We were looking for Gustave. We asked for our guide and consult those responsible for the Ruzizi River Natural Park. Everyone knew but no one had seen in months. A Gustave also called it "the maneater", a crocodile six meters, in some versions, He had eaten more than 200 or 300 unwary. He respected neither men nor women or children, walkers and fishermen who saw their final rushing on the banks of a river monster. These things happen in Burundi.
-Gustave died said firmly one of the biologists who accompanied us.
Apparently, the crocodile decided to travel a bit, seek new adventures and, and step, Burundian vary the menu. He crossed Lake Tanganyika to the south and reached the shores of Zambia. But there do not have the wisdom or sensitivity or fear of Burundian and when the reptile appeared a ton, They killed him without hesitation.
Later I was told, almost like an apology, Gustave was not so bad really, who had just gobbled two or three people, that left over two zeros to the legend. In any case, I thought the fear of a maw skinning meat and clothing, the final scare lavandera, Fisherman panic among the reeds to see six meters of terror.
A Gustave also called it "the maneater", six meter crocodile that had eaten more than 200 or 300 unwary
Burundi's history is written with violence. In these lands they have maddened men and animals, hungry all, and advanced death has knocked on the doors of innocents too.
But, browse the Ruzizi River today is a pleasant experience. pelicans, marabou storks and cormorants stationed themselves on the banks along the backs of hippos. We also saw prehistoric crocodile skin of some absentminded, without the makings of the legendary Gustave. All together, in African harmony, as if waiting for the procession of tourists who cross the river. But in Burundi no tourists, so do not expect anything. Simply coexist in the wild side of the world.
One of the guides applauded to scare the birds began a nervous flight, stampeding feathers and peaks, black and white flutters covering the sky. The gamberrada, it would have been impertinent in other national parks, here it was accompanied by laughter from the driver of the boat, because in this country it is above the joy of ecology. It is above all. Joy is the greatest need, the desperate cry that aspires to nothing more than a moment of joy.
The murky waters of Ruzizi flow into the blue Tanganyika. A little further, in front, the hills of the DRC are outlined. Over the lake, outside homelands and crocodiles, the canoes of fishermen move as if there were time nor nations. There are no more border dinner the next day. The landscape of secluded beaches dresses. We landed on one of them glancing into the bushes, in case. And there ended the ride, in a place that looks like a limbo, reptiles and fishermen home, tired of so much tension, being granted one morning truce, respected by downing.
Over the lake, outside homelands and crocodiles, the canoes of fishermen move as if there were time nor nations
We had asked our guide, Hypolite, travel north, visit the mountain villages, closer to the community of pygmies. He, somewhat taken aback and told us. "There are cultural villages", said, uneasy about whether the visit disappointed us finding no drums or traditional costumes. "Better", I thought.
We parked in the town of Kabuye. It is a messy people, without sidewalks, Uphill where houses succeed, barber shops and small local where local beer is brewed. We soon leave Kabuye walking uphill, ascending a valley of stepped terraces, cornfields and tea plantations. Some children ran around. Shortly after we discovered that not all were children. Eran pigmeos, barefoot and dirty and torn clothes.
Hypolite asked whether we should buy some clothes or food to visit the village. The flour, salt or soap are usually welcomed by African communities visiting foreigners. But our guide made it clear that any current would be sold immediately to buy beer.
While I stopped judging these wills. I do not feel charitable when I offer food, nor do I have the sensción that I corrupt them money. I do not think even what suits them, I do not come in ethical conflict if they want to get drunk. I think that's his will and that my judgment will never understand your reasons, context or priorities. I can not stand is the condescension. I prefer to ask them. Yes, I never buy interviews, payment or photos. Although this is a debate that does not even fit in an article.
Our guide made it clear that any current would be sold immediately to buy beer.
They greeted stretched, with the dignity of the gesture under the tatters. Were very prettily as one expected to be the Pygmies and the first sensation that image projected was that of tenderness. The men kept their composure, women tried to smile at the camera and some children came terrified the shelter of the cornfields. Except for small maverick, the whole village gathered before us. I tried to talk to the one who seemed the leader of the community, in front of a group of adobe houses among palm trees. I asked how life was there and soon succeed protests, complaints about the precariousness of their lives, lack of food, the almost complete absence of money, where barter and self-management is the only alternative.
I sensed that maybe they thought we were an NGO or any international institution. I noticed in his eyes a glimmer of hope. I was sorry to disappoint our condition tourists. Then, not to create tensions, We offered them money through Hypolite, a little more than what the guide had suggested. About 20 EUR.
And in that lost village north of Burundi all it filled with joy, so that adolescent joy, as African, much needed
The man who proclaimed himself spokesman raised his hands to heaven and began to count the notes. As had, the rest of the community, some 200 People, He began to change the look. Gestures upset last minute turned into cheers cheers and shouts. The figure must seem stratospheric and when he finished telling the joy overflowed so that the village became a sudden party, in an uncontrolled outburst. It was an unprecedented event, Iniesta's goal, the jackpot, the end of the war.
And in that village lost, north of Burundi, everything was filled with joy, so that adolescent joy, as African, much needed. And the pygmies danced as if to finish the world. And we do not talk to anyone more, because it was only time noise, of laughter pointing to the sky, arms extended. We grabbed by the waist Pygmies, it did not reach above and we correpondíamos out loud the din, dancing unceremoniously, infected by the sudden spree, without thinking, Without judgment, sharing that moment in that valley unvisited never.
They danced as we accompanied valley below, and they danced when starting the car and continued dancing in the distance, Pygmy dancers in the rearview. I could not help wondering what it would be the party when they bought the beers.
