In genere funziona così: decidi di andare in un posto, in qualsiasi posto, e improvvisamente la cronaca nera si accorge che esiste. Sembrano coincidenze - e in qualche caso lo sono pure - ma è soprattutto questione di livello di attenzione e di messa a fuoco. Tua, non dei media. Ogni tanto il caso calca un po' troppo la mano e ti ritrovi in Cina mentre arriva l'aviaria, nel sud-est asiatico mentre arriva lo tsunami o in Georgia mentre arrivano le bombe russe. Perciò all'inizio ti chiedi se sei tu a portare sfiga oppure se lo stellone che porti dietro è di marca. Ma col tempo piuttosto ti fai una birra. Perciò se il 14 giugno compri il volo per Nairobi, il 16 Al Shabaab dichiara il Kenya "zona di guerra" e il 18 massacra una sessantina di persone, non ti passa manco per la capa di pensare che sia un segno del destino. La derubrichi a fatalità. Come gli attentati in Egitto, la seconda intifada in Palestina, le rivolte in Nepal, il golpe anti Chavez, i droni in Yemen, un sacco di terremoti, quasi quasi pure Fukushima. Se in Bosnia c'è la guerra non si cambia strada, ci si va. Figurati se la peggiore epidemia degli ultimi 40 anni bussa alle porte di Uganda e Ruanda, o se la settimana della partenza si apre col massacro di tre povere suore in Burundi. L'idea che un elefante ti passi sopra la tenda non attira per niente, ma il resto fa l'effetto del miele, della marmellata, del cacio sui maccheroni.
Giusto quando arriva il momento in cui ti fanno firmare il testamento ecco, due scongiuri ti scappano.
In caso contrario, ci si vede a Roma tra un mese.
Day 26 (frontiera Ruanda-Burundi)
The hut at the border between Rwanda and Burundi was stinking hot. A guard snuck me in and let me jump the queue, as I was the only westerner and we feared I wasn't going to get through customs on time for the minibus departure. At least I did. "Do you have a Fanta?" he mumbled. Before he stamped the entry visa on my passport, the policeman thought he'd check if I had something to reward him with other than a shirt. Nope. I was in my last few days in the Great Lake region, I left Kigali with a day pack and I didn't have much left on me. Not a can of soft drink, surely not a cold Fanta. Desolé.
Two hours later I arrived in Bujumbura. A civil guard slowly handwrote my ID details on a bulky register and only let me out of the dusty bus terminal and into the wild after begging for a Fanta. Finally, later that day, two policemen chased me down to inspect my camera, suspecting I took a picture of the local American Embassy. They too asked, I swear God, for a Fanta. And for the third time I didn't have any on me. (btw I did take that photo, but I deleted it when they raided the guesthouse and scared the pants off me).
When I get asked which country I would NOT live in, the first that comes to my mind is Burundi. The tiny, troubled and overpopulated nation gained independence 58 years ago today, on July 1st 1962. The reason I wouldn't move there is not related to that awkward soft spot for Fanta and only slightly more to the shocking murder of an Italian nun back in the days I was there. It's more about extreme poverty, as locals could only daydream of migrating to Tanzania, or anywhere else beyond the mighty and depressing Tanganyika lake. Even Congo, go figure.
It comes down to the sense of hopelessness. The friction between Hutu and Tutsi never burst the way they did in Rwanda. As the neighbour bounced back big time, I wondered, did Burundi need a human tragedy to get out of hell with the help of the international community?
Ranked 185th of 189 for Human Development index, according to the World Happiness Report 2016 and 2018 Burundi is the world's least happy nation. Which proves that I wasn't the only one at unease. Yet...this girl selling food wrapped in banana leaves as I was on the mini bus back to Kigali (while a peasant who never jumped on a motor vehicle threw up big time before resting on my shoulder) was the last Burundian face I encountered. The story goes that even a basket case of a country can produce heartwarming memories.
