moussa the malian fisherman

A half an hour before dawn, my friend Moussa dragged me out of bed. We walked side by side toward the slowly pinking sky, headed for a fishing hole about 3 kilometers from Garly.

Moussa and his traveling buddies from Mali spent two months living in my neighbor's house and by the end of their brief stay we were spending hours chatting in my second language and his fourth. (As two non-native Pulaar speakers, we were able to easily understand each other. Colorful slang doesn't get in the way and we don't care about perfect grammar.)

When we arrived at the seasonal lake, the light splashing from countless other fishermen could be heard, as they moved through the water checking their lines and nets. Buckets and sacks were slowly being filled with squirming silver fish as camels nudged through prickly branches of nearby trees.

Moussa stripped to a tank top and shorts and waded into the murky pond. He walked the mile of fishing line methodically and casually, as an expert moves through his motions. He sang under his breath and looked up and grinned every once in awhile. His perfect teeth a flash of bright against his midnight skin.

He says he can't go back to Mali until he has earned enough money- to return empty handed is embarassing. But he has been gone for two years already hasn't saved anything. Tramping from village to village along the Senegal River, dappling in countless languages and fishing methods. Applying for papers to work in different parts of West Africa and telling his family he will come home soon.

But he admits it will probably not be soon. Even though he misses his motor bike, the plentiful fruit in his home town, and being with his father.