An Anecdote

I’ve been approaching most experiences during my time here in Burundi with a sort of “Let’s see where this goes” mentality. I find you’ll never have adventures unless you try things you might not fully understand. You never know what you’re going to hear, see, or learn. You never know what this person is going to say, do, … or try to sell you.

So two days ago, I was meeting Karri in front of the Turame office, where she works. We were going to take a Mutatu Bus (I’m not positive that’s how it is spelled, but you won’t be able to tell the difference, so that’s how it’s spelled!) back home at the end of a long day. Mutatu Buses are great, as long as you’re not claustrophobic. A one way trip costs around 28 cents, so to make the trip worth the cost, they pack the thing. Now, “bus” is a fairly fluid idea in this circumstance. Imagine a 15-passenger van, filled with 20 people or more, poorly maintained and driven through a city with practically no traffic laws, and you’ve got the idea of a Mutatu. You can meet all kinds of great people on them, though. And you kinda have to, because they may be sitting on your lap.

Karri and I were just leaving the office when a young man approached me. Not terribly unique. As a white person, you are generally approached several times a day by strangers, usually looking for money, but sometimes just looking to practice English. This young man shook my hand, I greeted him in French, and he started firing away in le Francais. Slightly abashed, I redirected the conversation to English. “If it pleases you, I would like to have a conversation with you.” A conversation, eh? We’ll see. “I’m sorry, but my wife and I are going home now.” “I understand. Can I make an appointment with you to have a conversation?” As he opened his leather bound appointment book, I was simultaneously considering politely excusing myself and seeing where this thing went. My curiosity won out. I made an “appointment” for him to come by the World Relief Office in two days at 3pm. I highly doubted he would show.

We started to head for the market and strange people sitting on our laps, when I noticed that he was walking beside us. I rationalized, “He may just be in the market for a little English. Let’s see where this goes.” I strike up a conversation, and he dives right in. His name was Gilbert (pronounced ZheelBEHHHR), he was from Congo, he was a student in the University, he was visiting family here in Bujumbura. A student! He must have just wanted to practice! He follows us all the way to the Mutatus, and we chat about his family, sports, and the weather. His English is good, and there is little for me to correct. I think his appetite is sated when I climb onto the bus. I shake his hand and he says, “Wednesday, 3 o’clock!”

Well, Wednesday night, I’m sitting at home. My beautiful wife arrives and tells me, “That guy stopped by today for your appointment. He went all over looking for you. I told him you probably forgot and made a new appointment for tomorrow morning at 10.” Now, to be fair, I honestly did forget. I mean, the appointment I made with a guy on the street for what I thought to be a language practice wasn’t high on the radar. So the next day, I receive my visitor promptly at 10am.

I offer him tea, and he accepts. I ask about his family, and he says they’re fine. Then he starts talking about his “mission,” which involves “raw materials” and “someone for to buy.” I start to decipher what he’s referring to, and as best I can tell, he has some raw materials that he’s trying to find a buyer for, and he’s hoping I know someone. “What are these raw materials?” I ask. He doesn’t know the word in English, says it in French and I don’t understand. I ask him to write it down.

He writes on my scratch piece of paper, “Iranium”

Uranium? This guy is wanting me to find someone to buy his Uranium? I tell him I work for an NGO that helps poor people. You want to talk to a scientist. He doesn’t understand the word scientist. I apologize and say, basically, “No, I don’t know anyone who would be interested in the Uranium you are selling.” He understands, and I start to walk him out. In one last ditch effort to sway me, he says that the “Iranium” has been “treated” and he has a “small paper” to show me. He pulls out a photocopied picture of what is clearly a schematic for a B-O-M-B. It has abbreviations for kilotons. It has fins at the end of a cylinder. This man was asking me if I knew anyone interested in buying weaponized uranium. “Nope. Sorry! Well, thanks for stopping by!”

I walk him to the door and say goodbye. I will never know if Gilbert (sorry, ZhilBEHHR) actually had access to those materials. It could have been a scam. He could have been a liar. Honestly, I don’t care to think about it. But remember the moral of this story, children!

Make new friends. You never know when you might need some “Iranium.”