By Lillian Aluanga

Abandoned canoes, moss covered nets, and receding waters are what remain of a once busy shore along Lake Moa in the Tana Delta.

At a village, barely five minutes away from the landing site stand smoking kilns that once bulged under the weight of fish. Most now stand empty, save for a handful of tilapia drying on a wire mesh rack in wide clay walled ovens. There was a time when the racks would be crammed with fish.

"We used to make sales of up to Sh8, 000 per day, but this has shrunk to less than Sh900," says Joseph Otieno.

Otieno, 45, is nostalgic about days gone by for Moa, a small dry and dusty village 40km from Garsen town, off the Garsen-Witu road. Those were the days when fishermen ferried loads of tilapia, catfish, lungfish and mudfish to as far as Coast and Nyanza provinces for sale.

But that was five years ago and things have considerably changed for the fisher-folk, mainly from the Luo and Luhya communities in Nyanza and Westen provinces.

A combination of changing weather conditions, receding water levels, poor fishing equipment, and gradual takeover of land for large scale sugarcane production for biofuels, have compromised Otieno’s chances of reliving his dream.

Although Otieno’s ancestral roots are in Nyanza Province, Tana delta is the home he has known.

Migrant communities

"I don’t consider myself a stranger here because this is where I belong. My mother was buried here. My father ran a grocery shop in this village and lived here for 50 years before he moved back to Homa Bay, Nyanza Province. I was born here and so have all my children, and wife, whose family is originally from Budalang’i, in western Kenya," says Otieno, a father of five.

The migrant communities are believed to have settled in the region in 1940s after the Second World War.

The story is told of some war veterans originally from Nyanza and Western provinces, who upon returning to Kenya, made a stop in Mombasa and were enticed by the ready supply of tasty, fresh fish.

"They inquired about the source of the fish and were told it was from the Tana, so they chose to follow the course of the river and eventually settled in Moa," says Otieno.

Relatives from Kisumu, Homa Bay and Budalang’i later joined them. Residents say the name ‘Moa’, originally came from a small swampy area that later grew into an ox-bow lake.

"Moa was coined by the new settlers who were curious to know more about the Wasanya people who occupied the area at the time. It is a Luo phrase used when asking someone where they come from and its repeated use saw the name stick," says Patrick Watio.

‘Wasanya’ refers to the local hunter-gatherer communities. But hard times fuelled by cycles of drought and reduced rainfalls have pushed Otieno and other fishermen to other means of survival like small-scale farming of maize.

Biofuel production

"The fish business is no longer doing well and this season has been especially bad. The rains have failed and the Tana is drying. I still have children to feed and educate and the little income I earn from the maize is better than nothing," he says.

Ideally, Moa would be abuzz with activity from as early as 5am when fishermen set out into the waters until dusk when they return. But now with little else to do many mill around the smoking kilns, or seek odd jobs.

Even as he tills his land Otieno is worried about the prospects of losing it to ‘eco- friendly’ biofuel production projects proposed by several local and foreign organisations.

"The project was initially supposed to cover 28,000 hectares but the acreage has been increased. This poses a threat not only to the occupants of the land, but biodiversity of the Tana delta", says Nature Kenya’s Coast Conservation Programmes Field co-ordinator Francis Kagema.

Expansion of the area targeted for the biofuels, maize and rice production to 40,000 hectares would cut through the lake and part of the village. At least 30 homesteads with a population of 25,000 also risk eviction to make way for the projects.

"Besides fish, we also have various species of storks, herons, ibises, ducks and African Darter that depend on this wetland for survival," says Kagema.

Yet despite uncertainties that hang over Moa’s future, there are those among the migrant community who have made it their permanent home.

Among them is Peris Adoyo, 50, who was a blushing bride when her husband brought her to the Tana 30 years ago. Adoyo, now a widow, has maintained links with her ancestral home in Kisumu, where one of her children settled, and visits at least twice a year. The woman’s other two children live in Moa.

"I visit Kisumu once or twice a year depending on whether I have enough money," she says. Transport alone would set her back Sh6, 000, a hard sum to come by during these hard times.

Recurrent low fishing seasons have made it difficult for Adoyo to maintain a constant supply of fish to her clientele in Kongowea and Kisumu, thus cutting into her earnings.

Odd jobs

Like Otieno, she, too, grows maize and takes up odd jobs to supplement her income. But despite the fisher folks’ woes, there is a brighter side to life in Moa.

In a country that witnessed deep ethnic schisms that nearly tore it apart after a disputed presidential election in 2007, Moa remains united in the midst of cultural and ethnic diversity.

A walk through the village reveals two sets of architecture in the construction of huts. Although all are thatched, those occupied by the migrant communities spot roofs shaped like cones with a ring like apex. On the other side of the main village path are huts with mushroom shaped roofs.

The local Orma and Pokomo communities occupy these. Despite the differences in religion between the migrant and local communities, a mosque, largely frequented by the predominantly Islamic Orma stands in one corner of the village. Not too far from it are churches, including the Seventh Day Adventist, Apostolic and Full Gospel that serve the migrant community.

"We respect each others’ faith and have never fought over religion. The Orma even invite us to their weddings and we do likewise. They also attend our funerals despite the differences in the way we conduct these ceremonies," says Otieno.

Save for their physical features it would be difficult to tell their children apart.

But there are also stories told in hushed tones of a subtle resistance to intermarriage between the locals and migrants, claims refuted by Otieno and several others.

"It’s not true. We have some of our girls who are married to the Pokomo and Orma, " he says.

Since the Orma are pastoralists, they depend on the agricultural and fishing communities to supplement their diet. This has further cemented ties between all groups, making it easier to resolve any conflicts that may arise.

Large catch

"We have a good relationship because we know that we need each other. We can sell them our maize, fish and vegetables and they in turn supply us with milk and meat," says Watio.

As dusk sets in, a gentle breeze suddenly sweeps across the village as women prepare supper.

In earlier days, fishermen would be returning to the shores with large catch of fish.

But for a village that has seen better days, many would be hoping that the breeze carries along with it the promise of a better tomorrow, and sweep away threats to the livelihoods of communities that depend on the Tana waters.