Sometimes you just have to write…
Kirundo, Burundi, August 9
On Friday we were taken to visit a potter, with one of the English teachers, named Claude, as our guide. On the ride there, which turned out to be very short, Claude told me that pottery is only produced by the Twa in Burundi, never by the Hutu or Tutsi.
I was surprised that he even offered this information, because I haven’t yet heard any of the teachers mention tribes at all. It seems to be taboo to speak about Hutus or Tutsis, or to ask anyone which tribe they belong to, or to ask any detail about their own experiences in the war. All we hear about it is statements like “Before 1993 we had enough books.” or “We haven’t had a conference or training since before 1993.” There seems to have been a resolute and unanimous decision not to talk about it anymore, since the war ended a couple of years ago.
The Twa, according to Claude, are the lowest in terms of social status here, and they’re the poorest too. He says that they’re nomadic, and will move if someone in the family dies. Apparently, according to Stephanie, there have been efforts recently to give them their own land so that they will stay in one place. But land is a big issue here, and what violence still happens apparently mostly stems from arguments over land ownership. The country is simply too crowded, and getting more crowded as the population grows and as refugees return to find that their land has been occupied by other people.
Anyway, the potter’s workshop turned out to be just a space outside a traditional Twa hut, which is a small dome-shaped structure covered with dry banana leaves.
Most houses here are made of mud brick and have corrugated iron or ceramic tile roofs. When we went up to the Rwanda border, we saw some more traditional houses, which are also made of mud but are round, with roofs of thatch. But this hut had no separate walls or roof; it was all of a piece.
Outside the hut a woman showed us how she makes the pots. She had a wide bowl-shaped form and shaped the clay partly by flattening it out into the form, and partly by adding thick rope-shaped pieces on the top edge to build it up. After she had added all the clay and shaped a lip, she shaped it into an even round form by gradually working it wider from the inside.
Only the Twa women actually make the pots. Claude seemed to think that the men might help too by getting the clay from the riverbank and the mica sand that it’s mixed with from up the nearest mountain. We saw very few men around until it came time for us to give them some money, when they appeared very quickly – but more about that later.
There was a collection of pots already made next to the hut, but they hadn’t been fired yet. Knowing we were coming (Claude had arranged it the day before.), they had put off firing the pots until we were there. Of course, there’s no kiln available if you’re from a poor, nomadic tribe in the middle of Africa. So what they did was very interesting. They made a circle of broken pots on the ground, about three meters across. They placed large bundles of grass in the circle very neatly until it looked much like an oversized bird’s nest. Some of the grass was brown, but some was still somewhat green. Then they placed the pots very carefully, with many adjustments, in the nest, on their sides, so that they couldn’t roll around, but also couldn’t knock against each other too hard. Then they placed a lot more of the grasses on top and set it all on fire.
It burned very quickly and very hot, giving off a yellowish smoke. The women circled it, poking at the grass with a stick to shift it to close gaps, and stirring at any embers that flew out and set surrounding grasses on fire.
When it had burned down, which was within about a half hour, they used sticks to pull the pots out, then splashed water on each with a bundle of grass dipped in water. They were still too hot to touch, but presumably this splash of water stopped them baking further. The fire had given them a less even colour, with splashes of black on the basic brown colour. Here and there the mica gives it a bit of a sparkle.
Since the women there had given us this whole demonstration, we decided to give them a gift of cash, about 20,000 Burundi francs from all nine of us, which is about the equivalent of 12 euros. This is huge money for them. Our first plan was to give it to the woman who was clearly the boss and have her decide who to give the rest to and how much. However, Claude was very clear that that wasn’t a good idea at all, and that we had to be very careful to distribute it fairly. As far as we could see, the boss woman and two others had done all the work, so they should get 5000 each, about three euros, and the rest could be shared out among the rest.
To get an idea of how much that is, the pots themselves go for about anywhere from 200 Burundi francs for a small one (about 12 eurocents) to 1000 (about 60 cents) for a big one. Even in Burundian terms this is quite cheap. Clearly our plan to give 20,000 francs was way out of proportion, but once we’d said it to Claude, there was no going back.
What ensued was a detailed negotiation between Claude and the whole village. He wanted only to give it to members of the Twa tribe, but more and more people appeared, including the first men we’d seen, saying that they should get some too and that they were also Twa. The women who had done the work were very forceful and seemed quite dismissive of the men. Although I couldn’t understand what they were saying, the women clearly out-argued them. Although at first it seemed to me that this might get ugly, the women, and even the men, were smiling most of the time they were arguing, and there was a lot of laughter, as if the argument was just a ritual they were going through and they all knew perfectly well who was going to get the money: the three women who had done the work.
It took a good half-hour to come to a settlement: the three women got most of the money, and Claude paid for a very large amount of banana wine from a nearby bar for the whole village to share.
It’s often hard here to know what to do about money. What seems very little to us can be an enormous amount to them. If we overpay for things, which I suspect we mostly do, we’ll raise the price for all white foreigners who come here. And, more importantly, we raise the expectation that all foreigners are just sources of money. On the other hand, if the people we’re paying are so poor, and we can afford it, our gut feeling is to just give them the money, since they need it more than we do.
An illustration: here at the hotel, if we want to get our laundry done, we can ask one of the people who works here. Then, when they do it, we’re supposed to give them a “tip.” Several of us had our laundry done and gave 5000 francs as a tip, about three euros. One of our group gave 10,000, for about the same amount of laundry. Then, when another member of the group got his laundry, rather than just receiving a tip, the person who did the laundry asked for 10,000 francs. Stephanie was appalled; it’s supposed to be a tip, not a price. But it shows the effect of people with so much more money coming here: a sort of whites-only inflation.