Ethnographic Museum of Rwanda
Geometric patterns start cropping up on a wall to my right. They are colourful. A fusion of rich maroon, faded yellow, mixed onto black and white backgrounds. Gold coated busts of inyambo (royal Rwandan cows) adorn the top, clusters of thin-barked eucalyptus trees grow on the other side of the wall. The road is winding less now, but it presses on with its ascent of this final hill that will open up to Rwanda’s education capital, Huye, it’s second largest urban settlement.
I’m dressed in sandals, shorts and a plain white tee, seated next to a sleeping ‘Twiri, her head slowly swaying to the rhythms of the bus. It’s almost three hours since we left the crowded bustle of Nyabugogo back in Kigali but I feel as though the day is yet to start. When we pull in to Huye Smart Taxi Park, its immediate contrast to Nyabugogo is striking. Ticketing offices with no crowds beneath their awnings, there’s space to walk with one’s luggage, less noise in the air, fewer people, a clean and comfortable sort of hubbub is wafting. All this, neatly organized on one side of the first hill of Huye, the same side that hosts, behind the colourful wall - Ethnographic Museum of Rwanda. Opened in 1988 and presented to Rwanda as a gift from Belgium’s King Baudouin I, it is situated on more than 20ha of land that contains therein indigenous vegetation and a traditional craft training centre (housed within thatched structures) as well as the main 2,500m² chisel-roofed, beige museum building. We descend the wide stairway from one of the entrances, lugging our luggage down with us. It’s 4PM. At the reception we meet a couple of beautiful young mushanana-ardorning guides laughing at a joke that’s been in the air for quite a bit, their smiles slightly waning. There’s displays of pamphlets, books, sculptures, bags and sandals, handicraft, all on sale. They add colour to the space no doubt. After parting with RWF 1000 each as East African Students we are availed lockers to shove our stuff into. With the loads off our backs and a light spring to our steps, ‘Twiri and I walk with our guide into the first of seven exhibition halls found here. The point of this museum is to provide an illustration of Rwanda, the country and its people, all in chronology; from the earliest times until present day. It does this through the most impeccably curated massive exhibition halls, with subtle warm lighting that makes you want to take your shoes off and just glide through the hive of information. The entrance hall has temporary displays as well as numerous shelves of traditional handicrafts for sale. Hall 2 presents a comprehensive view of Rwanda’s geological and geographic background, the development of its terrain and population. Here, there’s a massive centerpiece map of Rwanda with terrain and topography elevations, acclivities and descents. Makes one almost want to touch it. Hall 3 has illustrations of the occupations of its early inhabitants – hunter-gathering, farming and stock-raising together with later advancements of tools and transport means. The highlight here is the detailed instructions for brewing traditional banana beer. Hall 4 displays the making of traditional household items: pottery, mats, baskets, leatherwork, wooden shield of intore dancers. Hall 5 illustrates traditional styles and methods of architecture – and a full-scale royal hut welcomes it all to you. I would hark back to this moment the following day at the King’s Palace Museum in Nyanza. Hall 6 traditional games and sports are displayed and more space is given to the costumes and equipment of the Intore dancers. Finally, Hall 7, a room which we have to skim through because closing time has been called, contains exhibits relating to traditional customs and beliefs, history, culture, poetry, oral tradition and the supernatural. Leaving here we are accompanied by the employees from the reception. We literally close the Museum with them. This, ‘closing a museum’, would later happen again to me at the Presidential Palace in Kanombe, Kigali where I’d get on a bus to Remera with the guide who’d taken me around and also at the National Art Museum in Nyanza, where ‘Twiri, the lean tall guide and I would run down the back side of its compound in the blanket of darkness in a bid to catch moto-taxis to the bus park in time for the final bus back to Huye. This is my first of fourteen nights in Huye, and I think there is going to be an interesting time ahead. |
Fatima
In the spring and summer of 1916, nine-year-old Lúcia Santos and her cousins Francisco and Jacinta Marto were herding sheep at the Cova da Iria near their home village of Aljustrel in the parish of Fátima, Portugal. They would later say they were visited three times by an apparition of an angel. They said the angel taught them prayers, to make sacrifices, and to spend time in adoration of the Lord.
In one of the times of the year here which Rwandans like to call ‘summer’ (just a dry warm season, with absolutely no rain), I would be walking up a lane called Fatima in the sunny town of Muhanga. I’d taken a 7 hour stop over on my journey back to Kigali from Huye, to explore this sparsely-green administrative capital of the Southern Province. Formerly known as Gitarama, Muhanga town holds in it – Fatima. A narrow road, paved, littered with spaced out houses, walled yards in front buffering them from the street, sharply ascending roofs and walls made of burned brick. At one of its sharp turns it spews out a quaint monumental structure equally name ‘Fatima’.
Its spire rises above almost all else in this town. Perched atop one of its approaching hills, the spire is a landmark that one would hardly miss from most areas surrounding the main road into Muhanga. I’d been directed to it by Jean Baptiste Twambajimana, a major seminarian at Petit Seminaire Saint Leon Kabgayi that I’d visited earlier down the road. He told me they’d celebrated mass there that previous Sunday, and many times before, the most memorable being the centenary anniversary celebrations for the 1916 apparitions.
The structure is glass walled and see through. It houses about a dozen short pews, a statue of the Virgin Mary at a raised marble altar. The views from it are of an expansive Muhanga down below, and the majestic Kabgayi Cathedral with its baige century-old brick walls. It’s a quiet space, good for entering a ruminating reverie, good for prayer and good for reminiscing. It’s a place I think the children of Fatima would have loved visiting if they had been born in Rwanda. There’s a presence here. Maybe a hope, that what happened on this hills may never be re-enacted.
And it is said that the most important dimension of the Fátima event was not the supernatural and preternatural phenomena but the content and the meaning of the message communicated to the children. By following this message their spiritual lives were elevated to the heights of sanctity, to which the beatification of Jacinta and Francisco testifies, and the hope and possibility of the conversion of the world from its ruinous course was offered to mankind.
In one of the times of the year here which Rwandans like to call ‘summer’ (just a dry warm season, with absolutely no rain), I would be walking up a lane called Fatima in the sunny town of Muhanga. I’d taken a 7 hour stop over on my journey back to Kigali from Huye, to explore this sparsely-green administrative capital of the Southern Province. Formerly known as Gitarama, Muhanga town holds in it – Fatima. A narrow road, paved, littered with spaced out houses, walled yards in front buffering them from the street, sharply ascending roofs and walls made of burned brick. At one of its sharp turns it spews out a quaint monumental structure equally name ‘Fatima’.
Its spire rises above almost all else in this town. Perched atop one of its approaching hills, the spire is a landmark that one would hardly miss from most areas surrounding the main road into Muhanga. I’d been directed to it by Jean Baptiste Twambajimana, a major seminarian at Petit Seminaire Saint Leon Kabgayi that I’d visited earlier down the road. He told me they’d celebrated mass there that previous Sunday, and many times before, the most memorable being the centenary anniversary celebrations for the 1916 apparitions.
The structure is glass walled and see through. It houses about a dozen short pews, a statue of the Virgin Mary at a raised marble altar. The views from it are of an expansive Muhanga down below, and the majestic Kabgayi Cathedral with its baige century-old brick walls. It’s a quiet space, good for entering a ruminating reverie, good for prayer and good for reminiscing. It’s a place I think the children of Fatima would have loved visiting if they had been born in Rwanda. There’s a presence here. Maybe a hope, that what happened on this hills may never be re-enacted.
And it is said that the most important dimension of the Fátima event was not the supernatural and preternatural phenomena but the content and the meaning of the message communicated to the children. By following this message their spiritual lives were elevated to the heights of sanctity, to which the beatification of Jacinta and Francisco testifies, and the hope and possibility of the conversion of the world from its ruinous course was offered to mankind.
Kibeho
I’m on my way to Kibeho. The road to Kibeho starts near Huye’s stadium which overlooks the new Smart Taxi Park that I’d eventually come to regard as home. Buses do take the trip (from the bus station) but not very frequently. I come to see why.
The tarmac on the road ends a few kilometers shy of Huye town. The bumpy ride starts off with immediate virulence. The road is red. The rich red of Ave de la Cathedral that leads to Our Lady of Wisdom. It must be loam soil. There’s arguments within the cabin on whether to let a child sit on an empty seat along the aisle. Hip hop plays from the speakers. There’s other women lamenting about something, I think. A pale-faced girl stares at my fingers typing this on my phone. There’s a prominent Kinyarwanda word that rings out above these women’s laments – ‘Chibazo’, question. They must be questioning a lot with all this rumbling. People here, mostly old women, travel with so much luggage. Shukas to cover their heads. Sometimes no shukas, but quite kempt hair, really dark afros shaped along the frames of their faces.
It’s a beautiful drive through a mixture of high ground with extensive views, wooded valleys, farmland and tea plantations. There are small wooden ‘bridges’ where streams run across the road. The bus windows are wide open but the dust isn't being blown onto our faces. A person litters, literally throws a plastic biscuit wrapper onto the roadside vegetation. I shake my head, vexed.
Before the genocide, Kibeho hit the headlines because of the visions of the Virgin Mary allegedly seen there by young girls from 1981 onwards, starting with that of teenager Alphonsine Mumureke in November 1981. Her prophesies have been said to reflect the subsequent genocide. With the national and international reporting of the apparitions, the small, remote community of Kibeho became a centre of pilgrimage and faith. During the genocide Kibeho suffered appallingly: hospital, primary school, college and church were all attacked. The church was badly burned while still sheltering survivors but has been rebuilt; a genocide memorial stands beside it.
Kibeho is as dusty as the road leading to it, but covered by a hum of activity as motos and buses pick and drop travelers. I get onto a RWF 300 moto to the shrine that commemorates Virgin Mary’s apparitions from three decades ago. It’s a deserted place, I do not see a single soul on my approach to, or my exploration within the shrine. The dyed glass above the wide altar bends sunlight into quite inviting patterns. There’s a lonesome piano at one of the corners, silent as the air around it, still and sort of waiting on something.
Back into the light I see rows of benches bolted onto the ground in a semi-circular circuit around a statue of the Virgin Mary. Two young girls with delicately set afros are seated, praying. On my left is a staircase leading down the hill on top of which the shrine is set. I move towards the steps to gauge the steepness of the fall. But there I find a couple of street boys, one girl and an older lady that I presumed to be their mother. They must have been silently waiting for me because they, almost in tandem, stretch out their hands begging for a Cinqante, a RWF 50 coin. A bold one from among the crowd starts telling me about Holy Water down the hill and how it only costs RWF 2000 for a liter of it. I ask him to show me. He starts leading me to the other side of the hill, a rancid stench engulfing my nostrils as he takes the lead, but as we near the steps to the main entrance of the shrine, he takes off. I’m left there standing, staring at two young men shouting at me in Kinyarwanda.
They turned out to be army guys. Rescued me from a con. They look nothing like army men; one 21 and the other 26. They walk me down the hill to where a fountain that endlessly runs, spewing Holy Water, is. While at it they learn a few words of Kiswahili as I siphon Kinyarwanda from their tongues. At the water, they tell me all about it, walk me back up and help look for a hotel for me to eat, ask me whether I have a ticket back to Huye, negotiate the prices for my meal and leave me to it. They eat at work, they say. Such hospitable humans!
I think this is what I’ll miss the most about this land.
The tarmac on the road ends a few kilometers shy of Huye town. The bumpy ride starts off with immediate virulence. The road is red. The rich red of Ave de la Cathedral that leads to Our Lady of Wisdom. It must be loam soil. There’s arguments within the cabin on whether to let a child sit on an empty seat along the aisle. Hip hop plays from the speakers. There’s other women lamenting about something, I think. A pale-faced girl stares at my fingers typing this on my phone. There’s a prominent Kinyarwanda word that rings out above these women’s laments – ‘Chibazo’, question. They must be questioning a lot with all this rumbling. People here, mostly old women, travel with so much luggage. Shukas to cover their heads. Sometimes no shukas, but quite kempt hair, really dark afros shaped along the frames of their faces.
It’s a beautiful drive through a mixture of high ground with extensive views, wooded valleys, farmland and tea plantations. There are small wooden ‘bridges’ where streams run across the road. The bus windows are wide open but the dust isn't being blown onto our faces. A person litters, literally throws a plastic biscuit wrapper onto the roadside vegetation. I shake my head, vexed.
Before the genocide, Kibeho hit the headlines because of the visions of the Virgin Mary allegedly seen there by young girls from 1981 onwards, starting with that of teenager Alphonsine Mumureke in November 1981. Her prophesies have been said to reflect the subsequent genocide. With the national and international reporting of the apparitions, the small, remote community of Kibeho became a centre of pilgrimage and faith. During the genocide Kibeho suffered appallingly: hospital, primary school, college and church were all attacked. The church was badly burned while still sheltering survivors but has been rebuilt; a genocide memorial stands beside it.
Kibeho is as dusty as the road leading to it, but covered by a hum of activity as motos and buses pick and drop travelers. I get onto a RWF 300 moto to the shrine that commemorates Virgin Mary’s apparitions from three decades ago. It’s a deserted place, I do not see a single soul on my approach to, or my exploration within the shrine. The dyed glass above the wide altar bends sunlight into quite inviting patterns. There’s a lonesome piano at one of the corners, silent as the air around it, still and sort of waiting on something.
Back into the light I see rows of benches bolted onto the ground in a semi-circular circuit around a statue of the Virgin Mary. Two young girls with delicately set afros are seated, praying. On my left is a staircase leading down the hill on top of which the shrine is set. I move towards the steps to gauge the steepness of the fall. But there I find a couple of street boys, one girl and an older lady that I presumed to be their mother. They must have been silently waiting for me because they, almost in tandem, stretch out their hands begging for a Cinqante, a RWF 50 coin. A bold one from among the crowd starts telling me about Holy Water down the hill and how it only costs RWF 2000 for a liter of it. I ask him to show me. He starts leading me to the other side of the hill, a rancid stench engulfing my nostrils as he takes the lead, but as we near the steps to the main entrance of the shrine, he takes off. I’m left there standing, staring at two young men shouting at me in Kinyarwanda.
They turned out to be army guys. Rescued me from a con. They look nothing like army men; one 21 and the other 26. They walk me down the hill to where a fountain that endlessly runs, spewing Holy Water, is. While at it they learn a few words of Kiswahili as I siphon Kinyarwanda from their tongues. At the water, they tell me all about it, walk me back up and help look for a hotel for me to eat, ask me whether I have a ticket back to Huye, negotiate the prices for my meal and leave me to it. They eat at work, they say. Such hospitable humans!
I think this is what I’ll miss the most about this land.
Our Lady of Wisdom
This was huge. And true to it, had red bricks. The road leading to it was red as well, made up of layers of fine particles of loam. Cathédrale Notre-Dame de la Sagesse (Our Lady of Wisdom) is the name. Built in memory of the life of Princess Astrid of Sweden, Queen consort of the Belgians, in the late 1930s, it is the largest religious structure in Rwanda. The cathedral follows the Roman or Latin rite and serves as the seat of the Diocese of Butare (Dioecesis Butarensis) which was erected in 1961 by Pope John XXIII by bula Gaudet sanctum. This is held testament by the notice containing Mass timings for the entire calendar year pinned at the entrance, for all the various parishes strewn around.
Ave de la Cathedral, the dusty road that offshoots from the business district towards the cathedral looked like a scene pulled out of a wild west movie. It only needed a few horse drawn carriages and pedestrians clad in indigo-dyed denim dungarees.
The day we got there, a wedding ceremony had just come to a close. The bride and groom were preparing to leave the grounds and the rest of the congregation was milling around sorting out what I assumed were logistics. There was less colour than I’d expected for a Rwandan wedding, but oh well, preconceived ideas.
Entering through one of its many peripheral orifices, I was met by a fairly plain interior, save for a few modest wedding decorations adorning the sides. But the atmosphere is tranquil and the size is impressive. The size, I reiterate, quite impressive. The cathedral is shaped like the letter T. Its main atrium stretches for what I’d estimate to be slightly shy of 150 metres horizontally, cutting through the spacious altar. It was evening when we got there. The sun’s pounding rays of heat had abated and were falling into the cathedral’s heavily dyed frosted glass window panes in such breathtaking strikes I couldn’t help imagining what a moving experience Mass would be there. Even the tithe boxes, dug into the eighty-year-old brick, spoke of age. With the wedding party gone, the expansive air on top of us felt radiant. Like it was still singing songs of love. Pillows that the bride and groom knelt on stared back, the sun’s rays hitting them right in the middle.
Ave de la Cathedral, the dusty road that offshoots from the business district towards the cathedral looked like a scene pulled out of a wild west movie. It only needed a few horse drawn carriages and pedestrians clad in indigo-dyed denim dungarees.
The day we got there, a wedding ceremony had just come to a close. The bride and groom were preparing to leave the grounds and the rest of the congregation was milling around sorting out what I assumed were logistics. There was less colour than I’d expected for a Rwandan wedding, but oh well, preconceived ideas.
Entering through one of its many peripheral orifices, I was met by a fairly plain interior, save for a few modest wedding decorations adorning the sides. But the atmosphere is tranquil and the size is impressive. The size, I reiterate, quite impressive. The cathedral is shaped like the letter T. Its main atrium stretches for what I’d estimate to be slightly shy of 150 metres horizontally, cutting through the spacious altar. It was evening when we got there. The sun’s pounding rays of heat had abated and were falling into the cathedral’s heavily dyed frosted glass window panes in such breathtaking strikes I couldn’t help imagining what a moving experience Mass would be there. Even the tithe boxes, dug into the eighty-year-old brick, spoke of age. With the wedding party gone, the expansive air on top of us felt radiant. Like it was still singing songs of love. Pillows that the bride and groom knelt on stared back, the sun’s rays hitting them right in the middle.
Kabgayi Cathedral
The Kabgayi Mission was founded by Catholic missionaries in 1906, becoming the seat of the first Catholic bishop of Ruanda-Urundi. This is among the reasons that Muhanga (Gitarama) was once seriously considered as the colonial capital. The beige-bricked humongous Cathedral Basilica of Our Lady at Kabayi is the oldest and most historically important cathedral in the country. It is made appealing by its stained frosted glass windows, a huge and tranquil interior, the dizzying height of its bell tower and the huge expanse of sanctified air above the ground-hugging pews. A colonial era hospital and morgue are built close to the church.
This is confirmed to me while staring at a sign, perched on a fork on the dusty road outside the Cathedral. The left leads to a hospital, a century old structure blanketed by dust. The path is busy, with motos ferrying women and children wrapped in heavy shukas. The right leads onto an equally dusty path but heading downhill. It is mostly deserted save for a few criss-crossing souls. This sign makes me think of what it was like in the wild west. I think the right is the path a slave in flight would pick. Then I see four men carrying a stretcher, the load on it covered by shukas similar to those I saw wrapped around the women on bikes. I think the load is a dead body.
In the early stages of the genocide, Kabgayi, situated within walking distance of the Provisional Government headquarters at then Gitarama, provided refuge to tens of thousands of civilians, many of whom dies of disease and or starvation. It’s a glaring contrast to today. I see hundreds of children littering the compound, most of them clustered in groups reading from what I believe are Catechism handbooks. Inside the cathedral itself are priests lined along the walls offering confession, I believe. Observing the flow of the children, I deduce the direction of the office. There I hope to find assistance on how to make my way around the compound. There’s even more children accompanied by what I assume are their parents inside the office lobby. There’s a looming a hubbub driven in musical Kinyarwanda as fingers search through church records that look as old as the bricks on the church. I find a priests but he speaks no English, replying to my mumblings in French. He thankfully directs me to another parishioner who has quite a command of Kiswahili. From the middle rungs of his ladder, he expresses to me how this isn’t a good day to get a look around, seeing as the Children were preparing to receive their First Holy Communion.
I concur but decide to take myself around.
This is confirmed to me while staring at a sign, perched on a fork on the dusty road outside the Cathedral. The left leads to a hospital, a century old structure blanketed by dust. The path is busy, with motos ferrying women and children wrapped in heavy shukas. The right leads onto an equally dusty path but heading downhill. It is mostly deserted save for a few criss-crossing souls. This sign makes me think of what it was like in the wild west. I think the right is the path a slave in flight would pick. Then I see four men carrying a stretcher, the load on it covered by shukas similar to those I saw wrapped around the women on bikes. I think the load is a dead body.
In the early stages of the genocide, Kabgayi, situated within walking distance of the Provisional Government headquarters at then Gitarama, provided refuge to tens of thousands of civilians, many of whom dies of disease and or starvation. It’s a glaring contrast to today. I see hundreds of children littering the compound, most of them clustered in groups reading from what I believe are Catechism handbooks. Inside the cathedral itself are priests lined along the walls offering confession, I believe. Observing the flow of the children, I deduce the direction of the office. There I hope to find assistance on how to make my way around the compound. There’s even more children accompanied by what I assume are their parents inside the office lobby. There’s a looming a hubbub driven in musical Kinyarwanda as fingers search through church records that look as old as the bricks on the church. I find a priests but he speaks no English, replying to my mumblings in French. He thankfully directs me to another parishioner who has quite a command of Kiswahili. From the middle rungs of his ladder, he expresses to me how this isn’t a good day to get a look around, seeing as the Children were preparing to receive their First Holy Communion.
I concur but decide to take myself around.
Nyanza
My trip to Nyungwe Forest had been planned out in my head the previous night. The guys at the house had warned me that buses heading to Rusizi (The border town with Democratic Republic of Congo) that pass smack in the middle of the forest, were hard to find during this season of political campaigning. It is in light of this that Gatwiri (my travelling companion) and I had decided to arise at 0600Hrs to try and get to the Huye Taxi Park by at least 0700Hrs. ‘Twiri and I got to the taxi park at 0900Hrs.
“The bus full. No buses.” This was the repeated statement at each booking office.
It turns out there was only one bus passing by coming from Kampala heading to Bukavu. The people who had ‘booked’ the bus were just chancing as to whether there were empty seats on it, paying a middle man who would be on the phone all the while.
But we woke up so early! So what do we do? Not ones to waste a day we’d woken up at ‘the crack of dawn’, it was 1000Hrs now, we opted to take the next available bus to Nyanza and visit the King’s Palace; the earliest being 1300Hrs. We settled ourselves at a first floor buffet restaurant overlooking the comings and goings of the buses at the park, ate slowly, well, I ate slowly while ‘Twiri prodded me on things that keep me busy while at home. And it’s in this discussion that I open up possibility for her appreciation of art.
On the bus to Nyanza ‘Twiri spent the first few kilometers fidgeting, trying to look for a good position to rest her head. She says vehicular motion lulls her to sleep. Later, as we headed back, I actually did try it. It works! And instinctively, you'll wake up with a start when you've reached your final destination. I spent most of the time on Google Maps trying to make sure we don't get lost. But it's primarily a straight road, with gentle bends, unlike those in the Northern Province. The shoferi (driver) kept stopping to pick up and drop off passengers along the road…I’m not sure if this is legal though, because I would see the new passengers hand over money to him in lieu of printed tickets.
I felt fatherly, being left to find the way in a foreign country. ‘Twiri’s head next to me was moving to the motions of the gentle bends and abrupt stops, which ironically did not seem to wake her up. The bus stopped at a filling station where most people alighted. Its front was facing the road heading to Kigali and so I figured everyone heading to Nyanza was making their way out of it. I tapped on ‘Twiri to wake her up and we hastily left the bus. But alas! The bus took a left to the road heading into Nyanza town. And there went the rest of our RWF 670…
We had to take a moto-taxi into Nyanza at RWF 500, a price almost equal to the fare that it cost to get us that close to Nyanza from Huye. This was the price after we request a guard standing at the filling station to negotiate in Kinyarwanda with the moto man. At this point my Kinyarwanda skills had not taken root yet. On the ride into Nyanza, I felt a familiarity in the air. The air felt comfortable going up my nostrils. It is Nairobi-like in its easiness. Not dry, not humid, not cold, not warm. The roads were nice, as usual, with readable signs directing you to the King's Palace.
The palace seemed to be atop a hill in the town's suburbs. The road up is quiet, clean, winding and breezy. There is a fork on it with the left going to The National Art Museum and the right to the palace. The first few buildings that pop out to a visitor are all grass thatched, with dry, seemingly-strong, gray grass covering them, like an old man’s hat.
It’s all about royal residences here. A guided tour of the hill starts off with the traditional section where replicas of royal huts are. Made of thatched straw, the main hut rises from the ground and bulges out into an enormous structure; it’s almost unbelievable how the structure stands on just a couple of wooden poles. The geometric patterns characteristic of Rwandans is rife; from the ceiling, to the beds of reed mats and hand decorated curtains of woven reeds, one sees straight-edged shapes stare back at them. They are mostly woven from black dyed sisal. A milk maids hut seats modestly behind the main hut; a smaller, less imposing structure. Churns for handling milk are placed at the entrance. They are made from cleverly curved wood, scrupulously clean and covered by cones of closely woven grasses. The Rwandan traditional setting is filled with clay toys, royal cows, drying coffee, milk churning – curds, butter, large hollow reeds used as straws, fermented milk and honey.
In my view, the modern palace is not that palatial, nor commanding. The hut is though. I feel he was short changed by the Belgians.
The bathtub was too short for a man of his height. There's not much to write home about this museum other than the torn original seats, the picture of how it was and how they've tried to re-create it.
“The bus full. No buses.” This was the repeated statement at each booking office.
It turns out there was only one bus passing by coming from Kampala heading to Bukavu. The people who had ‘booked’ the bus were just chancing as to whether there were empty seats on it, paying a middle man who would be on the phone all the while.
But we woke up so early! So what do we do? Not ones to waste a day we’d woken up at ‘the crack of dawn’, it was 1000Hrs now, we opted to take the next available bus to Nyanza and visit the King’s Palace; the earliest being 1300Hrs. We settled ourselves at a first floor buffet restaurant overlooking the comings and goings of the buses at the park, ate slowly, well, I ate slowly while ‘Twiri prodded me on things that keep me busy while at home. And it’s in this discussion that I open up possibility for her appreciation of art.
On the bus to Nyanza ‘Twiri spent the first few kilometers fidgeting, trying to look for a good position to rest her head. She says vehicular motion lulls her to sleep. Later, as we headed back, I actually did try it. It works! And instinctively, you'll wake up with a start when you've reached your final destination. I spent most of the time on Google Maps trying to make sure we don't get lost. But it's primarily a straight road, with gentle bends, unlike those in the Northern Province. The shoferi (driver) kept stopping to pick up and drop off passengers along the road…I’m not sure if this is legal though, because I would see the new passengers hand over money to him in lieu of printed tickets.
I felt fatherly, being left to find the way in a foreign country. ‘Twiri’s head next to me was moving to the motions of the gentle bends and abrupt stops, which ironically did not seem to wake her up. The bus stopped at a filling station where most people alighted. Its front was facing the road heading to Kigali and so I figured everyone heading to Nyanza was making their way out of it. I tapped on ‘Twiri to wake her up and we hastily left the bus. But alas! The bus took a left to the road heading into Nyanza town. And there went the rest of our RWF 670…
We had to take a moto-taxi into Nyanza at RWF 500, a price almost equal to the fare that it cost to get us that close to Nyanza from Huye. This was the price after we request a guard standing at the filling station to negotiate in Kinyarwanda with the moto man. At this point my Kinyarwanda skills had not taken root yet. On the ride into Nyanza, I felt a familiarity in the air. The air felt comfortable going up my nostrils. It is Nairobi-like in its easiness. Not dry, not humid, not cold, not warm. The roads were nice, as usual, with readable signs directing you to the King's Palace.
The palace seemed to be atop a hill in the town's suburbs. The road up is quiet, clean, winding and breezy. There is a fork on it with the left going to The National Art Museum and the right to the palace. The first few buildings that pop out to a visitor are all grass thatched, with dry, seemingly-strong, gray grass covering them, like an old man’s hat.
It’s all about royal residences here. A guided tour of the hill starts off with the traditional section where replicas of royal huts are. Made of thatched straw, the main hut rises from the ground and bulges out into an enormous structure; it’s almost unbelievable how the structure stands on just a couple of wooden poles. The geometric patterns characteristic of Rwandans is rife; from the ceiling, to the beds of reed mats and hand decorated curtains of woven reeds, one sees straight-edged shapes stare back at them. They are mostly woven from black dyed sisal. A milk maids hut seats modestly behind the main hut; a smaller, less imposing structure. Churns for handling milk are placed at the entrance. They are made from cleverly curved wood, scrupulously clean and covered by cones of closely woven grasses. The Rwandan traditional setting is filled with clay toys, royal cows, drying coffee, milk churning – curds, butter, large hollow reeds used as straws, fermented milk and honey.
In my view, the modern palace is not that palatial, nor commanding. The hut is though. I feel he was short changed by the Belgians.
The bathtub was too short for a man of his height. There's not much to write home about this museum other than the torn original seats, the picture of how it was and how they've tried to re-create it.