Rows of French baguettes. Perfectly soft custard puffs. Black-and-white-chequered floor. Credence Clearwater Revival. Creaky overhead fans. Wafts of fresh roasted coffee. Burundi. Sure.
The country does seem like the fat kid never invited to the party. The ugly third sibling of Uganda and Rwanda - East Africas triplets of micro-states. Ridiculed. Ignored. This may be due to its ongoing ethnic tensions and low-level civil war. Or it may because a tourist visa is harder to come by than a whiff of Bob Mugabes underpants. Three days is all we were granted. Enough for just the tiniest taste. And most of it was spent doing just that: tasting. A patissorial explosion of baked treats - as far removed from the deep-fried sop of its neighbours as it's military is from allowing real democracy. The last country in East Africa with a lingering Franco-Belgian legacy, it sometimes feels like the abandoned movie set of a French silent movie. And then a mattress-laden cyclist, towed by a petrol tanker, careens suicidally past at 80km/hr just to remind you it isn't. A croissant on a Normandie-like beachfront. Followed by a military patrol hurtling by in vicious pursuit of nothing in particular.
With hints of French, whiffs of African and a pervasive texture of craziness, a taste of Burundi was a tiny but intense sensory experience. And like all great tasters, it only whet the appetite for more.
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