Dear Anne
Your research on AIVs (African indigenous vegetables) has been invaluable. The sheets prepared by Rob from Mary Abukutsa-Onyanga's Kenyan leaflets have triggered many useful conversations about diet and nutrition. Showing them to seed merchants in Kigali produced seeds for one and blank looks for the others. (The one everybody knows is amaranth, called dodo in Rwanda and lenga-lenga (or renga-renga) in Burundi where they use the Congolese name.)
The neglected one, 'isogi', called spiderplant in English but quite unlike our houseplant, is said to grow wild everywhere but to be too bitter for anybody to eat except the old and the very poor. I took a couple of photos in October each time somebody identified a specimen for me, but they turned out to be dodo after all.
Yesterday I had a breakthrough when the garden workers at College George Fox Butaro (generally called CGF Bo with the letter names in French) identified the photo I took in Byumba of an AIV named 'imbwije' as the cowpea listed in the table comparing nutrients in AIVs and exotics, though I have no confirmation so far. They also showed me yet another AIV called 'isogo'. I photographed that for possible identification later, and I'm wondering if it may turn out to be the African nightshade – it's clearly a solanum.
Today the group of church women at Rugarama went out into a field cum meadow where corn had been harvested and sheep were browsing on a great variety of plants. While the site for the sack was being prepared the oldest woman picked a bunch of greens within a couple of yards of the chosen spot, and gave them to me with a big smile. 'Am I to eat them?' I asked. 'Yes.' 'What are they called? 'Isogo.' They're much better specimens than I photographed yesterday. Then she took my hand and led me a few more yards to a spot where she picked one plant used for treating bad backs in babies (spina bifida?) and another used for open wounds. I said I hoped she was passing on her wisdom and some of the younger women nodded. I later learnt she's a pillar of the church (that's a cliche but it represents what I was told about her), so they probably listen to her.
I was on a roll. 'Is there any isogi here?' I asked. 'No, it's a long way away.' Well, if anybody spotted a plant I'd be very interested. In less than ten minutes somebody came back with a large bunch of flowers and a few leaves. 'Is this isogi?' 'Yes.' Next a second bunch of 'isogo' was produced, to compare the cultivated with the wild. I photographed them all.
Caption: The elusive isogi
Back in the classroom I launched into my usual spiel on the superior nutritional qualities of AIVs, reading out the comparisons. Poor old cabbage is definitely the bottom of the class. But I was wasting my time. For the first time out of ten or more groups, these women knew and used not only the ubiquitous dodo but the others as well. I asked who had taught them. It's the local health centre, where they also give advice on cooking. My translator observes that it's the next step after telling people to make the kitchen gardens now springing up everywhere in the country. Perhaps I shall be happily redundant in a couple of years.
I brought the spoils back to the headmaster's house where Antoine and I are staying. I hope they'll be cooked for supper.
[Later on Wednesday: they were and we all enjoyed them – Danzile, the yearly meeting accountant who came in the car with us and is examining the accounts at the two schools; Bonaventure, the Kidaho headmaster; Antoine and I.]
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