Niger Currents
Exploring life and technology along the Niger river

As we rolled out of Kissidougou I beamed ear to ear. Eli and I had an ongoing game of trying to decide when our voyage really began. The night we left Tamale felt more like an ending for me, the finale to two amazing years in Ghana.

Bamako was new and interesting but I felt more like we were treading water while we were there. We both wanted to be on the move and spent most of our time waiting for news on gear that went missing in Canada.

Leaving Bamako for Guinea felt like a real beginning: we were finally on our way.

But this, THIS IS IT! I finally know where our journey started - two pedals underfoot and weaving our way slowly out of Kissidougou on a cool Sunday morning. My euphoria lasted the better part of the morning, at least until the sun burned its way through the morning mist and our bikes began their rather rapid deterioration.

Bikes and the sun seemed to set the tone each morning on the way to Kankan. We would happily knock off the kilometres until the sun got a chance to turn the road into a broiler or our bikes decided to have a meltdown.

The bikes held out for the first day of riding, carrying us safely to Yardo, where we would spend two nights. We had braved the sun, but after covering a measly 38 km the first day through steep hills I knew there might be a couple of rough days ahead.

Within an hour of arriving in Yardo the rains arrived - the timing was perfect. We were too tired to really take much of a tour of the town and surrounding farms. I could hardly imagine Eli or I being much use digging mounds for cassava or helping with other farm work. Instead we spent the better part of the afternoon hiding from the rain in our hut and repairing our bicycles. Nothing was fully broken, but everything seemed to be on the verge of falling apart.

Our bikes aren't of the greatest quality. By the time they were delivered to our hotel, a pedal had already broken. I broke the plastic replacements on a warm-up ride on Saturday morning and by the end of the day on Monday I seemed well on my way to breaking a second pair (it seems that my desire to ride rather than push my bike up the steepest of hills is taking its toll).

We entertained the local youths as they watched us fix our bikes and I think I annoyed the local mechanic when I insisted on tightening our headsets myself. Ishmael, our guide, was laughing the whole time. He said the children couldn't stop talking about how we knew how to fix bikes; it seems they didn't think white people would know such things. I always find it interesting what beliefs people hold in different areas about foreigners.

While in Yardo, we had the pleasant surprise of visiting the island plantation of Karifa Kuruma. His energy, intelligence and dedication to farming and breeding crops just blew us away. Let me tell you about the afternoon he shared with us...

Karifa Kuruma bounds up the hill towards his plantation. I had stopped to take a picture and am now racing to keep up. Karifa moves faster with one leg than most people do with two.

A half kilometre from town we turn off the main road and descend towards what looks like a marsh. I look down at my feet glad that I'm wearing my sandals. After spending the morning wading through marshes and streams on the way to various farms I was beginning to form an idea of what we were in for this afternoon!

Karifa leads us along a path dividing the forest and marsh. A hundred metres down the trail we reach the bank of a river, knee- to waist-deep and about 7 metres across. Karifa hands his crutches to a friend and jumps down into the river. Eli and I both interject. "It's OK," we say, "We've already seen many farms today." Karifa smiles at our thinly-veiled concern, grabs his crutches, and gingerly crosses the river. As he turns away I catch a twinkle in his eye. He says something in Malinke, but I don't need to know the words to get his message - we may have seen farms today, but we haven't seen his plantation.

I roll up my pants and put my camera in my shirt pocket. I'm not worried about drowning in the river, but it would be like me to take a tumble and drown my camera. But we cross the river with ease, and there are just a few tenuous steps needed to climb up the far bank.

A few steps further and the plantation comes into view. It's quite compact in comparison to the farms I have seen earlier today: it is an acre, at most, arranged in an oval shape. I immediately notice the neatly organised plots of maize in 2 by 5 metre sections. There are also mango trees and bananas. As I get closer I see pineapple bushes, an oil palm tree and a number of other trees I have never seen before.

I enter the plantation and I am already excited. It's rare to see such diversity of crops in one place. It's even less common to see such organisation.

We follow Karifa towards his circular hut, and as we approach I notice that it is circled with a ring of flowering plants and pineapple bushes. It seems this farmer has an eye for aesthetics.

The hut is open-walled, with a cone shaped thatch roof that reaches chest height. Every farm in this region has a similar hut. Farms are often at least an hour walk away from the village; a hut like this allows a farmer to hide from the midday sun or sit out a rainstorm.

I am definitely impressed by what I have seen so far, but I am also confused. Most farmers grow a few crops in quantity, making the farm easier to manage and simplifying the sale of excess crops. While most farmers have a lot of a few things, Karifa has a little bit of everything.

We walk past the hut and he begins to answer my question before I get a chance to ask it. I spot his small mango nursery just as he starts to explain how he grafts stems from foreign varieties of mangoes to stalks from local varieties. This gives better-yielding mango trees and crops that can be sold for export (one difference being that export variants usually last better for shipping, which can also be of use for local consumers). He sells these seedlings to other farmers in the area. I finally get it - Karifa isn't so much a farmer as he is a scientist and seedling dealer.

By this point I'm thoroughly impressed. Grafting mangoes is not easy work; my friend in Ghana, Nicole, struggled for eight months to try to set up a similar operation in a community near where I lived.

As we walk to the edge of the plot, Karifa points out some trees that are used for timber in local buildings. These trees grow locally in the forest, but he feels it is important to start growing them on plantations as well. At the rate the native trees are being cut down they will soon be scarce.

Karifa can tell that we are both impressed and he eagerly guides us towards a small nursery plot he has just started. As he speaks with his friend Mussa, he points to each plot on his plan. On this paper he has taken the care to write the crops, number of seeds used, and the date planted. This level of organisation may seem typical to someone from North America, but it's not at all common here.

At this point I'm no longer surprised by anything this man does. From his nursery he pulls avocado, cashew and cotton plants for us to see. Cotton isn't even common to this area. I'm incredulous and ask him where he got the seeds - he simply responds that some European contacts gave them to him. I can see that he is trying to contain his pride, but every now and then cracks a smile - he knows I am enthralled by him and his plantation.

We walk back towards the timber stand and turn right, running smack into a river. He explains that the river splits just ahead and encircles his plot of land, forming an island. He chose this land knowing it would deter anyone from trying to make off with the fruits of his labour.

While we are walking back to his hut he stops and makes four small slices in a tree. As thick white liquid drips out of the tree I laugh to myself wondering what a rubber tree is doing here. Karifa tells us he was given some seedlings by a European, but that he didn't know the type or use of the tree. Nonetheless, he wanted to see how it would grow given the local soil and climate and whether it would yield viable seeds. He figured once he knew if it would grow, he would find a use for it. I am happy to have the opportunity to share some knowledge with him and give a quick explanation of the uses of a rubber tree. For just a split second the tables are turned and he looks at me with the same look of amazement that I have had all afternoon. He is used to harvesting crops for food and, in the case of cotton, for fabric. The fact that the sap from this tree makes tires is novel and somewhat strange.

Karifa quickly flips the tables back around, saving two of his best surprises for last.

He points out two stalks of maize planted a few feet apart in the same plot. On the left is yellow maize and on the right is red maize. He planted them side by side on the same day and is tracking their growth and production throughout the season to see which is better. As is his habit he pulls out a sheet, neatly marked with dates and observations of each.

As we are leaving, he grabs a water jug and tells me that it is a "rain meter." He places this jug so it collects rainwater falling off the roof of the hut. He checks this jug each morning during the rainy season - a full jug means heavy rain, half full is normal and a quarter full signifies light rain. Later that day he tells me that he has been collecting and recording information on the rains for a number of years. He can predict within a few days when the rainy season will start and end.

I jokingly ask him if it will rain on our way to Kankan. He answers my joke with a serious reply: he doesn't expect rain before Friday. It has become clear that Karifa is far more than a farmer; he's a climatologist as well.

We walk further up the road towards his mango plantation while Karifa talks to his friend. I ask our guide, Ishmael, what he is saying and he tells me that he's trying to convince Mussa to go into the seed business with him. He says "If we buy 120 seeds today it will yield more than a thousand seeds in four years." It seems as though Karifa is a keen businessman as well.

As we walk back to town, content from sampling the best of three different varieties of mango, Eli and I try to remember everything Karifa was growing on his planation - mangoes, maize, banana, oil palm, lemon, cotton, rubber, avocado, pineapple, cashew... What are we missing?

Ishmael tells us that people he knows in Kissidougou, a major town 40 km away, come to Karifa for advice. It seems that this small town has cultivated something of an expert.

When I ask Karifa where his energy and dedication come from, he tells me it's natural - he just loves being in the forest and working with plants and trees. He also takes his role very seriously. Much of the community relies on his advice about what and when to plant, and he feels the lengths that he goes to experiment and collect information are necessary to ensure he is giving good advice and maintaining his good name.

We close out the evening by talking about what he would like to see happen in his village. He talks about mango groves lining the main street and getting youth involved in communal plantations on a larger scale. I started by asking what we would see if we came back to visit in 10 or 20 years; he finishes by telling me he wants me to come back and to make sure that he has followed through with his promise. I have begun to get a sense of Karifa's irrepressible confidence and passion.

I haven't met anyone quite like Karifa Kuruma during my time in Africa, though many villages have champions who help build a better life for people in their community. Yardo, Karifa's village, is definitely lucky to have a skilled man like him, and we have certainly been blessed to meet Karifa at the beginning of our journey.