More from the Batwa (now with photo)

More about the Batwa

I tried to come without romantic notions. I do feel a deep sadness at the way the dominant culture, now pretty much worldwide, continues to destroy the remnants of other ways. But my pity, my anger that so much of what the world may need again has been destroyed, won't help.

Hearing that Batwa in Rwanda traditionally worked as potters, I thought it might be viable for them to develop and market the cooler made from two concentric vessels, known as the Zeer pot. Ordinary containers for water or for cooking are cheaply available from other modern materials, but fridges depend on scarce electricity. Such a project could be next year's continuation. In one of the villages above Ruhengeri last week I saw a simple, elegant water pot lying close to the site for a sack. 'Where did that come from?' I asked. 'Oh, those Batwa down near the lake make them, and sell them very cheaply. They're not like us. We're getting developed – we work in building, for example. But they're not developed at all.'

Yesterday, Monday 25th, we began 4 days' work with two consecutive groups who have been recently settled in a kind of model village, built by a Swedish/Norwegian government sponsored programme. The houses have rendered walls and sheet metal roofs (the kind the president thinks every house should have), rain water collection, toilets, frequent trainings from NGOs. But they don't want to be here.

The land is parched, recently appropriated from what should be the National Park of Akagera, feebly fenced with two strands of barbed wire, and gardens are vulnerable to incursions from they don't know what animals – probably zebra and giraffe. At least it has rained a couple of times.

Today was stage 2 – going round to 4 houses where groups of 5 participants fill and plant their own sack. Outside house three an old woman was sitting on the ground with 4small clay pots drying. I asked to buy one or two, from courtesy really as I wanted to photograph her. She was sorry but she had none fired – getting wood is hard for her. She makes pots when somebody brings her clay from the valley bottom, because she's too weak to work the ground and she has to do something. God will take her soon and she's not worried because she's led a good life and never drunk beer or smoked tobacco.


I ask her where she learnt. From my parents. Has she taught any of her children? No, they're not interested.

Back in the church at the end of the day's work I show her photo to the group. It may have been preachy but I had to say to them that perhaps some of them might want to retain this skill from their old culture even while developing new opportunities to live in modern Rwanda. Tourism is developing and there will be a market, too, if they can hang on.

I'm reminded that the last Native American in Yosemite died only in 1978. By 2000 they had made a little museum behind the post office there, reconstructing what has been lost.