Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
gurgling of the river and the occasional sniping of Boston and Amani, but now there were
new sounds: the lowing of cows.
After leaving the sweaty humidity of the forest, it was a relief to be welcomed by the
sight of this open plain. From the trees the stream trickled down, through small waterfalls,
and seemed to be revelling in its first touch of daylight. With Boston's panga back in its
sheath, our feet followed the water. The first sign of life was a single large cow, wading in
the long grass at the bottom of a hill. On the hillside were the first signs of human habit-
ation. Neatly furrowed fields and a few banana trees stood before the distinctive shape of
a track leading south. At the bottom of the track, still clinging to the stream, several small
huts hid behind a stand of tall brown-and-white eucalyptus trees.
It dawned on me that what I was looking at was the first village that depended on the
Nile.
'Come on,' said Amani, with renewed vigour. 'These are Batwa. Let's speak to them
before they run away.'
Amani had already set off when I realised who he was speaking about. Outside the huts
were the outlines of four diminutive people.
'Pygmies,' said Boston as he watched Amani stride ahead, shaking his head in what I
thought was reproach. 'Do not believe what this man tells you. He is a government agent.'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'The Twa were in this country long before Hutu and Tutsi,' Boston told me. 'Amani will
not tell you that.'
I followed Amani to the edge of the village, where he was already in conversation with
the Batwa men outside their huts. Only one of them appeared particularly small, and none
of them looked concerned at our approach. They simply sat on a grassy bank, looking
rather nonplussed at this band of sweaty pedestrians who had emerged from their forest.
As I approached, their leader, a man a little more than five feet tall introduced himself
as 'Kazungu'.
'Isn't that what you call white people?' I asked Amani.
'No,' Amani replied, 'that is Muzungu, but it means the same thing. Look at him - he is
lighter than these others.'
The village was nothing more than a collection of five small huts among the banana
trees. As Kazungu led us around, Amani translated his story in fits and starts. At my side,
Boston occasionally snorted. I made daggers at him with my eyes. No matter what spin
Amani was putting on this story at the behest of his government superiors, I still wanted to
hear it.
'Kazungu's fathers lived in the Nyungwe. They were forest dwellers. They did not grow
crops like they do now. They hunted and foraged. But, after 1994, things had to change.
