Meeting Khal Drogo in Turkana

Turkana landscape

We’re several hours into the purported short cut, a dusty set of rough tracks so rugged they send us bouncing to the roof of the car despite our seatbelts. Once again, the ride we were told should take only 3-4 hours is stretching into many more. And although the driver is from the area, he’s finally admitted that he’s lost. I try to hold back an “unph” as we hit another hard bump, but it escapes my mouth anyway.  My colleague S. looks at me with a wry smile. “This is what we call an African massage,” he says.

The views are spectacular. We are driving through the arid landscape of northern Kenya, on the western side of Lake Turkana. We’re only a few dozen kilometers from the Ethiopian and South Sudanese borders in an area known as the Ilemi triangle. Because of violent disputes over this land, along with the presence of bandits, cattle raiders, and far too many automatic rifles, we are traveling with a second vehicle that holds two armed guards. They are not particularly convincing, however, and seem more interested in catching a nap than watching for trouble. 

Hills and dust

The region is far hillier than I had expected, and it holds an austere beauty. Locals will tell you that 20 years ago, the area was covered in grass that grew knee high. But a decade or more of failed rains and persistent drought have decimated the vegetation, along with the pastoralist lifestyle of the Turkana tribesmen.  Without grass and vegetation, their animals are dying off. Used to living off the milk, blood, and meat of their livestock, the proud and fiercely independent Turkana are increasingly relying on food aid and income support programs from government, international, and faith-based organizations. 

Food aid

When we first arrive to interview and photograph the Turkana and their cattle, we run across a massive scene of food distribution. Tribal elders oversee the process from the shade of large huts made of wattle and daub. Rations are divvied out from 90-kilo bags of maize, large piles of beans, and plastic Jeri cans filled with cooking oil. The atmosphere is calm. Men and women wait patiently for their portions. Some of the older women are dressed in traditional leather skirts, while many of the men wear AK-47s strapped diagonally across their chests. Once they receive their rations, the women carry the goods off on their heads with sweeping, graceful strides.

And then we see him; one of the biggest and certainly most imposing men I’ve ever encountered. Turkana adults tend to be long and lithe. But this man is a head taller and considerably broader than any of them. He is all muscle and clearly as strong as an ox. His legs are like the trunks of a sturdy, mature tree, and we are told he eats an entire goat each day. We’ve met Turkana’s version of Khal Drogo. He is the community seer, responsible for predicting when they should move the cattle or launch a cattle raid. If he blows it, the punishment could be death, his, though that’s hard to imagine. Like the fictional character from Game of Thrones, this man is fearsome and feared. Hundreds of scarification marks decorate his torso, one for each man he’s killed in livestock raids. When I ask him a question (through a translator), he looks down at me with disdain and tells me to give him my hat. I don’t. He snorts, tells us not to take photos of him, and moves on. 

I turn to interview a group of men, more willing to talk but reluctant to be photographed, because of the condition of their worn and dusty clothing. I take a few portraits, only headshots, and elicit smiles as I show them the results. Later, we meet beautiful Turkana women, whose heavy piles of brightly colored necklaces define their wealth and beauty. They are worn day and night, through sickness and childbirth, and are only removed in times of mourning.

We accompany young herders and their cattle to the nearest watering hole across a hilly landscape scattered with dark, volcanic rocks. We spend the night at a local Spanish mission, staffed by young professionals, foreign and dedicated, who have left more comfortable lives to work in this desolate, isolated place. They make the best of meager surroundings and share stories full of humor, wonder, and admiration for the fierce and resilient people who make this land their home.

Lake Turkana

Before our visit to gather material for the Turkana chapter of our book project on indigenous African cattle diversity is finished, we dip our feet into Lake Turkana. We spend hours pushing and digging our truck out of the beach’s soft sand, helped by a large group of men, women, and children that emerges to help. We drive off only to watch the truck’s back left wheel go bouncing by as we try to make it back to town.

A crowd forms. The sun sets. The adventure continues.  Stay tuned.