In Benin, the lake town of Ganvié is seeking to reinvent itself. Pollution, poverty, and overfishing threaten this unique place, while a large renovation project aims to improve residents’ lives and turn Ganvié into a sustainable tourism destination.
At dawn, Lake Nokoué is still a vast mirror of shadows and mist. A canoe gently slices through the water, carried by the soft splash of a paddle. Other boats appear in the distance, moving silhouettes in a daily ballet. One by one, they glide across the waves, lit by rays of sunlight piercing through sculpted clouds. On the horizon, the stilt houses emerge slowly, resting on the water as if suspended between two worlds.
Ganvié reveals itself as a village of wood, rickety walkways, and patient eyes. Nicknamed the « Venice of Benin, » this lakeside city was founded in the 18th century by people fleeing slave raids and has since become a world of its own. But behind its charm and postcard image, challenges are mounting: growing poverty, chronic pollution, and fragile traditions.
The town has grown quickly to nearly 50,000 inhabitants. In response, the Beninese government launched the “Reinvent Ganvié” program in 2019, supported by the French Development Agency. This ambitious project—over 80 billion CFA francs (120 million euros)—aims to improve living conditions, restore ecosystems, and make Ganvié a showcase for sustainable tourism.
Garbage, animal carcasses, and waste
At Juliette Lansoukilo’s home, the wooden floor creaks with every step. The wood, worn down by humidity, threatens to break beneath her feet. She reluctantly points to a cramped corner of her house: a wooden plank with a hole, suspended above the lake. This is where residents relieve themselves, directly into the water. “Everything goes into the lake,” she whispers.
Ganvié has no sanitation network. The stagnant, dark, thick water carries garbage, animal carcasses, sewage, and human waste. Children learn to paddle and swim here; fishermen bathe at dawn. It is also from this water that fish are caught. Waterborne diseases—diarrhea, infections, cholera—are part of everyday life.
In response, the government promises infrastructure: a wastewater treatment plant, communal facilities, and access to drinking water. Electrification of the city, still largely lacking, is also in the plans. Juliette hopes, but knows these projects will take time to change her daily life. “Without help, we can’t build real toilets,” she says, looking at her holey floor.
A little further, at the recently renovated floating market, voices rise above the water. Women chat between sales. Their boats serve as stalls displaying goods. Léonie Zandinou arranges tomatoes, onions, and chili peppers in basins, a scarf wrapped tightly around her head. Mother of six, she makes the half-hour shuttle trip every day to the outskirts of Cotonou, the country’s economic capital across the lake, to stock up.
She lives from and on the water but knows its risks. “Some people use it for intimate washing,” she says frowning. “I went to school. I learned it’s not good.” For her, the problem is mainly economic: “There aren’t enough customers, not enough money.” Like many here, she hopes for help. Her daily life is a constant struggle to feed her family.
Tourists usually arrive late morning. The site attracts about 20,000 visitors annually, a number steadily rising, mostly foreigners, though many Beninese also visit on weekends. They are recognizable by their larger boats, often heading straight to the landmark sites without stopping along the way.
This is what Agnès Kpokpo, president of the Tagblé Tognon cooperative, regrets in her small workshop-shop at the city entrance. With her 27 associates, she cuts, braids, and transforms water hyacinth into baskets, hats, and placemats. These invasive plants clog channels, suffocate fish, and slow down boats. The goal is to turn this environmental problem into an economic opportunity.
Water hyacinths have spread since the 2000s due to a combination of factors, including the lack of sanitation, which causes a steady influx of nutrients (nitrogen, phosphorus). “We support our families thanks to this,” Agnès says proudly. “But tourists need to be brought here. Often, guides forget us. That’s not right.”
“We used to fish much more”
Not far away, a man folds his net, his hands knotted and calm. Germain Zossou, a lifelong fisherman, shelters under a makeshift roof, surrounded by piles of salt-bleached branches. These are acadjas—vegetative traps that attract fish, fed by algae growing there. “We used to fish much more,” he insists. But the artificial modification of the lake’s outlet to the ocean since the 1960s, sediments carried by rivers, and overfishing have upset the balance.
The lake has gradually silted up, its depth has decreased, and fish have become scarce. Even the canoes cost too much: good wood has disappeared or become inaccessible, he says. Still, Germain does not give up. He started fish farming at home, with limited means, to supplement his income. “It would be great if someone helped me sell to hotels,” he dreams.
For him and other fishermen, tourism development is an opportunity—provided locals are included. The government project also promises to enhance lake resources and diversify activities, including sustainable fishing, artisanal harvesting of invasive plants, and creating small service businesses. “We really need this,” he says.
New housing projects
Further along, the current takes us to the “Lovers’ Road”—a peaceful waterway where young people meet at dusk, exchanging glances and plans in hushed voices, accompanied by the evening lapping. Houses line the banks, perched on fragile stilts. Once covered with thatch, today they are mostly roofed in gray corrugated metal, their façades bowed under the marks of time: dampness, mold, scars from past floods.
To stop this deterioration, the government has announced the construction of 250 new lakeside homes, aiming eventually for 1,000 units, though no timeline has been given.
Several residents, like neighborhood chief Salako Houedanou, insist this will not be enough and Ganvié cannot be saved without respecting its traditions. Vodun, once the pillar of community life, is fading before new religions, mainly evangelical, Catholic, and Muslim. “Before, when we said ‘clean-up day,’ everyone cleaned. Now, some say their God has nothing to do with that,” Salako says, lamenting that other faiths are less respectful of nature.
The elderly man still treats people with plants, knows all the trees, and believes progress is possible if the spirit of the place is respected. Unfortunately, trash floats around him.
Next to him, Corneille Houedekoutin, a local resident, sighs. “Environmentally, it’s chaos,” he complains. “People don’t realize we need to live in a clean environment. They keep throwing their waste into nature.” Corneille dreams of a renovated city, cleaner, more prosperous, and respectful of popular beliefs. For him, preserving Ganvié won’t happen without its inhabitants. Urbanizing without destroying, modernizing without uprooting, renovating without erasing the soul of the place—that is the real challenge.
