Ndange Senegal

The tide ebbs, draining the delta, leaving the sandbanks rising from the river to dry in the wind and sun. The Saloum river sucks the water from far inland, rich with nutrients to feed the fish nurseries, and bringing rubbish from Kaolock, from Fatick, and from distant Birkelane. An empty water bottle, a careless flip flop, a headless doll and a cigarette packet slowly make their way towards the sea and freedom.

The water from the Djilor backwater sluggishly joins the main stream bringing its own rich reward and human detritus. The boats from Ndange, brightly painted pirogues, are already out on the Djilor, staking out the traps for prawn and shrimp. The river water, full of goodness, summons the prawns to feed and soon after the predators follow. Shoals of fish come to feast, competing with man for the tasty crustaceans. Patches of water light up with silver flashes, and fish jump and skim across the surface. Enter the pelicans, on cue, gliding down to scoop up great mouthfuls of fish in their giant beaks, the water draining away from their pouch as they return to roost and enjoy the meal. The fishermen are now casting seine nets, to encircle the shoals, and haul them on board. A mass of writhing flapping fish and of nets and men, cursing and laughing. A lucky fish manages to jump from the narrow boat for a brief moment of freedom, only to be taken by a waiting Pied Kingfisher. An easy kill for an expert. He returns to his vantage atop a wooden post, ready for the next course.

Nature takes its regular path. The tide runs low, glistening mud banks and still pools now become the feeding ground of the waders. Herons and storks spear small fish and pull crustaceans and molluscs from the mud. Soon all the animals are well fed, or have been eaten. The pirogues return to the village to unload the catch. The sleepy village comes alive. Some people take part of the harvest immediately to the market for sale, some of the fish are split and put to dry over smokey smouldering fires. Other villagers are loading fish and prawn into trucks filled with ice for shipment to distant markets.

The tide turns. Cool Atlantic water rushes into the river and slowly creeps into the creeks and backwaters. Inching over the hot mud banks and covering the leglike roots of the mangroves. The rising water pushes the floating rubbish into the dense vegetation of the many low islands. The village returns to its slow, sleepy state. The kingfishers rest in the shade of the mangroves. The single flip flop washes up on the foreshore. Maybe to be picked up and given a new life, on a child’s left foot.