Visiting Bwiza

Phil: We caught a ride up to Bwiza, a small settlement of a hundred and forty-seven people who are descendants of the aboriginal forest-dwelling Batwa, previously called Pygmies. As ethnic designations are no longer allowed in post-genocide Rwanda, they are now known as "potters" after the earthenware pots they make. Historically looked down upon by other groups, the poorest and most marginalized in one of Africa's poorest countries, they sometimes refer to themselves as abahejwe inyuma na amateka, "people who have been left behind by history." There's been some positive change happening in the village over the past year, supported by a small Seattle-based NGO called Pygmy Survival Alliance that I had found online before I left Canada. I contacted them and we were invited to visit by a Canadian who's involved with the NGO and the community.

Maggie: Just a few miles out of Kigali, twenty-five minutes drive up a steep red rutted road to a grassy plateau,  there is a large (unelectrified) elementary school, a dazzling view over the sprawl of Kigali, and a short steep path down the other side of the hill to the potters village. A breathtaking vista, a valley bottom of small plots, the maize (or maybe sorghum) glinting in the sun that breaks through cloud, the far hillside rising green and dappled. There's a prison in the valley, and although we cannot see them, the inmates are wearing flourescent pink or orange shorts and shirts and many of them will be genocidaires.

Phil: We descend to a flat area cut into the hillside where we are warmly greeted by a chorus of children, their enthusiasm barely contained by their song leader. 

One by one other members of the community arrive, clasping our arms, offering Mwirewe (good afternoon) and Amakuru (how are you?) sometimes with the requisite three-cheek kisses of Rwandan greeting. The visit is a big occasion: not only is everyone and their children on hand, but the oldest woman of the village is heading up the trail with her walking stick in hand. Standing erect and proud as she greets us, her head coming up to Maggie's shoulder, she pours the eyes of her furrowed face into Maggie's, declaring to all (and duly translated) that she has seen us before.

The villagers are beginning to explore their creativity. This man proudly brought out his sculpture.

We learn that the bean crop has been good and the people have enough to eat, and that they are moving towards food security, in part thanks to new terracing and initial plantings supported by the project. So perhaps there's more time for craft.

Maggie: And dancing. Joyous, celebratory dancing just for the joy of it, not for performance. There were drums, flutes, voices. There were small children dancing at the edge of the clearing. There is laughter and clapping and resting and then starting again.

Maggie: Here is Phil on a dusty hillside, surrounded by villagers. They began by teaching him the Kinyarwanda words ikondera (flute), indirimbo (singing) and kubyina (to dance). They burst into song. Phil tilts his head, listening, then joins in. A song with multiple harmonies, then another and another, until we are told that it's time to go. But Phil will be back. Already, with the support of the non-profit, he is plotting a CD to help promote the villagers' ambitions as a music and dance group, has been taken to meet with a music producer in the city. Just wait.