Tim Querengesser
1 December 2007
Nairobi — Elphus Okonda climbs onto a small hill and looks down at the five fish ponds on his farm as the falling sun paints the sky lavender and the burble of running water surrounds him.
"This was just running through here," he says, pointing to the stream feeding his ponds. "It was running to Lake Victoria, then to the Nile and to Egypt, doing nothing," says the farmer.
Nearby, Geoffrey Atulo is quietly scalling the same hill. A bumpy ride on the backs of bicycles has brought us here from Mr Atulo's plot in nearby Khwisero division, Kakamega district, where eight cattle lazily graze near his maize crop and two tilapia ponds. "I use fish to improve my life," says Mr Atulo.
Three years ago, these two men didn't know each other, or for that matter the dozens of other farmers on the hills overlooking Lake Victoria who, remarkably, all decided to use the region's abundance of rivers and streams to farm tilapia and catfish at about the same time.
But now the group comes together to share ideas, resources and passion within a 28-member, community-based organisation they created to spur the development of their fledgling fish industry.
So, while people plying the nearby lake are forced to sail their canoes further from shore in the quest for tilapia, these men and women are growing the same fish the way they know how - by farming it.
What changed? They pushed out a corrupt NGO that was blocking them from working together and welcomed a perky Canadian woman with a knack for fish farming and raising money.
Three ponds with dark water sit beside Mr Atulo's. They belong to Stevie Mang'ula, a shy man who never stops smiling despite his modest success as a fish farmer. He got the idea to supplement the income he receives from his dairy farm with tilapia from Mr Atulo, and says he's determined to make it.
"Animals have been eating the fish," he says. "I need a fence. But I believe it will be a success, because it is a great idea." In six months, he hopes to see tilapia help his growing family go to school.
Industrial fish farming is a new concept in many parts of Africa, though it has been practised for centuries in the Middle East. The climate and geography in Khwisero is ideal for tilapia farming, as the soil retains water and is free of sand, which can ruin the water quality, and the rivers and streams that feed into the lake run during both the rainy and dry seasons.
It's also a natural fit for farmers. Manure from cows and chickens - and food scraps and the refuse from farming - can help feed the tilapia and in turn, feed farmers and their families.
Feeding, however, is just one of many problems encountered by this group. It's understandable, really, since these men and women have plied the fields for generations but until recently, had never so much as caught a fish, let alone fed one.
"They used to put fish in the ponds and leave them and go there and find the fish hadn't grown," says Mr Hussein Wechuli, the 26-year-old leader-in-waiting who is helping to bring the group together.
In 2003, Mr Wechuli met aquaculture expert Susan Thompson - the Canadian - in Kakamega. She soon learnt that fish farmers in the area were having problems and asked Mr Wechuli to arrange for her to talk to them.
Since then Ms Thompson has been visiting Khwisero and giving farmers nets, feed and loans from her own pocket. With her expertise and dedication to personally get involved she's feeding the farmers what they need most - a helping hand and accurate information, says Mr Wechuli.
When she arrived, a local NGO had been working with the farmers. But it was, in reality, dividing the farmers and ruining their chances of success with tilapia by feeding them inaccurate information and keeping money that Ms Thompson sent for the farmers for itself, says Mr Wechuli.
"It was a briefcase NGO; they were just after her money. They didn't know how to manage fish farms - they knew how to spend the money. I encouraged her to talk to the farmers directly."
She did. And in 2004, at a meeting that brought the farmers together, they collectively decided to push the NGO out, create a CBO, and take their advice straight from Ms Thompson.
The change has reaped a revolution. Before the meeting, every fish farmer in the area was on his or her own, says Mr Okonda. "Now we can talk together, share news, help each other. When we are together as a group we see changes."
When Ms Thompson isn't in the country, the farmers can receive information from her through Mr Wechuli, who keeps in touch with her using email and then relays the advice to the farmers on the ground. It may sound simple, but it's crucial, he says.
Still, whenever Ms Thompson comes to town it's a cause for celebration - and inquiries. This week, Mr Okonda and 13 other men and women, their eyes full of questions, came to see her in a small room in Khwisero.
After the praises she receives comes the problems: there are difficulties bringing baby fish - called fingerlings - from Kisumu to their farms without them dying, says one man; we can't afford to pay for fish food, says another; we need a freezer to store fish for market, says the group together, before adding that the nets Ms Thompson brought them last year have all broken.
But an unlikely pride and ownership is undeniable in the room - one that's severely lacking in many projects where outside money, ideas and resources tries to make a difference on the ground.
"We are happy you have come to see our efforts and to judge how we are doing with our work," says Ms Mary Medevo. Everyone claps.
And out at Mr Atulo's fish ponds, Ms Thompson is impressed with what she sees.
What was once a shallow pond without life has flowing water to oxygenate the water, its fish are being fed with feed instead of starving and he has plans to use multiple ponds so different growth cycles can allow constant harvesting, she says.
Mr Atulo, who once chipped rocks to sell to passing lorries for Sh2,000 a month, is now earning Sh10,000 from fish without the hard labour, and has bought himself some cows.
But what's really caught Ms Thompson's eye is the cooperation and transfer of ideas.
"When I look at what they've done, the most important thing is that they're helping each other," she says, glancing from Mr Atulo's ponds to Mr Mang'ula's. "These are all brand new ponds."
She hopes that in a few years the fish ponds and the community organization will become self-sustaining and that she will pass off her role to Mr Wechuli. Though he's young, he's philosophical about the challenges and possibilities fish farming can reap for the farmers.
Like money or land, Kenyans, by nature, keep information to themselves rather than sharing it, he says. All he has to do is keep them in touch with facts and ideas and the rest should sort itself out.
"In the next five years, if they are given the right information and they co-operate together, I'm seeing everyone being able to support themselves," he says. "They can be able to take their children to school."
Indeed, the role model in the group is its chair, Mr Okonda.
At his beautiful plot of five ponds - two with hundreds catfish and three with hundreds of tilapia - the biggest problems are now unsuspected guests in the water.
A catfish has managed to jump into a tilapia pond and is eating the smaller fish. When he feeds the pond it surfaces and reveals an ugly, whisker-covered face nearly the size of a child's. And then there are the other passers-by.
"I found a drunkard sleeping in my pond the other day," he says, chuckling. "I gave him some food and told him to get out."
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