Fighting for the last drops
A country dries up. Animals die. People starve, flee, fight each other. The lives and deaths of the Kenyans give an idea of how hard the climate catastrophe is hitting humanity. A journey to the Maasai and Samburu.
Text: Alina Schadwinkel
Photo & Video: Rick Castiglione, Alina Schadwinkel
Layout: Claus Schäfer
Rivers have dried up, soils are dust, animals have died. What lives suffers thirst and hunger. The most devastating drought in 40 years is forcing millions of Kenyans to flee. But where to flee when there is nowhere to get enough drinking water?
People are feeling what it means when life dries up. There is the Maasai elder from the village of Ewaso N'giro in western Kenya, who tells how he fights for his herds and his traditions. There is the manager of a safari camp who fears for the important nature reserve of the Maasai Mara. There's the Samburu tribal leader at Archer's Post, hoping for government help as the carcasses pile up, and a nutritionist whose mothers are pulling away because to stay would mean death for her children. And, again and again, people who travel hundreds of miles in search of water.
Their struggle for survival gives an idea of the extent of a climate catastrophe that has long since begun, but could still be stopped. Because it is man-made.
CONTENT
CHAPTER 1 Withered Land
CHAPTER 2 Children, what’s climate change?
CHAPTER 3 First the forest disappears, then the rain
CHAPTER 4 »When the river is gone, the Mara will no longer exist«
CHAPTER 5 Despair in Archer's Post
CHAPTER 6 Lost in the North
CHAPTER 7 Let the rescue begin
CHAPTER 1
Withered land
»Nothing is as it should be,« says Kamishina David Ole Nkuito, looking over his remaining herd crushing hard grass near the village of Ewaso N'giro. Those who, like the Maasai elder, depend on nature and the seasons feel it particularly keenly when the weather becomes unpredictable.
Because he was in Narok, the next largest city, on business, Ole Nkiuto wears a light blue polo shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. It's more respectable than the usual red-checked scarf called shuka, he says. Shortly after, he throws it on all too gladly. Ole Nkiuto lives the modern and the traditional. He drives a Land Cruiser, has helped build a school, runs a safari company and, when necessary, drives his cattle to pasture with a stick, draws blood from a goat's jugular vein to drink, and reads from the movement of butterflies whether the rain is coming.
»When I was a young man, there were usually two rainy seasons: one from March to May and one from October to December. There was a lot of lush grass and lots of strong cattle for months. Now we have a long drought, hardly any grass and emaciated cattle dying,« says the 52-year-old. The weather seems to be following new rules of its own.
Maasai women carry water back home from a well near Ewaso N'giro.
Ole Nkuito remembers last November. Because the rains failed to come, his eldest son had to drive a herd 90 kilometers with cattle herder friends to find at least a little water and grass. As he thinks about it, his smile fades, his brow furrows. The Maasai leans on his stick with both hands and rests his chin on it: »My son and the others returned healthy, dozens of animals didn't make it.«
All the villages in the area had lost livestock, reports James Letato Keshe, Ole Nkuito's childhood friend and head of the clan for the past twelve years. »Fifty, 20 - depending on how many you owned,» he continues, looking over his land. He wears a shuka over a white shirt and suit pants and sweats on a plastic chair next to his mud hut. Two of his sons have snuck up and sat on overturned buckets to listen to their father. While Keshe ponders how to put the suffering into words, the wind carries the sound of cowbells and the clucking of chickens up the hill.
We need food because our herds are dying. Now.
»Since I became chief, I haven't experienced a drought like this,« the 50-year-old says. His job is to advocate for his people with the government. The past few months have been particularly exhausting, he says: »We need food because our herds are dying. We need wells because there is no river here. We need good infrastructure. And we need this now.« It's a terrible time, he said – and it's far from over.
In many regions of Kenya, people have been waiting for rain for years. When it rains, there is much less water than usual. In many places, there has been no serious rainfall in either the long or short rainy seasons since October 2020. Only in Lamu and Narok counties, where the town of Ewaso N'giro is located, did near-average amounts of rain fall in May 2022. But by June, drought had returned there as well.
Friends from childhood: Maasai chief James Letato Keshe (left) and Kamishina David Ole Nkuito (right).
Once again, crops withered and water sources dried up. There is too little of everything for Kenya's population and their herds. More than four million people are threatened by hunger, almost one million children are malnourished and at least 1.5 million sheep, goats and cattle have died so far. Giraffes and other wild animals are dying of thirst. More are dying every day.
The catastrophe in Kenya is man-made. With every tree that falls in the Mau forest, every ton of sand that is removed from rivers like the Ewaso N'giro and Mara, every dam that is supposed to provide electricity, and every farmer who tills land in the Mara River area, the situation becomes more worrisome. Global climate change is adding to the pressure. Global climate change is adding to the pressure. Extreme droughts are becoming the norm. Greed for water leads to envy and violence, hatred and death.
CHAPTER 2
Children, what’s climate change?
»What is climate?« – »The typical weather patterns of a place over the course of 30 years.«
»How can we tell that rain is coming?« – »Frogs croak. There is dew in the morning. The air smells damp. Cows are excited, ants are active. Winds blow strongly from a certain direction.«
»What indicates drought?« – »Full moon. Clear night sky. Trees dropping leaves. Lots of birds. Bees buzzing. Strong winds.«
With each question, the teacher's voice echoes through the high-ceilinged room at Building Hope Academy. Chalk scrapes across the blackboard as Phillip Muntet records the 8th grade answers on it. It's nine in the morning, and there's a smell of wood and smoke. Feet scrape the floor, there is rustling, a ruler falls from a table where three students are trying to sit side by side.
»And what factors affect the climate?« – »The terrain. Winds. Ocean currents. The distance to the ocean. The shape of the coast. Humans.«
Attentively, the class looks at Muntet to chorus the answer at the right time. The teacher is 29 years old. His own school days were a few years ago, but he, too, learned the essentials about local climate and global climate change back then: how the Earth's climate has already changed several times, but the average global temperature has risen faster and faster than ever since industrialization. How humanity is blowing more and more greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, further heating it. And how higher average annual temperatures and warmer waters in the southwestern Indian Ocean affect when and how much rain falls in Kenya.
Teacher Philip Kipingot Muntet explains climate change to students.
While he couldn't grasp the complexities as a child, Muntet says, he was aware that his life, his future, would change with the climate. He speaks quietly, deliberately, class over, his hands folded on a tabletop marked by water stains. A handwritten lesson plan for Muntet and his colleagues hangs on the walls. »Now that I'm teaching as a teacher, I can encourage students to stop the destruction of the environment,« he says. So they can have a future in Kenya.
Why the drought is so devastating? It also has to do with local issues. »Because many people have been overusing nature for decades,» Muntet says. Millions of trees are being cut down to create farmland. Farmers pump water out of the soil, and the water table drops. Some Kenyans use latrines, often located near wells, which contaminates what little water is available. In addition, more and more pesticides and other chemicals end up in water bodies that are not carefully cleaned. Rain, on the other hand, is inadequately captured, stored and distributed. So much sand is scooped out of rivers that their banks become unstable and water seeps away or floods the land during periods of heavy rain. And then there is global climate change.
Kenya so far contributes less than one percent of global carbon dioxide emissions, while Africa as a whole contributes two to three percent. But the continent is suffering the most from the consequences of climate change so far. At around 0.3 degrees Celsius per decade from 1991 to 2021, the temperature there is rising faster than in the rest of the world. This is according to a report published by the World Meteorological Organization in 2021.
The situation in the country is already dramatic. At the same time, the population must prepare for a future with many more droughts, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change wrote in a 2021 report – even if it is possible to limit global warming to less than 1.5 degrees.
Adapting to the changing climate is a challenge. So is protecting it. Natural allies in the fight against climate change include forests.
CHAPTER 3
First the forest disappears, then the rain
North of Narok, the road passes through towns that are rarely more than a series of corrugated iron-covered stone buildings. Brightly painted walls advertise local butchers, nationwide cell phone providers and global payment systems. Ditches separate the houses from the road - they are intended to prevent flooding of the dwellings.
Along the road, people walk from one settlement to the next or wait to cross the road. They let merino sheep and donkeys, motorcycles loaded with live goats, and overcrowded vans pass by as fine dust settles on everything. The wind blows it from the dry fields that stretch to the horizon between the villages. Even there, where until a few years ago the trees of the Mau forest stood, a huge highland forest in East Africa. It supplies large parts of Kenya with water and even influences the great animal migration in the Masai Mara and the Serengeti.
How Kenya has changed, what that means for its people, and why it's so difficult to plant new trees, Maasai chief James Letato Keshe tells us in the video.
»In the past, it was an indigenous forest that no one entered,» explains James Letato Keshe. Bongos (Tragelaphus eurycerus) are at home there, as are yellow-backed duikers (Cephalophus silvicultor) and forest elephants (Loxodonta cyclotis). The Maasai were allowed to visit the thinner patches during the dry season as grazing land for their cattle. »But then some people kept trespassing, while others released more and more of it for personal, political gain.«
Strictly speaking, the Mau is no longer one dense forest with a closed canopy, but consists of several forests, torn apart by tea plantations, roads, fallow land: eastern Mau, Ol'donyo Purro, south-western Mau, Transmara, Massai Mau, southern Mau and western Mau. The trees of the forests have to give way for cattle herds as well as crops and continue to be illegally cut for firewood and to make charcoal. As a result, the Mau has shrunk by a quarter between 1984 and 2020.
»Deforestation has tangible consequences«, says Keshe. The principle is quickly explained: cool air rises from the Mau and meets warm air from Lake Victoria. The result of the collision is rain. Less forest, however, means less cool air and thus less rain. In times of drought, an additional danger.
We would have to irrigate artificially. We can not afford that
The threatened forest not only provides rainfall. For some ten million people, the rivers that rise there are vital for survival, including the Ewaso N'giro and the Mara - the »mother river«, as Keshe calls it. Because without it neither wildebeest nor elephants, zebras and the lions, crocodiles and hyenas that depend on them could exist, it is considered the lifeline of the Maasai Mara. It is the only river in the reserves that carries water even in the dry season, even in times of extreme drought.
But since the 1970s, the water level has been dropping. Concerns are growing that the river will soon carry too little water to sustain the animals during crucial months and could eventually dry up completely. In 2009, the stream went dry for some time for the first time.
What could the Maasai do to prevent disaster? »At the moment, not much. Planting trees to make it rain, for example,« Keshe says. He himself had tried his hand at 300 trees, but had not secured them sufficiently from animals. The seedlings were therefore quickly eaten by goats. Money and water are lacking for another attempt. »Since it doesn't rain, we have to irrigate artificially. We can't afford that.« He points his stick into the distance, »But we need new trees and we have to prevent the Mau forest from disappearing.«
CHAPTER 4
»When the river is gone, the Mara will no longer exist«
»Almost my entire life has been spent in these mountains overlooking the river,« says Damaris Nailantet Looseyia. She left her home in the Maasai Mara to study business, then returned as manager of Tangulia Mara Camp, which sits on a hill near the Mara River.
In the light of the setting sun, Maasai talks about her life. A few minutes earlier, zebras had moved through the valley toward the river to drink, later an elephant crept into view and water buffalo drew attention, grunting. »Our land and our animals are sacred to us,« says the 30-year-old.
How has the area changed since you were a child?
Damaris Nailantet Looseyia lives and works where others spend the best vacation of their lives.
»Some for the better in many ways. For example, tourism has become one of the main sources of livelihood. Many businesses employ locals from the villages or offer products from the surrounding farms.«
And what's worse than back then?
»When I was younger, all the land belonged to the community. I would take my father's cows, let them graze in one pasture until there was enough, and then move on to the next. This ensured that the soil could recover.
In the meantime, the government has divided up the land, and each family receives a title deed. So you can only let your cows graze there unless someone else grants you space. But a good Maasai has many cattle - often more than others want to or can accommodate - and because of overgrazing, soils are damaged. Nature is dying, the desert is spreading, especially in the north. In general, the vegetation and climate have changed a lot.«
In what way?
»The Mara River has lost enormous power in recent years. This is frightening. The survival of more than a million wildebeest, hundreds of thousands of gazelles and zebras, as well as lions, cheetahs and hyenas depends on it. Once the river is gone, the Masai Mara will no longer exist.«
During migration, millions of wildebeest cross the Mara River.
What are the causes?
»Deforestation in the Mau forests certainly. Then there's settlement and climate change. The days when we had short and long rains are gone. There is a prolonged drought, which means, for one thing, that many people are bringing their livestock from other areas to the Mara to feed them. This is allowed, but there is only so much food to go around. The wild animals want to move out, but where should they go?
On the other hand, less rain means less lush green pastures. But to feed, wildebeest usually migrate from the Serengeti for three to four months a year. In the past, in 2020, they used to come in July, and last year they even came at the end of September, only to leave two months later. This is worrying, also because many tourists come here for migration.«
The Maasai are known for staying away from the modern world and living in harmony with nature. They have chosen to study in order to learn and apply foreign approaches. Is that the solution – to give up a bit of the culture?
»It's important because the world has changed and traditional life is no longer practical in many ways. In particular, no longer owning land communally means having to find better ways to use what you have.
We need professionals who know how to manage a camp while being respectful of animals and nature because they see themselves as part of it. I'm also doing this for myself, who grew up here and will inherit this land. As a Maasai, an entrepreneur and a mother, I want to preserve it. It's my duty.«
That's encouraging. Still there are many hotel owners who do it differently - some camps are even built in the middle of wildebeest migration routes with government permission ... There is the illegal logging, sand being dug out of the river, rising temperatures ... what gives you hope?
»Sure: because of all the cattle, the soil is damaged so much that even the grass that grows new is a different kind of grass, and because of the logging in the Mau forest, the river could dry up. If that happens, I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I really don't know, and it's troubling. So a lot of things have to be done differently. If not, we run the risk of losing the magic of the Mara. But the good thing is that we already know the problems and therefore the solution.
As human beings, we try to control everything. This is wrong. We should try to live with nature. The day we realize that, we will survive as a species. And if we don't, well, nature has a way of protecting itself. Especially for humans, it will be difficult then. I'm thinking less about my daughter than I am about her children and her children's children, though.«
CHAPTER 5
Despair in Archer's Post
More than 450 kilometers to the north, nature craves water. Grasses are faded, soils brittle. They have been cracked open by a heat that seeps through the soles of shoes and wraps itself around the body. Sand tornadoes swirl steadily on the horizon. They have time, rain is far away.
It is the region of the Samburu. Like the Maasai, the pastoralist people are accustomed to moving around in order to provide for themselves. But the Samburu also have to settle down in order to survive. In the north, too, large parts of the land are now privately owned or part of nature reserves. Entering the areas is often prohibited, making it difficult to migrate with the herds. Meanwhile, persistent heat and drought have destroyed the last pastures.
A mixture of sand and mud covers the barren land, which had once been flooded by the waters of the Ewaso N'giro River. Instead of acacias, wild figs and gingerbread trees, trucks stand on the banks near the village of Archer's Post, loaded with sand by dozens of young men who shovel tons of it from the river's bed. The excavated soil sells well and thus secures the next meal. But as more and more sand is removed, the banks become more unstable and the water seeps into the surrounding area. This increases the risk that the Ewaso N'giro will dry up forever.
In Archers' Post, gunshots have been part of everyday life for months. They can be heard not only at night, but also during the day. Herders chase animals away from each other, invade other people's land and shoot at those who get in their way. »You get used to the sounds,« says Christine Lekodei, who travels through the surrounding villages to educate pregnant women and mothers about hygiene and help them feed their children. »Before dark, I still want to be home,« the 25-year-old continues. Otherwise, she no longer feels safe.
The air shimmers in the silence. Then shuffling footsteps on rough ground. An elder wrapped in colorful cloth has left her dwelling to greet Lekodei in a village near Archer's Post. »The families here know me. I explain to them when it's important to wash their hands and how to build hygienic toilets.» But many tell her there is not enough water to keep clean. »I also tell the women to eat four to five times a day, and they tell me they can only afford one meal in the evening,« Lekodei says.
»Normally, water should flow here,« says Christine Lekodei, nutritionist, before the interview in the riverbed.
Women are more affected by the effects of the drought than men. Because they tend to earn less and have less wealth, they have even fewer reserves. That's what an analysis by the World Food Programme shows. What the figures also show is that around 30 percent of children in rural areas and 20 percent of boys and girls in urban areas are malnourished. »Significant vitamin and mineral deficiencies are a serious public health problem,« the study adds. Lack of clean water increases the risk of diarrheal diseases and cholera.
Nutritionist Christine Lekodei tells us in the video how drastic life is in times of drought and what the loss of animals means for the Samburu.
Typically, she sees the same women and children again every few weeks, Lekodei says. The work of the past few years has paid off, she says, and the children in her district have gradually become healthier. But in the meantime, the drought is forcing many women to trek farther than ever before. It's their job to get water and food, build the huts and raise the offspring. »If they can, they will return,» Lekodei says, adding that this is how it has always been. However, she said she hasn't seen some of the women in months. »I wonder if they are still alive,« she says.
Does she have children of her own? Lekodei shakes her head. »I can't even feed myself properly, so how could I have a child?» Does she fear the months ahead? Silence. Then, »What will my next meal be? Was what I just ate possibly the last? Will I ever return to the place I just left? Will it ever rain again? For my people, everything is uncertain.« The only thing that remains is hope.
Seeing means believing. Feeling is believing. Listening means believing
Wanting to move from one place to another is a deep feeling
It's like losing the old traditions forever
For years, prices for staple foods such as cornmeal, potatoes, onions and cooking oil have been rising. Food inflation was more than 12 percent in May 2022, which is why many Kenyans struggle to put food on the table. According to the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics, the burden is even higher for poorer households, where food accounts for more than one-third of total expenditure. As natural water sources dry up, the price of water in some areas increased by up to 400 percent compared to January 2021, according to UNICEF.
The pandemic, the weather, the war in Ukraine, higher import costs - there are numerous reasons, all leading to the same result: Large parts of the population are dependent on government support. But the people in the north feel left alone.
Samburu elder David Lokia stands to the right of his chief Steven »Mantarian« Lesalkapo.
David Lokia lives near Archer's Post in a village called Nangina. The Samburu elder's home is a collection of huts built of bent branches, cow dung and earth, some covered with shimmering plastic sheets. They arch in a ring pattern spread across the dry ground amid acacia trees that provide little shade even at midday as the sun shines vertically from the sky.
»No one from the government has visited us in years,» Lokia tells me. »We see the helicopters circling and circling.« But neither the governor lands in the region, he says, nor the food his people are supposed to distribute. »This village should get boreholes; after all, the river is not far. But the government does nothing,« says the 42-year-old. He speaks of corruption and a policy of the rich for the rich. »This will not change after this presidential election. It has never been different.« Since September 2022, the previous vice president, William Ruto, has been the new head of state, the most corrupt politician in the country, according to opinion polls.
So the Samburu are trying to adapt. »Wanting to move from one place to the next is a deep feeling in me,« Lokia says. He understands all those who drive their animals into conservation areas to keep them alive, despite the ban. But the urge to move is waning. »It's disorienting. It's like losing myself and the old traditions forever.» Already, he says, his homeland is almost unrecognizable: »Because the bush was so dense, I was afraid of animals when I went to school. Now everything is open.« The village, in turn, would usually be teeming with cows, goats and chickens. »In the afternoon, we would hear the little goats calling for their mothers. Since the drought, I miss that sound.« The silence bears witness to the death that has long been part of everyday life in Nangina.
How Lokia and his people survive? »With luck.« Does he see a future for himself and his people? »No, because a future is something you plan for, and we have nothing left to rely on.« What he would like to see? »That those people who discuss measures to protect the climate come here. Seeing means believing. Feeling means believing. Listening means believing. The drought. The heat. The truth that some of these people here haven't had anything to eat until this afternoon.«
Who, Lokia asks, could really understand the need? Who could make meaningful resolutions for all those already suffering the consequences of climate change while enjoying the finest steak wrapped in the latest suits in air-conditioned rooms?
In the video, Samburu elder David Lokia talks about the consequences of the drought and the extent to which his village feels abandoned by the government.
What Lokia experiences affects millions of people. Their stories carry them, along with the hope of saving themselves and their children, from village to village, accompanied by the fear of being attacked, injured, even killed. Some of these places are also merely a collection of manyattas on dusty ground. Others are located along rivers known to carry water permanently. Still others farther north are surrounded by mountains, overlooking the peak of Poi.
Whoever climbs it as a woman comes back as a man, they say. A man as a woman. That's how difficult it is to climb, they say. The steep walls are colorfully painted, not horizontally but vertically striped. From a distance, some bright lines look like a waterfall, although it is clear that there cannot be one there.
CHAPTER 6
Lost in the North
It's impossible to tell if you're on the right road hundreds of miles north of Archer's Post. A motorcyclist coming out of the dust says you have to leave the road where the bush is. After the turnoff, the dirt road is left behind and the ride on the open sandy plain begins. Under the glaring sun, the ruts of other vehicles can only be seen with narrowed eyes. But they are there – someone must have chosen this route before.
A few minutes later, the destination is reached. The »Farakoren« school, as can be read on the gate. Fenced land that looks like everything else around it: dusty ground, thorny bushes, a few acacias. In between, a handful of stone houses arranged in a circle with corrugated iron roofs, some of which seem to merge with the sky in a shimmering way, others standing out clearly from it thanks to sparkling solar panels.
Henry Sales Wambile belongs to the Rendille ethnic group and runs the Farakoren School.
The principal, Henry Sales Wambile, gets off his motorcycle. There are nine teachers there for 230 students, Wambile says on his way to an empty classroom to continue the conversation in the shade.
Why, of all places, is the school standing in the middle of nowhere?
»So that the children of wandering peoples can also learn and - this is almost more important in these times - at least get a meal a day and have a refuge. There has always been little food around here, but with each month without rain it gets worse. In the midst of drought, our school is an oasis of hope.«
When was the last time it rained?
»There were a few drops a few months ago, but that was too little to fill our water tank. It hasn't really rained in years, which is why all the rivers have been dry for years and the water table has dropped sharply. Almost all dams and water holes have dried up. The vegetation has died and the soil has withered. Hardly anything can be grown here. And the drought is expected to continue.
Children are so malnourished that they can no longer make the journey to school
Without international help, the wandering people will not survive. Because of Corona, we had to close for eleven months. Since the reopening, not all the children have returned.«
It's pretty empty today. And so quiet …
»This school is attended by children from villages up to ten kilometers away. Mostly boys and girls from grades one to three. But some have traveled with their families to camps where there are still cows and goats. Others are now so malnourished that they can no longer make the journey. An entire generation is missing out on the chance for education and thus the chance for a better future.«
Do you have children?
»Four: one daughter is in 8th grade, one son in 6th, the second in 4th, and the youngest is in 2nd grade. They should have the opportunity to go to university. But with what is going on, I don't even know if they will be able to graduate. I worry as a father, as a teacher and as a leader of the community in this region.
What is happening here is cruel. Out of poverty, people steal animals from each other and tribes fight each other to the death. The Kenyan government has imposed a curfew in the meantime after numerous murders - imagine that! I am sure: In 100 years, my people will no longer exist.«
That students wear shoes is a rule at the public school. »But I'd rather the kids come barefoot than not at all,« says the principal.
CHAPTER 7
Let the rescue begin
Back in the southwest, it has cooled off in Ewaso N'giro. The shuka is tighter around Ole Nkuito's shoulders, and his sandals have given way to sneakers. I wonder if the gray clouds make him happy »No,« says the Masai, »they are not rain clouds. They move too fast, plus it's too cold.« He looks at his youngest daughter, who trudges to school wrapped in a fluffy leopard-print jacket with ears on the hood, holding her brother's hand. If Ole Nkuito has his way, she too will one day study like her eldest brother, own land and have a say in choosing her partner without having forgotten how to speak the Maasai language, knot stories into necklaces using colored beads or refill guests' cups whenever they are less than half full.
»The question is not whether change is allowed, the question is which changes are meaningful and which are inevitable,« says Ole Nkiuto. A Maasai without cattle, for example, is unimaginable, he says. »Without your cattle, you are nothing, no one respects you. In our culture, cattle are worth more than any amount in the bank account.« The animals are a sign of prosperity. But downsizing herds, crossbreeding Maasai cattle with others and investing in dairy cows is a wise evolution »because it strengthens us without abandoning tradition,» he says. »What to preserve and what to share with the rest of the world is something each ethnic group has to figure out for itself.» Better sooner than later, he adds.
People in much of Kenya are currently experiencing doom, pessimism, despair. Their existence is defined by a changing climate that intensifies existing conflicts and creates new hardship. What is a horror scenario of the future for the inhabitants of industrialized nations has long been reality there.
Do the gray clouds make him happy? »No,« says the Masai, »they are not rain clouds.«
But the stories of the Maasai and Samburu also tell of resilience, courage and the conviction that humanity can come closer to nature again, if only enough of us are willing to accept the future, learn from mistakes and adapt.
»Instead of fighting for yourself, it's about finding solutions together,« says Ole Nkuito. Whether it's like in the Mau Forest, where locals, environmental organizations and the government have begun reforesting clear-cut areas. Or as in the West Pokot and Turkana regions, far in the north of the country, whose representatives signed a peace agreement on cattle ranching and grazing land in 2022 after years of war. The COP27 climate summit, held in Egypt and therefore on African soil in November 2022, could have been a step in the right direction. The summit yielded an »historic win« on climate reparations but fell short on emissions reductions.
»The crisis offers an opportunity to bridge the gap between communities,« says Ole Nkuito. »But to do that, we need to respect each other, listen to each other, and value each other for our distinctiveness.« He would've been happy to explain that to the world at the climate conference in Sharm El-Sheikh, he'd be happy to do it at the next – with as many indigenous people from Kenya and other countries as possible. ◼︎