The Intellectual Heart of Rwanda
A Visit to the National Museum in Butare
Driving in Kigali was wild and exciting until I took my first bus ride out of town. Add elevation and subtract guardrails: no competition. (And I haven't even been to the north at this time, so I'm sure driving on the sides of volcanoes will rearrange my perspective yet again.)
It was time to get out and see some countryside, so we began with a visit to Butare, the intellectual heart of Rwanda. Both the National Museum and the National University of Rwanda are situated in this southern city. We booked a round trip ticket with the Volcano Express, an inexpensive private bus service (see BLOG).
The Hills Never End...and Neither Does the Dance Beat
Every row of hills was followed by another, and the drive resembled a three-hour roller coaster ride. I was the only one with white knuckles, of course; everyone else dozed off or chatted happily on cell phones. The young man sitting next to me was dressed in a snappy three-piece suit with a pink shirt, and he text-messaged the entire ride. I couldn't believe I was the only one gripping the safety bars around each curve: the other passengers just slid back and forth, squeezing against each other, as unconcerned as waves in an ocean.
Inch by inch upward progress, suspenseful and achingly slow, suddenly gave way to swift downhill slaloms around cargo trucks and decrepit mini-buses. A new obstacle waited around every bend: a goat, a tree, a stopped car, a broken down semi labeled PETROL, DANGER, and/or FLAMMABLE. The driver laughed nervously and glanced back at me after swerving around the latter. It was very nearly a satisfying gesture, except that he almost ran off the road when he did it.
The Butare road is high quality, with narry a bump to be found. Its serpentine of black tarmac winds around the green waves of hills, rising to impressive heights before every inevitable dive back down into the next valley. Banana trees explode on the slopes in clusters of leafy fireworks.
The first glance from the top of a guardrail-less cliff distracted me enough to tune out the Kinyarwanda talk radio station that was blaring at 100 decibels in the background. One hour later, when for the hundredth time the bus did not free fall off the edge of a hill, worrying had fatigued me to the brink of boredom. Gradually, I began to realize with surprise that the droning radio conversation was set to a tinny dance beat. The speculation about its purpose kept me occupied for some time: was the drabness of talk radio being jazzed up by a DJ for a wider, or a younger, audience? Were the men discussing music? Did the beat signal a change of broadcast? Another thirty minutes passed, however, and the rattle of cymbals was unrelenting. I returned to assessing the likelihood of a plunge into the abyss, struggling in vain to tune out again; but some things cannot be unnoticed. I don't know which was more uncomfortable: contemplating a fiery end, or enduring that half-rave, half-news show racket for the remainder of the ride.
Rwanda From the Window
Watching a developing country through the window of a moving vehicle is a true joy. It is a luxury to absorb foreign scenery without being interrupted by solicitations or conversations. There is comfort in temporarily replacing the awkwardness of stilted language barriers with the universality of gestures. Everyone understands the smile, the nod, and the wave.
In some ways, rural East Africa resembles the countryside of the southern African regions. Red clay is pocked with spots of savannah scrub; groups of people sit watch buses flash by like they are watching TV; gleeful children run around in torn t-shirts; babies wrapped in elaborate fabric slings droop from their mothers' backs. But every country can be distinguished from the generic. One can tell Rwanda from its neighbors
most obviously by the checkerboard terracing, the mountainous terrain, and the beautiful longhorn cattle that dot the landscape. Some of the animals munch the cropped roadside grass contentedly, while others are fortunate enough to graze in the shade of the banana groves. They have an aristocratic appearance, stately and wrinkled, and place each hoof deliberately when they decide to move. Their silver and copper coats glow softly in the sunlight.
En route to Butare, it is common to see pigs shuffling along the shoulders of the road, directed by little boys who chase them with what appears to be no more than grass flyswatters. The pigs' ears flop violently with the bobbing of their heads as they try to outrun the incessant tapping of the flimsy instrument.
In any region of Rwanda, you will see groups of men dressed in bright pink jumpsuits bent double tilling the soil, planting baby banana trees in tight rows, or hanging from construction site scaffolding. These are genocide prisoners who have been sentenced to
community service along with their prison time. There are also genocide memorials: clusters of flower-strewn headstones, mass gravesites, lists of names, and large signs proclaiming "The Genocide - Never Forget!" in large white letters.
Inside the Museum
We were dropped off at the National Museum, just north of Butare proper. The building is wooden with lots of windows, a stark contrast to the predominantly concrete towns. It is a pleasant place for a day trip. Not only does it have a light, airy design, the flow of its content is well structured and easy to follow. The collection was begun in 1945, which demonstrates an unusual degree of forward thinking by both the colonial and local powers. The exhibits range from climate and geography to family structure and divination.
The only problem for us Yanks was that the information is displayed in Kinyarwanda and French. We would have lost 75 percent of the information, i.e. all of the non-cognate words, had we not asked for an English-speaking guide. He turned out to be a valuable resource, patiently plodding through our barrage of questions and giving us elaborate insights that captions alone would not have yielded. He also had one eye.
Two whole rooms were devoted to objects made from weaving grass, like hobbles to prevent animals from wandering off, stretchers for carrying royalty, and wall hangings. The second room brimmed with baskets of all sizes. Some towered over my head, and some were tiny enough to sit in a teacup. All bore the same shape, rounded bottoms and
conical tops, a silhouette that has a lot of personality. The baskets sat in orderly rows on the shelves, ready for action. The tiny ones were mischievous, ready to scamper away like the dancing Chinese mushrooms in Fantasia. The big ones seemed gangly and adolescent, too big for their bodies, and leaned weakly to one side.
An assortment of curiosities was on display. A huge replica of a native grass hut brooded in one room, filling the museum with a sweet meadow smell. Broken pottery was piled
into a nearby glass case, and we were informed that only one in twenty pots survives the firing process practiced by the Twa, Rwanda's smallest tribe. We read through a step-by-step guide to brewing banana beer and marveled at bright wooden tiles that are colored using red, white, and black paint and cow dung.
Photographs taken by European colonists during the 1940s and 1950s dotted each room, capturing high jumping competitions, herds of wild animals, and the fat children of the mwamis, Rwanda's kings. The latter were obese compared to the rest of the population because they drank prodigious amounts of milk, according to the guide.
The Exchange
While we were learning about divination amulets and witchcraft, I recognized the young man who sat next to me on the bus, the one in the fancy suit. He was strolling down the opposite side of the room with an equally dressy girl. She was wearing high heels and a summery blue dress. A few minutes later, they made their way around to where we were standing, and we all nodded at each other in recognition. As we turned to enter the next room, he suddenly broke from his partner.
"Wait!" he cried, walking quickly toward us as we halted and turned around. He reached into his pocket and handed us a small pin in the shape of the Rwandan flag. We accepted, tentatively pleased at the gesture, and thanked him for the gift. "Maybe we will meet again back in Kigali," he replied, and then he returned to his date. They both waved and continued ahead of us into the next room.
The guide smiled at us. "Do you want to be Rwandan?" he asked me.
"Well, okay..." I broke into one of those smiles that attempts to compensate for complete confusion and paused to see if he would explain the situation any further. He didn't. We pinned the flag onto our bag and continued the tour, mystified.
I turned the hypothetical over in my head on the bus ride back to Kigali. Should we have accepted the offer of symbolic citizenship? Two radically different cultures can't really walk around in those proverbial shoes for long, can they? But then, as we careened around trucks and over mountains, I found myself dozing off.
Driving in Kigali was wild and exciting until I took my first bus ride out of town. Add elevation and subtract guardrails: no competition. (And I haven't even been to the north at this time, so I'm sure driving on the sides of volcanoes will rearrange my perspective yet again.)
It was time to get out and see some countryside, so we began with a visit to Butare, the intellectual heart of Rwanda. Both the National Museum and the National University of Rwanda are situated in this southern city. We booked a round trip ticket with the Volcano Express, an inexpensive private bus service (see BLOG).
The Hills Never End...and Neither Does the Dance Beat
Every row of hills was followed by another, and the drive resembled a three-hour roller coaster ride. I was the only one with white knuckles, of course; everyone else dozed off or chatted happily on cell phones. The young man sitting next to me was dressed in a snappy three-piece suit with a pink shirt, and he text-messaged the entire ride. I couldn't believe I was the only one gripping the safety bars around each curve: the other passengers just slid back and forth, squeezing against each other, as unconcerned as waves in an ocean.
Inch by inch upward progress, suspenseful and achingly slow, suddenly gave way to swift downhill slaloms around cargo trucks and decrepit mini-buses. A new obstacle waited around every bend: a goat, a tree, a stopped car, a broken down semi labeled PETROL, DANGER, and/or FLAMMABLE. The driver laughed nervously and glanced back at me after swerving around the latter. It was very nearly a satisfying gesture, except that he almost ran off the road when he did it.
The Butare road is high quality, with narry a bump to be found. Its serpentine of black tarmac winds around the green waves of hills, rising to impressive heights before every inevitable dive back down into the next valley. Banana trees explode on the slopes in clusters of leafy fireworks.
The first glance from the top of a guardrail-less cliff distracted me enough to tune out the Kinyarwanda talk radio station that was blaring at 100 decibels in the background. One hour later, when for the hundredth time the bus did not free fall off the edge of a hill, worrying had fatigued me to the brink of boredom. Gradually, I began to realize with surprise that the droning radio conversation was set to a tinny dance beat. The speculation about its purpose kept me occupied for some time: was the drabness of talk radio being jazzed up by a DJ for a wider, or a younger, audience? Were the men discussing music? Did the beat signal a change of broadcast? Another thirty minutes passed, however, and the rattle of cymbals was unrelenting. I returned to assessing the likelihood of a plunge into the abyss, struggling in vain to tune out again; but some things cannot be unnoticed. I don't know which was more uncomfortable: contemplating a fiery end, or enduring that half-rave, half-news show racket for the remainder of the ride.
Rwanda From the Window
Watching a developing country through the window of a moving vehicle is a true joy. It is a luxury to absorb foreign scenery without being interrupted by solicitations or conversations. There is comfort in temporarily replacing the awkwardness of stilted language barriers with the universality of gestures. Everyone understands the smile, the nod, and the wave.
In some ways, rural East Africa resembles the countryside of the southern African regions. Red clay is pocked with spots of savannah scrub; groups of people sit watch buses flash by like they are watching TV; gleeful children run around in torn t-shirts; babies wrapped in elaborate fabric slings droop from their mothers' backs. But every country can be distinguished from the generic. One can tell Rwanda from its neighbors
most obviously by the checkerboard terracing, the mountainous terrain, and the beautiful longhorn cattle that dot the landscape. Some of the animals munch the cropped roadside grass contentedly, while others are fortunate enough to graze in the shade of the banana groves. They have an aristocratic appearance, stately and wrinkled, and place each hoof deliberately when they decide to move. Their silver and copper coats glow softly in the sunlight.
En route to Butare, it is common to see pigs shuffling along the shoulders of the road, directed by little boys who chase them with what appears to be no more than grass flyswatters. The pigs' ears flop violently with the bobbing of their heads as they try to outrun the incessant tapping of the flimsy instrument.
In any region of Rwanda, you will see groups of men dressed in bright pink jumpsuits bent double tilling the soil, planting baby banana trees in tight rows, or hanging from construction site scaffolding. These are genocide prisoners who have been sentenced to
community service along with their prison time. There are also genocide memorials: clusters of flower-strewn headstones, mass gravesites, lists of names, and large signs proclaiming "The Genocide - Never Forget!" in large white letters. Inside the Museum
We were dropped off at the National Museum, just north of Butare proper. The building is wooden with lots of windows, a stark contrast to the predominantly concrete towns. It is a pleasant place for a day trip. Not only does it have a light, airy design, the flow of its content is well structured and easy to follow. The collection was begun in 1945, which demonstrates an unusual degree of forward thinking by both the colonial and local powers. The exhibits range from climate and geography to family structure and divination.
The only problem for us Yanks was that the information is displayed in Kinyarwanda and French. We would have lost 75 percent of the information, i.e. all of the non-cognate words, had we not asked for an English-speaking guide. He turned out to be a valuable resource, patiently plodding through our barrage of questions and giving us elaborate insights that captions alone would not have yielded. He also had one eye.
Two whole rooms were devoted to objects made from weaving grass, like hobbles to prevent animals from wandering off, stretchers for carrying royalty, and wall hangings. The second room brimmed with baskets of all sizes. Some towered over my head, and some were tiny enough to sit in a teacup. All bore the same shape, rounded bottoms and
conical tops, a silhouette that has a lot of personality. The baskets sat in orderly rows on the shelves, ready for action. The tiny ones were mischievous, ready to scamper away like the dancing Chinese mushrooms in Fantasia. The big ones seemed gangly and adolescent, too big for their bodies, and leaned weakly to one side.
An assortment of curiosities was on display. A huge replica of a native grass hut brooded in one room, filling the museum with a sweet meadow smell. Broken pottery was piled
into a nearby glass case, and we were informed that only one in twenty pots survives the firing process practiced by the Twa, Rwanda's smallest tribe. We read through a step-by-step guide to brewing banana beer and marveled at bright wooden tiles that are colored using red, white, and black paint and cow dung. 
Photographs taken by European colonists during the 1940s and 1950s dotted each room, capturing high jumping competitions, herds of wild animals, and the fat children of the mwamis, Rwanda's kings. The latter were obese compared to the rest of the population because they drank prodigious amounts of milk, according to the guide.
The Exchange
While we were learning about divination amulets and witchcraft, I recognized the young man who sat next to me on the bus, the one in the fancy suit. He was strolling down the opposite side of the room with an equally dressy girl. She was wearing high heels and a summery blue dress. A few minutes later, they made their way around to where we were standing, and we all nodded at each other in recognition. As we turned to enter the next room, he suddenly broke from his partner.
"Wait!" he cried, walking quickly toward us as we halted and turned around. He reached into his pocket and handed us a small pin in the shape of the Rwandan flag. We accepted, tentatively pleased at the gesture, and thanked him for the gift. "Maybe we will meet again back in Kigali," he replied, and then he returned to his date. They both waved and continued ahead of us into the next room.
The guide smiled at us. "Do you want to be Rwandan?" he asked me.
"Well, okay..." I broke into one of those smiles that attempts to compensate for complete confusion and paused to see if he would explain the situation any further. He didn't. We pinned the flag onto our bag and continued the tour, mystified.
I turned the hypothetical over in my head on the bus ride back to Kigali. Should we have accepted the offer of symbolic citizenship? Two radically different cultures can't really walk around in those proverbial shoes for long, can they? But then, as we careened around trucks and over mountains, I found myself dozing off.
posted by LookingGlassLand.com at 6:22 AM
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