TENNIS IN THE BUJ

My Burundi-inspired tennis fanaticism continues.

Not to the same degree, but still intense. I’m taking fewer lessons with coach Gervais, but still playing frequently and a bit more competitively against friends and in small competitions. Thus far, I’ve played in three Bujumbura tournaments, two upcountry tourneys (one in Gitega and one in Ngozi), one “international” competition at the US Ambassador’s residence here in Buj, and may head up to Kigali for another tourney early next month. I recently attended my first “tennis banquet” in honor of my tennis friend, Gil- the elderly husband of the US Ambassador, who departs next week. Of course, that doesn’t include the NUMEROUS tennis banquets that always and necessarily accompany each and every tennis tournament (as celebrations involving food, drink, and long, predictable speeches are tradition here).

Seth can attest to the foreseeable “click” that happens in me each time I pull out my racket. The day could have been frustrating. I could have nearly died from one of the Coaster buses that plow through town without regard for life or limb. I could have been in a 10-hour management meeting and ready to pull out my hair after our team talked in circles about our pre-planning for our pre-strategy meetings. I could be exhausted, stomach rumbling from the amoebas within, and mentally ready to curse out the next human to cross my path. Some days, it does feel like that.

But then, after work, “click!” a change comes when I hit the courts. Just two of them where I play… Simple. Beautiful. Red clay. Cracked and difficult to see white lines. Spanking new nets. I plop myself down in the broken, plastic chairs next to the courts, wearing my culturally appropriate mid-calf sport pants and tank top. Hair, now just long enough, is pulled back in a pony-tail with three supporting barrettes. (Us gals understand the context… a three-barrette pull-up is mid-length hair, but not a true, true ponytail!). I lace-up my once-white sneakers that are stained red, just like my ankles and socks will be after a few minutes of play. I pull out the taxi-yellow and black DUNLOP racket I won in my first tennis competition here, and I give it a twirl.

I think I literally bounce onto the courts. I’m so excited to be there. I dribble a ball with the racket, do a couple of hip-twist-bounce type things to warm up my joints, and then hit some volleys at the net with my partner to warm-up.

I absolutely love it. The clean “twang” of the ball when I hit the sweet spot just right. The soft clay under my feet. Running down the ball and (if fortunate) hitting that beautiful down-the-line winner. Calling my opponent “umasuma” (thief!) when he makes a bad call. Seeing the ball boy (who secretly always cheers for me) quietly clapping his hands together to applaud my good shot when the other player isn’t looking. The pent-up aggression that exits my body when I hit that ball so hard. The complete and utter exhaustion after playing a solid three hours.

Perhaps I am a bit over the top. Granted, I play a lot of tennis and maybe use it to cope with the challenges of my life here. However, it has brought hours of good play and exercise, introduced unique and unforeseen friendships, brought moments of great hilarity, and taken me to new places. A crutch. An obsession. A gift? Whichever (or maybe a little of all), I am thankful for the opportunity to play here and the patience that my husband has with me, his somewhat compulsive, tennis-fanatic wife.