The water contained double the amount of arsenic and forty times the amount of phosphates and nitrates deemed safe. He happened to be home visiting his extended family, and he collected his own samples from the lagoon, sending them to two laboratories in Germany for analysis. Born and raised in Gunjur, Manjang was living in Saudi Arabia, where he worked as a microbiologist. Soon, there were reports that many of the area’s birds were no longer nesting near the lagoon.Ī few residents filled bottles with the tainted water and brought them to the one person in town they thought might be able to help-Ahmed Manjang. More likely, water fleas in the lagoon had turned red in response to sudden changes in pH or oxygen levels. “Everything is red,” one local reporter wrote, “and every living thing is dead.” Some residents wondered if the apocalyptic scene was an omen delivered in blood. A marvel of biodiversity, the reserve was integral to the region’s ecological health-and, with hundreds of birders and other tourists visiting each year, to its economic health, too.īut on the morning of May 22nd the Gunjur community woke to discover that the Bolong Fenyo lagoon had turned a cloudy crimson overnight. A half mile long and a few hundred yards wide, the lagoon had been a lush habitat for a remarkable variety of migratory birds, as well as humpback dolphins, epauletted fruit bats, Nile crocodiles, and callithrix monkeys. Established in 2008, the reserve was meant to protect seven hundred and ninety acres of beach, mangrove swamp, wetland, and savanna, as well as an oblong lagoon. There were drumming and kora lessons men with oiled chests grappled in traditional wrestling matches.īut just five minutes inland was a more tranquil setting-the wildlife reserve known as Bolong Fenyo. At nightfall, the beach was dotted with bonfires. Small boys played soccer as tourists watched from lounge chairs. The fish were hauled off to nearby open-air markets in rusty metal wheelbarrows or in baskets balanced on heads. Fishermen steered long, vibrantly painted wooden canoes, known as pirogues, toward the shore, where they transferred their still-fluttering catch to women waiting at the water’s edge. In the spring of 2017, the town’s white-sand beaches were full of activity. Gunjur, a town of some fifteen thousand people, sits on the Atlantic coastline of southern Gambia, the smallest country in mainland Africa.
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