Niger Currents
Exploring life and technology along the Niger river

Moulai turns the boat to pull into a small cove, as he wants to anchor in a well-sheltered location. The dust and rain storms of the last few days have made him want to seek out a safe spot where the boat will avoid the crashing waves that accompany the storms.

He certainly picked a beautiful location. The pale yellow sand of this flood plain feels like the desert, with its small dune-like hills. Yet the small trees and bushes full of birds growing back from the river's edge remind me that this area is very much alive.

Just downstream from where we parked our boat lies a small Bozo encampment. A group of five small huts sit in loose formation. As I am later to learn, the thatch huts are made from woven long-grass or grass mats bought at the nearby market. The mats are wrapped around the simple stick frame that forms the structure. This construction allows for easy take-down and transport, and for ventilation on hot days.

Within a few minutes of our arrival, a man from the encampment comes to welcome us. Bahara Karabenta has a short, strong build and piercing green eyes; he is in his early thirties. He greets us in both Bambara and French. Once we are through the perfunctory greetings, I ask him if I may stay with him and learn how to fish. Both of us run out of French before the message gets fully across, but my translator, Ali, steps in and seals the deal. For the next day, I will be living and working with Bahara.

Almost immediately, Bahara, his younger brother Abukar and I set out in his boat. I have no idea what we'll be doing, but this adds to my feeling of excitement. Abukar paddles slowly upstream while Bahara busies himself in the boat. Abukar looks to be about twelve years old, but he handles the boat like a master. Bahara starts mixing clay taken from the riverbank with ground millet and water. After a few minutes, he motions to me to come and help. It feels like we're making pottery, but the end result is a pile of melon-sized clay balls giving off a smell that, in a strange way, reminds me of bread dough.

As we move upstream, we pass markers that Bahara had previously set out; sometimes they are sticks with pieces of cloth attached, other times they are the fan-shaped leaves from a palm tree.

At every second marker, Bahara steps out of the boat and drops two balls by the side of the river. These balls are the most interesting fish bait I've ever seen. I'm still confused though: where are the traps and why are we setting the balls by the side of the river?

About three-quarters of the way along the row of markers, Bahara and I disembark and leave Abukar to paddle up the river alone. As we walk back to the encampment, he makes a small hole just downstream from each of the markers and places a ball in the hole. I'm even more confused now, and at the first few markers I look around for a trap. I finally decide to just enjoy the mystery; I'm sure Bahara will reveal his fishing secret soon enough.

We return to the encampment and dinner is waiting for us, with its own share of excitement. I meet Bahara's family - his father, mother, wife and children - while we watch Spanish-language soap operas dubbed into French on the family TV set. Their antenna stands tall in the middle of the encampment, and we sit outside under the stars gathered around the TV for a family meal. It seems so odd to me to be watching television in this small encampment, in a place that seems to be so isolated. I can't help but laugh at the fact that we're following the same dinner-time ritual as many families in Canada.

It's actually quite amazing. There are very few places in the world where people can't watch television or at least listen to a radio. Average people have access to the outside world, in the form of local and world news, international programming from the BBC and RFI (Radio France International) and steamy soap operas.

After we finish dinner, Ali comes to visit and helps me ask Bahara and his father, Bakari, some questions as night approaches. Bahara tells me he's the eldest of six brothers. The middle four brothers are working outside at the moment as fishermen, and his youngest brother, Abukar, is living in the encampment. I'm interested to find out how often the family moves their camp and why they are in this specific location. Bakari jumps in at this point. "We have been here a long time." Bahara tells me they used to live in a village called Merou, about a day's voyage upriver. The fishing wasn't very good in the village so they decided to move from the village about twenty years ago. The Karabenta family found this spot soon after. They say they don't plan on moving as long as the fishing here remains good.

The reality for many fishing villages is that as time goes by and the population increases, too many people are fishing the same waters. Out here on their own, Bahara and his family have much less competition. It leads me to think that their solitary lifestyle may be a response to limited resources.

Bakari no longer fishes and, as the eldest son, Bahara is now the breadwinner for the family, with Abukar his apprentice of sorts. The other four brothers relocate seasonally to find work fishing. Right now, they are living in a town called Selega and will return to the family encampment in a few months.

Our conversation is suddenly interrupted when the children start screaming. I look over to see Abukar running around hitting the ground with a dinner bowl. Bahara gets up, grabs his flashlight and runs over to finish the job. He comes back smiling, the interloper dead and on display for me to see. It's a scorpion, about eight centimetres long. I begin to wonder whether other creatures lurk here, but my train of thought is quickly broken by an invention that Bahara shows me.

As we get up to go back out on the water to catch some fish, Bahara takes out some sort of harness made from bicycle tubes. He slides his flashlight inside and puts the band around his head - he's made his own headlamp! Reluctantly, I pull out my own store-bought headlamp, trying not to steal his thunder with my manufactured variant.

We arrive at the boat, parked about one kilometre upstream from the encampment. Abukar steers the boat as we coast downstream and Bahara stands up front and prepares his throw-net. As we creep towards the first bait site, Abukar positions the boat and Bahara throws the net. It covers a circular area close to 20 feet wide centred on the ball of fish bait. His technique is definitely impressive. Bahara traps lots of fish, but most are no longer than my fingers. The rare hand-sized fish caught in the net attracts all of our attention. Bahara later explains that this is not the season - nor the technique - for catching larger fish. The period during the month or two leading into the rainy season is the worst time of the year. The waters have been low for a while and conditions on the river aren't good for fish to breed. Right now, Bahara is just concentrating on catching enough for his family to eat. The peak season, when he catches most of the fish he will sell for the year, is in December and January, when the water level starts to drop after the rainy and breeding seasons.

While Bahara is pulling in the net, Abukar picks up the bait balls and remoulds them into larger balls that we leave at the markers closest to the encampment.

It's late, at least compared to what is normal bedtime for me, and I'm tired. Despite wondering if there are more scorpions lurking about, I sleep comfortably under the stars.

In the morning, we head out again and repeat the same procedure as the night before. I want to learn how to throw the net, but I am hesitant to try it out when Bahara and his family's food supply is at stake.

When we return to camp I watch one of the grandmothers, Ne, cooking last night's catch on a bed of straw - the smell of frying fish fills the air.

When we have some free time later that morning, I ask Bahara to show me how to throw the net from shore. The motion is simple, he says - you drape part of the circular net over your right arm, twist your upper body to the right and throw with your left hand in a discus-throwing motion. The net splays out on the water like a spider web, the lead weights pulling the edges to the bottom. As you pull the net in, the circle slowly contracts around the trapped fish. The major stumbling block for me is that the net is heavier than I thought, and I'm not strong enough to throw it proficiently. Between this and paddling boats, I can definitely see how the Bozo get their characteristically strong upper bodies. I finally pull it together and throw a beautiful cast after Bahara offers me Abukar's child-size net, the threat of embarrassment driving me on.

As we walk back to camp, I find out it's actually market day in Macina. The family would normally go to stock up on supplies for the week, but because I am here to learn, Bahara says that he wants to stay and teach me to fish. The wind is blowing strong and steady to the east. It's the first time in a week that the weather has favoured our travel. I appreciate Bahara's hospitality, but I'm not comfortable being the reason his family will miss market day. We decide to move on, but not before we have tea and talk some more.

I'm interested to know if the whole family is engaged in fishing; the answer is yes, but there is a pause. Bahara looks at his father and then tells us he'd like to go into rice farming. It's not that the fishing is so bad, but Bahara has seen many people earn a good profit from irrigated rice farming. His father is not pleased with the idea. "Bozo are fisherman, Fula are herders and Bambara are farmers," he says. "We need to stay Bozo." I'm a bit worried my question has sparked an argument, but things are very civil. Father and son are being playful with each other. Bahara's father says it's not a plan, just an idea in the clouds. But Bahara is serious. He doesn't dislike fishing; he just wants the family to branch out and diversify its sources of income. "I want my family to keep fishing, but not only fishing," he says. "If I am growing rice our family will never go hungry."

I'm impressed. Bahara clearly cares about his heritage. "Even if I am a farmer," he says, "I will never stop fishing. I will always be Bozo." But he also clearly sees the advantage of diversifying. If Bahara gets into irrigated rice farming it will mean two independent sources of income for his family. If the fishing is poor one year, it's likely irrigated rice farming will still be good as it isn't dependant on the rains. Of course, there are also risks associated with rice farming, but the chances of the whole family suffering from a poor season would be reduced. Balancing their traditions with the need to provide for their family in a rapidly changing world is a dilemma that many people like Bahara must contend with. Bahara himself is actively facing this challenge head-on with an open mind and an optimistic outlook.

It is reassuring for me to know that Bahara will be able to provide for his family even during the lean fishing season. To survive as a fisherman is tough, and it seems to be getting tougher each season, with a decline in the fish catch on the Niger River every year. As we leave, I wonder - as on earlier partings - what the future holds for Bahara and his family, and how they will find new ways to adapt.