Cultural Tourism: Living the Clay Pot Tale at Ewaffe Cultural Village

“Arise my beloved and be my queen,” Snow White couldn’t imagine more beautiful words as she finally woke up, following “Love’s First Kiss”, gladly offered by the prince, which broke the curse, reviving her. She extended her arms out to him as he scooped her up into his fully-built torso. They would later marry and be crowned king and queen.

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Such happy-ending western fairly tales were a good mix in the many African tales that formed part of my childhood, the latter, often embodying terror, impossibility and daunting tasks- never really a princess falling into a prince’s arms, marrying beneath the cherry blossom tree and living happily ever after.

It was either a beautiful but unlucky girl waiting years to marry a rich man or a woman arising in the wee hours of the night to fetch water using a fragile clay pot; treading carefully through the bumpy trails before dawn, lest she trips and breaks the pot and risk her husband’s wrath, who demanded his breakfast by his waking.

I never really got to fetch water using a pot, for I was raised in a different setting so the disaster associated with the activity, I only ever heard about, until just recently when a trip to Ewaffe Cultural Village, presented a perfect opportunity to live the clay pot tale.

Lucky for me, I didn’t have to tiptoe out of my bedroom – careful not to wake the beast of a husband. I was out in broad day light, donning faux Air Jordans, tight cargo pants, black camisole top and a beige cardigan- with absolutely no husband to cook for; which lessened the tension about tripping and breaking the pot. This didn’t however, eliminate the need to be careful while holding the pot, which was not as light as I had always imagined.

Alongside Justine Nanyonga, a nature guide at Ewaffe, we took about 10-15 minutes walking to the natural well, learning about different shrubs and their medicinal values as elaborately taught by my new friend. The most-catchy was the ‘kikokoma’ (Vernonia auriculifera) whose service to the traditional communities, I was well taught.

“Before the introduction of modern toilet tissue, (you know where this is going, don’t you?) the kikokoma plant was very crucial in playing that part. Touch it, feel how soft it is,” the guide beckoned me to the practical bit of plucking and folding the leaves as our fore fathers did to maintain hygiene after responding to long nature calls. This wasn’t alien to me, the irony was; I know an individual named Kikokoma and they used to be made fun of at the mention of their name- I didn’t get the joke then, I have the punchline now.

The journey to the well was quite engaging and soon we joined a batch of our colleagues who were faster and probably didn’t stop to have the Kikokoma tales. As we assembled to hear the histories of the natural well affectionately called Nalongo (a title given to a woman who gives birth to twins), one of the locals who was going about his day making mud bricks, lumbered to the fetching point with two large jerrycans; cut on top to widen the mouth for quicker drawing, fetched and moved back with zero effort.

For small businesses like brickmaking, having a natural water source close-by is ideal. It reduces production costs as there is no water bill coming through at the end of the month. This well, which has existed for decades, serves both commercial and domestic purposes as a number of families draw water here for their daily needs.

With the money maker out of the way, it was our turn to assume the role of the ladies in the numerous African tales read to us by our lower school teachers. A few turns for the early birds and it was finally my time.

On to the logs

Four sturdy logs line the lower third of the well, on to which I stepped, knelt and grabbed the black clay pot to submerge and draw water. It was a time to put my best foot forward, lest I trip and who knows what norm I would break alongside the pot.

The water is clear, save for a few tree leaves on the surface and clumps of algae floating about. The banks are lined with a species of water lilies which we were told are very vital in cleaning the well. By removing nutrients from the water, the lilies reduce the chance of water algae growth. The locals believe water drawn from this natural well is “purified” and is safe for consumption at a go.

“We used to drink this water without boiling it and we never had issues. However, with the growth of the population in the community, it is hard to maintain the well in its pristine foam. But otherwise, the water is very safe for domestic use,” Nanyonga said.

The pot itself is not light, at least not to a 43kg bearer. With the water almost full, I barely succeeded in pulling it out of the well to the logs had it not been for the helping hand of my new-found friend and nature guide. Once I was back on my feet, still on the logs, she put the pot securely in my hands and my sole duty was to get it to my head and move.

Again, there were ready helping hands to aide the lifting and placing of the ‘nkata’, (a banana leaf folded into a circle to support carriage on the head.) Once this process was through, the worst was over. I could match from the scene like I had done this a million times before; my equilibrium wasn’t one to play hide and seek when I needed it the most.

I won’t lie, there are a few moments during the walk back home when all I thought about was how people would react if I became the damned visitor who broke the pot. Once we were past the slope onto levelled ground, the confidence in my stamina returned and I even showed off with a couple of strides- hands off the pot. You will never know how important I felt, even though it was for aesthetics’ sake, when I made it back home and there was a lady in a gomasi ready to get the pot off my head, accompanying her kind action with some beautiful words which I can’t vividly recall.

She instructed me to proceed and actually run the water to the base of the large pan whose contents were already steaming away on the cooking stones outside the should-be kitchen. I did as told; no questions asked and this food, which I later partook of, pleased my tastebuds more than any other delicacies I had ever tasted.

After a successful ‘Journey to the well’ experience at Ewaffe Cultural Village, I felt I could fit into the format of a country girl somewhere in a hilly village in Ntungamo, waking to draw water at dawn, rushing to make my husband a meal as they return from the kraal- bottle gourd full of warm, fresh milk, his rocking chair awaiting on the front porch, where I would sit beside him and watch the herders head to the valley for a morning graze; a softer touch to the rowdy clay pot stories I was told as a young girl.