to carry out.
On sighting the Marine jeep, Ntare quickly opened the gate and approached the Americans with a wide smile. Looking at Jim, he said, “I basketball!”
Abbot roared with laughter and then said in French, “You’ve been practicing those two words more than your jump shot.”
After Ntare vigorously shook Jim’s hand, the jeep passed through the gate. “He’s been waiting for you since I told him two week
s ago that you were coming. He’s one of the guys selected for the National Team that went over to America. Said it was the highlight of his life. He’s hoping you can get things going again, if not another American tour, then some type of revival of the National Team for inter-African play.”
“Is he any good?” asked Jim.
“According to him he is, but a knee injury has slowed him down,” said Abbot.
“I noticed the machine gun he was carrying,” said Jim.
“Yeah,” said Abbot, as if embarrassed by the need for such a security measure. “Jim, as Sergeant Rush told you earlier, we’re technically neutral in this conflict, although behind the scenes, we support President Buyoya—simply because he supports democracy.”
As the jeep edged up the long driveway, Jim leaned forward, eager to hear more.
“As you saw during the ride in from the airport, most people just look at us with curiosity. However, when extremists on either side feel that we’re somehow favoring the ‘enemy,’ things can get pretty tense. In fact, the ambassador has had to call several emergency meetings with warlords of both sides to reconfirm our neutrality.
“But, believe me, whenever one group senses that we’re favoring the other side, they make it known that our lives could be in danger. You can be sure that we take their threats seriously, to the point that all American-owned homes have some type of security guard. In fact, wait ‘til you see the security at the ambassador’s home—two Marines on gate duty at all times. Yet, as we said, there’s never been any type of attack on US Embassy personnel.”
“Are we really neutral?” asked Jim.
Abbot smiled. “Well, for the time being, yes, we’re neutral.”
Jim wasn’t totally convinced. During his State Department briefings, he’d had a feeling that American neutrality was a complex issue that could easily change based on circum-stances, and that American support was always rooted in a fidelity to democratic rule. He recalled Barry Sklar saying, “The tipping point is simple: Are those in power in favor of democracy? If they are, we support them—always.”