Niger Currents
Exploring life and technology along the Niger river

We arrive, tired from two hours of paddling against a stiff headwind. Moulai had wanted to wait for the wind to die down, but I knew we were close and just wanted to get here.

Bambougou is a large village tucked away in a backwater and filled with a mix of Bozo, Fula and Bamabara people. It is also one of the sites where they have a Multifunctional Platform, the same project I helped start in Ghana.

After we anchor the boat, I head out to discover Bambougou. I pass a few people along what seems like the main path and make the standard Bambara greetings - at least the few I know. As I pass a junction, a voice calls out to me: "Toubab, ca va?" I turn to see a jovial middle-aged man grinning at me and return his greeting: "Farafi, ca va." I look at the hoe hanging from his shoulder and my thoughts suddenly change direction. "Ou vas-tu?" Is he going to the farm? I quickly run out of vocabulary in French, but the messages still get across - he is going to the farm, and yes I can come!

I run to the boat, grabbing my camera, my hat, sunscreen and water - I'm like a small boy the night before Christmas. I ask my guide to talk with my new friend, Omar Diarra, to explain what I'd like to do and make sure it's okay. Everything is fine with him; for the next two days I'll be living and working with Omar.

We walk the three kilometres to Omar's farm, and I learn (and repeatedly forget) the Bambara words for the various animals and plants we see along the way.

As we crest a small hill, I see a mass of people sitting under a group of shea trees. Omar looks at me. "Famille," he says. There must be close to 30 adults, both men and women, as well as some children. Everyone is resting from the midday heat and taking their lunch. I've never seen this many people together on a farm. To me, it feels like an army of farmers.

I have the pleasure of greeting most of the members of Omar's family before we eat a few shea fruits, grab a bag of seeds, and walk out to the section of farm he is working.

I ask what he'll be planting, and Omar tells me it's "nyo." I've narrowed it down to millet or sorghum, but I'll have to wait until we're back in the village to find out for sure.

Omar walks over to a bush and pulls out the two wide blade hoes we will be using to till the soil. He marks out an 8 metre by 20 metre section of land and then uses an axe to remove a few small bushes. Next he begins to spread the seed, tossing it gingerly with a sidearm motion.

Omar then begins to till the soil. This is all new to me, so I watch. His long strokes quickly break up the soil into a soft surface. After a couple of minutes of study, I think I have the general idea and get down to business. But Omar looks over and gently tells me "no" and comes over to show me the correct technique. Okay, I go right then left. Still, two minutes later he comes over again. Oh, I need to take longer strokes. He waits a few minutes longer this time, but comes back again. I just can't do it in a fluid motion like he does. I'm jerky - chop and pull, chop and pull - and it's clear from the sweat on my face that I'm exerting more effort than is necessary. My section is rough and when I walk through it I realize that I've ploughed nowhere as deep as Omar.

A feeling of dread comes over me. What if I mess up his crops? The work that I'm doing today is the starting point of what should be feeding his family later this year. Earlier I felt a sense of excitement at the idea that the seeds we plant today will someday soon produce food for his family. Now, I just feel a sense of anxiety and responsibility. If I messed up carrying water or cooking I would just embarrass myself or subject others to a poor-tasting meal. If I mess up planting these seeds, people might not eat. I knew my worry was a bit extreme - I was only going to work a very small section of the farm - but it felt to me that for that afternoon, part of Omar's livelihood rested on my shoulders.

I watch again and finally catch what I've been missing. Omar doesn't chop deep down into the soil, he just scrapes a small slice away with each motion. It's the way he moves forward, slowly overlapping the thin slices, that mixes the soil so well.

I try again, and although I'm still nowhere near as proficient as Omar, at least the final product is what he's looking for. Now I can sleep soundly at night.

Later that afternoon I sit down and talk with Omar, partly relying on the help of Ali, my guide. I have so many questions for him after an afternoon of working together. The answers come quickly. Yes, indeed everyone on the other farm today was from his family. Omar, his three older brothers and most of their children all live in Bambougou. Omar explains that the family has a 15-hectare plot of land that they share. When I ask how they divvy up the harvest at the end of the season, he looks at me with a puzzled expression. "We put it in the family grain bank," he answers. I'm conscious that it's a question only an outsider would ask - the concept of personal property is not nearly as strong here as it is in Canada. When I asked what portion was his, it wasn't something Omar would normally consider; the harvest is for the family - it is as simple as that.

Omar confirms for me that we were indeed planting sorghum today. I've heard about the advantages of sorghum from friends who work in agriculture, but I'm interested to hear from Omar why his family chose to plant sorghum instead of another crop like millet. "It grows in three months, not six like millet, and the right amount grows when you plant it - you don't need to pull out the extra plants," he says. He goes on to explain that sorghum is resilient and grows well if the rains aren't plentiful (at least compared to other crops). It sounds like a good choice to me and Omar finishes like a good salesman. "Besides," he says, "it's what we eat," pointing at the "toe" (a food that looks like a brown glob of gooey starch) we're about to have for dinner.

Omar might not have access to an agricultural extension officer, or an educational background that would let him formally study which crop to grow, but it seems to me that he and his family use the their experience to make good choices about crop selection.

I spend the following morning on the farm working with the youth, ploughing their main plot with oxen. My attempts at driving the plough entertain everyone on the farm; it would be clear to any passer-by what section I had ploughed!

I walk back to Bambougou at midday. Despite the fact that I wore a hat all day the sun has taken its toll. By the time I reach town I'm fatigued, and rest for the afternoon. Doing agricultural work is strenuous anywhere, but in the hot sun of Mali it is downright exhausting

After dinner, Omar and I have one last chat. It rained a few days ago, but for the most part things are still dry here. I ask Omar if this is normal, and he tells me this year is particularly bad. When was the last really good year, I ask? "Eight years ago," he replies. "Since then it has been difficult." The family is still able to harvest crops, but their focus on sorghum makes it clear that managing through a poor rainy season is very much on their minds. I ask Omar what he thinks will happen this year. "The harvest will be good for sorghum and beans," he says. When I ask about other crops he doesn't even want to guess. "That depends on God."

I wonder how the family will manage if the rains don't come. Do they sell some of their crop in good years? "Only enough to buy what we need for farming," Omar tells me. "You spend money faster than you eat grain." Besides, if Omar's family were to sell at harvest time, they might end up having to buy their own harvest back during the lean season at a higher price - something no farmer ever likes to do.

So what happens when the harvest isn't good? Omar points to a room piled ankle-deep in onions. "During the dry season we grow onions and tobacco. If we need money, we sell those things." The Diarra family bank is sitting right behind me.

The family garden is near the river and Omar explains that right now his family gets their water by carrying pails from the river. When I ask him if anyone uses irrigation in the village, he tells me his family actually has a motorized irrigation pump but it's broken. Omar seems enthusiastic about the potential to make good use of the machine to increase his family's income. He starts talking about growing vegetables during the dry season and making full use of the machine to irrigate part of his family's main farm plot.

Why haven't they repaired it? He tells me if there are good rains this year they will probably have the money to fix it. To me, this is a bit confusing - they paid about 800 dollars for the pump in the first place, so why can't they invest a bit more to fix it? I have trouble understanding at first, but the reality is that selling some of their crops for something that isn't a necessity is too big a risk - especially when they are still waiting to see how the harvest will be this year.

I leave Bambougou the next morning. I leave wondering if the rains will bring Omar and his family a good harvest and whether his family will be able repair the pump. I think about the plans he has told me about for expanding the garden and selling vegetables and other crops during the dry season. I find it hard to reconcile myself to the reality of Omar's situation - he and his family work hard, make good decisions and are proactive in trying to improve the family's situation, yet they are still in a vulnerable position. I can only hope this year's harvest gives them enough breathing room from poverty that they can put some of their new ideas into action.