Have you ever wanted to pet a leopard? What about cuddle a chimp? Or feed a crocodile? Well, if you ever find yourself at Musee Vivant in Burundi, you can do all of those things.
While we were in Bujumbura, Burundi, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law took us and their kids to the local zoo, which features animals from East Africa.
Bujumbura’s zoo, Musee Vivant (“Living Museum”), doesn’t have the red tape or safety precautions of zoos in the States.
Part of that is really fun–nobody at a zoo in the U.S. would allow you to pet a big cat with gigantic fangs.
It also means that you do have to use your own common sense to decide what is or is not a good idea…like maybe if you’re wearing a ponytail, don’t snuggle the baby chimp. If it gets curious and yanks on your hair–well, there goes your scalp and your face.
Fortunately, my nephews don’t have ponytails.
As you can see, there’s a good reason why my sister-in-law calls this “The Petting Zoo of Things That Should Not be Petted.”
The Musee Vivant also offers a cultural element. Our tour guide took us through an exhibit showing recreating a traditional Burundian elder’s home.
There are several of these houses clustered together. One big house would be for the elder, and each of his wives would have a smaller version.
Our three-year-old wasn’t actually that impressed by the animals in the zoo–he’s not much of a predator person and I wasn’t too keen on letting him watch the crocodile hunt down a live guinea pig, anyway. He was more interested in finding sticks and drawing in the dirt with Auntie Joy.
But he did love walking through the houses and trying to climb this gigantic kapok tree with his cousins.
What about you? Which animals would you pet? And would you climb that tree? Let me know in the comments!
While in Burundi, East Africa visiting family last summer, my sister-in-law Joy taught me how to screen print!
I’m not sure if Burundi has screen printing shops (I imagine they exist, but probably not many), but this undertaking is an example of the ingenuity embodied by expats (and immigrants) around the world who want to recreate things from their home countries.
The table was built from scratch for the purpose of screen printing, and the other tools were ordered online and brought over by friends. We brought the shirts and the ink in our suitcases, and I’m glad the ink didn’t explode all over our clothes in the plane! At least it’s washable before it sets…
Joy’s vision was to create matching t-shirts for our huge Johnson family reunion, which would take place in Tanzania soon after. So she created a custom t-shirt design and, along with me, her three boys, and some of her employees, spent a couple of days printing about 35 shirts.
I need to stop taking on new hobbies, but this was really fun. I’m resisting the urge to get my own screen printing stuff.
We also ended up tie-dying the white shirts once everyone was together, but that is another fun and messy story for another day.
Please don’t ask me why we look like we’re waiting to be gathered up by a galactic starship in a sci fi B movie
That’s just an economic measure, of course. It’s not a measure of natural resources, happiness, overall wellbeing, social health, satisfaction with one’s life, etc. Money’s not everything. But it does impact access to healthcare as well as the ability of people to pursue higher education that would lead to more nationals becoming healthcare professionals.
The long drive across Burundi
With a lack of access to healthcare, particularly in rural regions, many people suffer devastation from easily-treated diseases like malaria.
We’ve seen this happen even to our own family members, who, as expats with cars and insurance for medical evacuation, have far more access to medical treatment.
If you’ve been following our story for a while, you may have read about Ben’s near-death experiences growing up in sub-Saharan Africa.
Part of the reason for our trip to Africa was to tour hospitals and visit with doctors–both expat and national– to ask questions and see where Ben might be able to fit in the future, when we’ve paid off the student loans and are in a position to do medical ministry overseas.
Playing on a African hospital’s compound. In the background, Ben meeting with doctors from this hospital.
Planning to move overseas is complicated.
Hoping to do medical work is even more so. There are a lot of questions to consider.
What hospital/clinic has needs we can fill?
What sending organization do we go with?
Where will our family fit in?
Do we work for an international NGO or a local-run institution?
How much change can we handle right off the bat?
Will our kids be OK here? (This is the one that really weighs on my mind)
Expat doctors live and work on this compound
We came away with a lot of great options. Still, we have a lot of unanswered questions. That’s OK, because we have a lot of unpaid debt, too, so we have some time to figure out the best fit for us when we’re able to go overseas.
We haven’t taken meaningful steps toward moving yet, and James 4:14-15 is always in the back of my head when I talk about our hopes for the future.
Still, we get asked all the time: Why? Why would you want to give up your life in America and move somewhere like Burundi?
The surface-level answer is that Ben is from there. It is home. It was the plan all along and the only reason that Ben had any interest in slogging through eleven years of medical training.
The deeper answer is that Jesus is worth it.
I’ve discovered that answer is a great testimony to our faith and God’s glory. People can argue with your apologetics. But not with your personal experience of Jesus’ worthiness and your willingness to press into that with your own life decisions.
Why struggle on with a difficult season in marriage? Jesus is worth it. Why become a foster parent? Jesus is worth it. Why forgive the family member who hurt you deeply? Jesus is worth it. Why choose a career walking alongside hurting people? Jesus is worth it.
Friends, I don’t know what choices you’re making or what seasons you’re walking through. But I pray that wherever you’re choosing obedience to Christ, you’ll have the chance to give his name glory by telling others that Jesus is worth it.
Mama Violette crafts these baskets using what my 11-year-old niece calls “goat rope” (rope made of fibers processed from sisal, a yucca-like plant), grass that grows near the river, and the plastic fiber from coffee sacks.
I asked Mama Violette where she learned to make these baskets. I expected a heartwarming answer about sitting long afternoons with her grandmother. However, she told me that she learned during her time in a refugee camp while Burundi was suffering through a civil war.
She takes apart the sacks and straightens the fibers. Most of them are white, but colorful plastic is also available for designs. The durable, waterproof plastic replaces traditional organic materials in most baskets I saw.
Recycling at its finest!
Mama Debo helped teach us to weave the baskets.
The basket starts with an inch or so of wrapping the plastic around the rope and grass. Coil the plastic-wrapped rope, thread the plastic through a needle, and stich the coil in place.
The rest of the basket is pretty simple–keep wrapping, putting a stitch through the last round each time. I noticed that Mama Debo and Mama Violette placed one stich evenly though each wrap on the coil below.
Making a basket takes a lot of time–a full day even for someone experienced. Later during our trip, I purchased a few small baskets from a roadside stand.
Can you guess how much one costs?
Two dollars. That’s all these women make from a day of hard work. That’s a typical wage for people in rural Burundi.
Mine wasn’t quite so neat, but it looked a lot better than my first attempt at a coil basket, which I tried to make with agave fibers from a plant in my yard. If you want to take a peek and laugh, visit this post.
One of my nieces added some color to her basket. I was endlessly impressed by her creativity and knack for crafting. Aside from her new skill of basketry, she actually processes “goat rope” from sisal herself, dyes it using natural pigments she makes from nature, and weaves them into bracelets.
Making a full basket would take a beginner like me days–even this little bit was the result of a couple of hours of work. So I decided to stop and turn it into a keychain.
Mama Violette helped me finish it off.
She and Mama Debo inspected my work, saying “Ni sawa.” I thought that meant I had not a fantastic job, but apparently it means. “That’s alright.” Hey, for a first attempt, I’ll take it!
Now, I carry around this little souvenir on my keys wherever I go!
However, my main takeaway from this project wasn’t a physical item, or even a new skill.
Even though I couldn’t have a conversation with Mama Debo or Mama Violette, they were content to sit on the porch with me and communicate however we needed to, patiently helping me learn each step of basketmaking. Despite the many differences in our lifestyles, experiences, and backgrounds, they did not make me feel like an outsider.
Instead, we enjoyed a project together, connecting over a shared interest.
No matter the differences between us, we have more in common than we might think.
While we were having fun feeding goats and pigs, dozens of people were hard at work building bricks for the livestock project’s new building. The method used is basically the same as what you’d see in the Middle East or in pueblo ruins near my home in Arizona.
Making mudbricks at home in Arizona
I’ve made mudbricks before. The materials are cheap, but the labor is hard.
Here’s how to make mudbricks Africa style:
Saturate the dirt and mix it (usually with feet or a hoe) until it’s the right consistency.
Fill brick molds with mud and smooth it.
Wait for it to dry (a long, long time! I’ve heard it can take months).
Stack the bricks into a kiln and fire them.
Construct a building.
School was out for the summer, so there were a lot of kids helping. Summer vacation is not time for play in East Africa.
You might see women carrying bricks on their heads…I can’t imagine having that kind of strength!
There’s a story missionaries like to tell about a doctor whose patient had thrown out his back. “How did it happen?” the doctor asked. “Oh, I was helping my wife get a load on her head,” the patient replied.
I don’t know if it’s true, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Burundi’s culture celebrates work ethic, and you don’t have to look far to see people who embody that value.
Most of us can hear something right now– I can hear traffic and the vacuum cleaner. And my dog getting annoyed at the vacuum cleaner.
Pineapple and coffee field at Gisuru School for the Deaf
In the United States, about 3% of the population is deaf. Many hearing-impaired people identify with Deaf culture and belong to a close-knit Deaf community.
But Burundi doesn’t have a thriving Deaf community. In fact, most people don’t have access to sign language, much less other accommodations.
This is a big problem, since deafness is common in the country. Many Burundians are born Deaf, while others become Deaf from improper administration of medicine or through illness.
Ben with a huge mural of Burundi. Gisuru School for the Deaf is in the eastern Ruyigi region.
To address this, Ben’s father and grandfather established the country’s first Deaf school in Bujumbura decades ago.
Kirundi word of the day: Ishuli (school).
But what about those in rural areas? What about those too far from Bujumbura?
Me with one of the social studies murals on the cafeteria walls. Can you find Burundi on the map?
My brother-in-law Danny moved far out into the hills to start another Deaf school on the opposite side of Burundi. We were able to tour the boarding school during the summer break and meet a few students.
He looks a bit uncomfortable in the photo, but in real life he was super excited to have his photo taken and signed that it was “Beautiful, BEAUTIFUL!”
Ben and I with the student we sponsor and his father. The traveled an hour to meet us and we were so thankful!
Meeting this student was amazing! We have been praying for this boy for five years and have had his photo on our fridge and have received drawings from him, and later letters when he learned to communicate. Now we got to see he and his father in person!
Students learn to cook in this kitchen at Gisuru School for the Deaf.
American Sign Language is derived from French sign language. I learned ASL in college and the two languages are close enough that I could have a conversation with this student as well as others we met during our time in Gisuru.
You can read more about that –and about Gisuru School for the Deaf– on World Footprints.
