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This distant, unforgiving land that's been called "the harshest terrain on the planet" has planted a permanent seed in this traveler's heart; and is is one that needs no water or sun. Enduring extreme heat, cold, thirst and hunger, the danger of bandits and wild animals, and mind-bending cultural differeneces, Mickey has lived to tell of things the rest of us never knew we could dream about.

Join MIckey on this extraordinary walking safari to mythical Lake Turkana at the northern end of the Suguta Valley and see Kenya like you never have before. Mickey Mestel is a passionate storyteller who loves to tell about the odd, exotic experiences from his faraway travels. In Wandering Turkana , he muses about everything from riding a bus in Africa to the natural ways of the nomadic Turkana. His search for Spirit leads him to one of the harshest environments on our planet.

It is worth your time to take the journey with him.

Commanding death away by the word and the deed. Nyemeto is known as a healer of last resort. In return, and for a small fee, she offers hope. And so to the lakeshore with Guokol. She had been sick for months and had recently worsened, growing weaker each day under the shadow of evil spirits, a condition the Daasanach call gaatch. She was perhaps At the water Nyemeto dropped the usual roughness that often had her shouting at children and hurling stones at dogs.

When they had finished, Nyemeto helped Guokol to her feet, and they returned shoreward, arm in arm. It is about as north as you can go in Kenya, more than miles from the nearest major road, a short walk from the Ethiopian border, where the dry lands roll on, sharp, hot, and loosely governed, for another hundred miles. Faith and hope naturally coincide with water here, and for now Turkana offers all in abundance.

Ancient hominins lived along its shores, and early humans hunted, gathered, and fished here as they moved north on their slow migrations out of Africa. Ten thousand years ago the lake was far larger than it is now.

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Seven thousand years ago the lake was shrinking. Neolithic tribes raised mysterious stone pillars at holy sites above it. And now Nyemeto continues traditions rooted in water that may be very old, though no one can say for sure where they came from or when they were born. But Turkana, like all desert water, is vulnerable. In the most dire scenarios, Turkana will over the years slowly shrivel and die, turning the local population into refugees from an African dust bowl.

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Daasanach territory spreads across the border and was split more than a century ago by surveyors shoring up British interests on one side and the Ethiopian empire on the other. The division placed most of the Daasanach in Ethiopia; a much smaller group remained in Kenya. There are roughly 10, Kenyan Daasanach people, but only recently did they gain their first elected representative, who sits at the county level—a world away from the parliament in Nairobi and almost dead last in line for aid. There are no power lines, no high schools, no regular transport. The Daasanach, like their lake, are, for all practical purposes, nearly invisible.

Michael Moroto Lomalinga, chief of the Kenyan Daasanach, has known this thin existence almost since he was born here some 60 years ago. You can imagine this is a problem.

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Moroto lives in Ileret, a village of bleating goats and wind-whipped dust not far from Selicho on the northeastern shore of the lake. Like other tribal chiefs in Kenya, he is a government appointee. There are many grievances, much bureaucracy, the occasional rumor of corruption.

But in April , after a long drought, Moroto was struggling with more dangerous matters—all of them, in one way or another, over water. To the east the Gabbra people had been pushing cattle into Daasanach territory. To the west the Turkana tribe was bothering Daasanach fishermen on the lake. Both tribes are larger, better connected politically, and better armed with illegal weapons.

Turkana fishermen have overfished their own waters and now stray toward Ileret and Selicho, threatening raids, stealing nets, and sometimes killing Daasanach. In this the Daasanach are not innocent, not without pride or guns. They have fought back violently and have often started trouble themselves. A man in the bush or on the water will always hear his own conscience loudest, no matter what Moroto says. Still, the chief must try to prevent anger from falling into age-old cycles of killing and revenge, which often last generations.

They do not work on peace when there is peace. They only work on peace when there is conflict. And conflict is coming. For beyond the routine skirmishes of desert tribes loom the dam and the sugar plantations. Elected officials in Nairobi have hardly shrugged at any of it, but Moroto knows what violence a shrinking lake could bring. For him there is dread, and perhaps a certain relief, in knowing he can do almost nothing about it.

Abdul Razik lit a cigarette and set his bare foot on the small red gas tank. The bright green boat, freshly painted, rode high on the opaque water. The green paint, Razik explained, was camouflage—to hide his new investment against pirates from the Turkana tribe. A May morning, and Razik had just checked his nets—thin, spidery things kept afloat with old Coke bottles.

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There had been only the one fish. Heading home, Razik pointed north through a maze of tall reeds toward Ethiopia. He had not seen them, but he had heard of the dam and the plantations that threatened to dry up his life.

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So many depend on this lake. Razik is an entrepreneur, one of the few to glimpse possibility in Lake Turkana beyond hand-to-mouth survival. He lives in Selicho and married a Daasanach woman, but he is an Arab Kenyan, originally from the ocean coast. He owns four boats and sometimes brings a truck from Nairobi carrying a shipping container packed with ice.

He buys the catches of his neighbors, fills his container over several days with two or three tons of fish, then returns to Nairobi, where he sells the haul. Before coming to Lake Turkana, Razik had worked for years in a fish-processing plant in Kisumu, a city on the shore of Lake Victoria, far to the south. It supports a multimillion-dollar fishing industry that supplies hungry regional markets and also annually exports to Europe thousands of tons of Nile perch. Eventually Razik had had enough and left. The perch were disappearing. Razik considered his options.

Lake Turkana had no industrial fishing operations, none of the boomtown by-products. Living would be rougher, perhaps dangerous. But competition would be low, and the lake did have Nile perch—just like the beast that lay in a heap of scale and muscle at the bottom of his boat. Six years he has lived among the Daasanach. Beyond that, Razik said, people in Selicho are peaceful and do not overfish. He plans to stay, to raise children in the small two-room house where he sometimes repairs motorbikes in the kitchen.

As long as there are peace and perch and ice for his shipping containers, a man can be happy. He can see possibilities. Until he looks north. Much nearer Lake Turkana, enormous bulldozers crawl over the dry lands near the riverbanks, scraping the way for sugarcane and cotton. Soon the effects of this work will ripple down into Kenya, with potentially devastating consequences for the 90, tribal people who depend on the lake.

His findings left him deeply depressed. Dams inevitably harm ecosystems below them. Once the reservoir is full, the lake will slowly normalize—but then the sugar plantations come into play. Tens of thousands of acres have been officially marked off for cane and cotton in southern Ethiopia, and according to Avery, tens of thousands more are slated for future plantations. Already planting has begun, and all of the growth will be fed from a single tap: the Omo.

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The dam has been delayed many times since construction began in , but the reservoir started filling in January. And though plantation development has already begun, the scale of agricultural transformation is not nearly as big as it could be. Avery and others point to the slow-motion disaster of the Aral Sea for a vision of what may come. The Aral was once the fourth largest inland body of water on Earth, gleaming between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.