But one thing is clear, at least according to the experts.
“Migingo is within Kenya’s borders,” said John Donaldson, a research associate at the International Boundaries Research Unit, a British institute that studies border disputes.
It is close, he said, but documents from 1926 clearly place the island a few hundred meters inside Kenya.
Even without the old maps, Kenyan fishermen feel entitled to stray into Uganda’s waters. They say — and scientists back this up, to a certain extent — that the swampy lakeshore on the Kenyan side is where the perch breed, and therefore the fish, even if they grow up to be caught in Ugandan waters, are Kenyan by birth.
But even this is changing, for the worse. Henry Aryamanya-Mugisha, director of Uganda’s environmental protection agency, said overpopulation and overfarming on the Kenyan side of the lake are decimating these wetlands where the fish spawn. At the same time, rapid deforestation is reducing the amount of rainfall that flows into the lake, and all the new development in the area is pumping fertilizer, industrial pollutants and even raw sewage into the water, catalyzing the algae blooms that block sun and oxygen penetration.
“It’s very, very sad,” Aryamanya-Mugisha said. “It’s happening so fast. Five years ago there were plenty of fish.”
That is why Migingo is so ideal. The water around it is relatively deep and filled with perch, and once there, fishermen do not spend as much on fuel, because they basically cast a line and pull up dinner.
“It’s like no other place,” said Charles Okumu Chambu, a Migingo angler.
Granted, Migingo, with its shantytown skyline, may not be everyone’s dream of a tropical isle. But there is a lot of life packed onto that tiny lump of lava.
The other day at sunset, fishermen gathered at the water’s edge, singing, laughing and smacking each other on the back as they worked together to haul in their boats. The minute they were done, the dice came out. Skillets sizzled with greasy potato slices. Hip-hop music blasted in the tin-walled discos — Migingo may be smaller than a football field but it boasts half a dozen bars, discos and brothels.
Men danced with women. Men danced with men. The rocky footpaths snaking up the island were littered with cookie wrappers, bottle caps and other distinctive leftovers crumpled up on the ground from long, steamy nights.
“Ah, Migingo,” remembered Yasinbogere Kataike, a shore-bound Ugandan fisherman, with a twinkle in his rheumy eye. “Everything is there. It’s a good place to be a young man.”
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