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LAIKIPIA DISTRICT, Northern Kenya – It was a shocking sight and the putrid smell almost made me vomit: A hundred dead cows were spread across the dry plain in various stages of decomposition. Flies buzzed around their insides which had oozed onto the dry grass. Organs lay exposed and body parts, legs, heads and ears littered the earth.

Other dead cows were untouched. Jeremiah Lemiruni, a Samburu leader, strode among them, while I kept my eyes fixed to the ground, fearful of treading on some molding skin or rotting corpse. We were followed by a dozen tribesmen in red blankets carrying spears and clubs. They poked sadly at the carcasses as Jeremiah explained: “The older ones were killed by bullets, the rest died from the drought.”

A six-hour drive through the Ololoque hills and Samburu bush land of northern Kenya reveals the devastating impact of years of poor-to-no rainfall.

VIDEO: Drought driving Kenyans into conflict

Devastating drought
Rivers are serpents of dust. Natives dig in the parched riverbeds, seeking precious pools of water deep in the earth. Vultures feed off animal corpses by the roadside while skinny goats and sheep totter forlornly on their last legs. Children roam for half the day carrying yellow plastic containers in search of a running spring or at least a muddy pool. Bushes are brown and the land is bare as far as the eye can see.

Hungry tribesmen desperate to feed their families ambush cars on the dirt roads: our guide whispers that three groups of tourists have been robbed at gunpoint here this year. We travel with two armed policemen.

It hasn’t rained here since April and then only a few drops. Before that it was last October and that was a few drops too. Natives scratch their heads and try to remember the last serious rainfall.

And when, hundreds of miles away, the clouds do gather darkly and the skies open, rain gathers in the mountains and rushes in a wall of water through the plains, in flash floods that carry off animals and children. Consistent rain patterns are a distant memory here. The Samburu gather in knots on hilltops with torches and pray for rain but it hasn’t helped much.

The drought is so bad that traditional cattle rustling has turned into murder.

In September Pokoti tribesmen attacked neighboring Samburu villagers, seeking to steal their land, not with the usual spears and blood-curdling screams but automatic rifles. Thirty-three men, women and children died in the one-hour gun battle, which only ended when both sides ran out of bullets.

As the drought persists, the threat of violence is growing.

We read a lot about competition for resources; here it plays out at the most basic level: a fight for pasture and water. Police now guard this area of Laikipia to keep the peace, but too late for Jeremiah.

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