Badana, Kenya - You smell the carcasses before you see them, the hot equatorial breeze wafting the cloying stench of death across the arid Kenyan plain. Over a dozen corpses are embedded in the dry, dusty soil, jawbones protruding from withered, pockmarked hides and the blackened remains of rotting organs leaking from exposed rib cages.
These bodies by the side of a rutted track leading to Badana - a settlement of a few thousand livestock herders known as pastoralists - are stark evidence of the fierce drought that has gripped the East African nation this year.
Local officials estimate 30 per cent of the livestock in the Isiolo South constituency, in which Badana lies, have died this year due to the drought, which aid agencies say is part of a worsening cycle of failed rains brought on by climate change.
Cyclical droughts are part of life in much of Africa, but Liban Mohamad, regional manager for the Kenyan Red Cross in Upper Eastern District, says the dry spells are becoming more frequent and longer.
"When we were young, we experienced drought every five or six years," he says. "Now it is yearly or every two years. This year we had four out of five rivers dry up for the first time."
The impact of the increasing droughts is being exacerbated by other factors: farming upstream has diverted rivers and overpopulation has left weakened pasture stripped and water scarce, leading to armed conflict between communities struggling to survive.
The millions of Kenyans reduced to living on food aid now face some respite, as the rains finally came to much of the country in October and November. But not to Badana.
Just outside the community, a shiny metal pump sits forlornly on the ridge of a shallow, bone-dry depression. This is Badana's catchment, its only source of water. It has been empty for many months.
The community is entirely dependent on food aid brought in by the World Food Programme and water trucked in by the Kenyan government - 20 litres per household every three days.
Dozens of villagers - old men with dyed red beards clutching walking sticks and women wrapped in loose robes that cover colourful dresses - sit beneath the shade of an acacia tree in the settlement, where they spend most of their days.
"We are just waiting for God's help, we have no other plan," says Hadija Dido, 74, to murmurs of approval. "We need the rains to come so our animals can multiply."
Mohamad says there is little to be done for this community other than continue to keep the people alive and hope the rains come.
But some pastoralists have had enough of waiting for the rains and are quitting their traditional way of life in increasing numbers,says Bahara Ali Abdul, Member of Parliament for Isiolo South.
"I see them giving up or modifying their way of life," he says. "They are fine when the weather is good, but when it is bad they are back to square one."
Galgalo Jarso, 28, is one such pastoralist. He lost all of his cows, sheep and goats to drought over five years ago and, instead of trying to start again, moved to Garbatulla, a nearby town of 30,000 people.
"When I lost everything, I thought it was the end of the world, but I knew if I were to get more animals they would die," he says. "I was fed up with drought coming every few years to take what I had built up."
Jarso now works as a waiter at the Al-Hudah hotel in Garbatulla, dishing out boiled goat meat, sweet tea and chapati in a bare concrete room stuffed with plastic tables and chairs.
He earns 3,000 Kenyan shillings (40 dollars) each month, a third of which goes on renting a two-room mud house for himself, his wife and two children.
Even this meager existence is better than struggling against the elements as a pastoralist, he says, and more of his friends are following his example, coming to town to start businesses or pick up casual work.
Jarso believes that as drought takes its toll, more youngsters will come to town and that the comforts of life out of the bush - education and healthcare among them - will keep them there, slowly strangling the pastoralist way of life.
"I was split, because I didn't want to abandon the lifestyle that my forefathers had, but I have seen both lifestyles and this one is more sustainable," he says.
