We watched wise little herdsboy Lokol shaking a tree for ng’itit, then spoke to old ‘camel man’ Logyel at length in the laga about the past; how with shorter droughts and longer rains the animals used to be healthier, to produce more milk and to support healthier families. He doesn’t know why – maybe it’s God – but all this has changed in his lifetime and now he worries for his children. Though the future is completely uncertain so he advised that we come back in 40 years to ask those children themselves. Unlike other men here he didn’t subscribe to the theory about the climate changing after Kokoi the remarkable emuron was imprisoned by the British. In some ways this theory blames heavy-handed colonial administrators for disturbing people’s traditional ways of managing their relationship with the environment, and it seems to have some instinctive symmetry with a more global blame narrative; one which says that the blind consumption of developed nations like Britain and America had driven a change in the world’s climate, a change that people like the Turkana sit right on the frontline of.
Elizabeth Kirin did a beautiful and confident dance in her hide outfit for us, telling us that she took two months to make it – using scraps of leisure time she had – and that it will last years. I told her that women in my country used to make such clothes but have now forgotten how and she said that Turkana women would not forget. When I clap and smile at their neck-thrusting, foot-stamping dancing (which reminds me of an ostrich, especially as they like to stick an upright ostrich feather onto their head as they do it) they try to get me to join in but I always hold back; I don’t want to blunder into anything whose meaning I don’t understand and end up marrying a camel or something. Plus with their bold assertions of femininity I usually feel like an awkward teenage boy by their side.
The children sang the beautiful Kalongolong song for us, though the wind was knocked slightly out of their sails by Ekidor being in a flat mood, caused by her swollen foot having revealed a growing boil on a toe that she was applying menthol rub to and had wrapped in a cloth.
We left for the ekriam mariam as the children gathered around a fire, mainly stoke by eengol husks, that smart herdsboy Lokol had built to roast a goat that had been born prematurely and had died. It looked like a cute toy rabbit and rainbow bubbles were coming out of its wet pink nose, but it was dropped onto the fire whole, to be roasted until its hair had burnt off and the skin been blackened. It would then be divided very carefully: the Turkana are famous for very minute anatomical division of roasted animals, with certain parts going to certain relatives in a meticulous order. Apparently there were two waves of Turkana people (Ngiturkana - people of the cave) that came from southern Sudan (via Koten in Uganda) – the Ngicuro and the Ngimonia – and it is clear which branch a family came from by the way they cut the Apol muscle (the fasciae latae) in a meat feast.
Amazingly this family haven’t had any meat (except the odd dead baby goat) since I arrived. Lokale says it’s because they love their animals too much and can’t bear to kill them. They would rather buy someone else’s goat to eat, and a goat costs 1500 shillings at the moment I’m told (estimates vary and different goats have different values but the lowest I’ve heard is 800 shillings). Frankly I’m relieved after having had nightmarish visions of struggling hard with the famous Turkana meat-milk-blood diet (while in my dreams I order and eat delicious things in cafes, like the Italian pasta and chocolate profiteroles that made an appearance last night).
At the ekriam mariam people were more shy than usual, probably because of the camera. When we walked away with tripod and equipment to take a long shot, Lokale laughed out loud because he overheard and old man saying, “The non-Turkana have come to kill us!” A joke, thank goodness. And there was more laughter when they presented Frederic with the egcholo (headrest/stool) he’d asked about at the beginning of the week: it was enormous, at least three times the size of the dainty little ones they perch their narrow bottoms on. I asked if they thought Frederic was tatoom (fat) and they laughed. I think it was a gesture of respect because he is tall; whatever they were thinking it’s brilliant, comfortable and sturdy and I don’t think he lied when he said that yes, he would take it back to his place with him.
Saw a happy little herdsboy holding by the tail a squirrel he’d shot through the neck with his bow and arrow; a tasty snack for later.
We went to Lokaleso’s place where she was busy making chang’a and orchestrating her usual round of small trade plus matriarchal activities. She gave us a beautiful, heartfelt interview surrounded by her brood of children who fought and squabbled for centre stage but did so silently, as instructed. Two of the children were painted with streaks of white paints and she explained that this was “so God would see them”. They were sick, maybe from malaria, and Lokaleso told us that only God could really help them, even visiting the hospital and taking medication can be useless so it is only to Him they can reliably turn. It was powerful and moving and not for the first time I reflected on what an amazing woman she is, stuck in the middle of the bush with nothing but sand and a few eengol and ewoi trees, but carefully findings threads of resources in her environment from which she weaves a safety blanket to wrap around her family.
Leaning against Lokaleso’s hut with a drunk contendedness and slightly glazed eyes Erot sang us two very male songs – one about which herdsboy will stay behind to look after the baby cattle and one about busa – in a deep bass voice that resonated in my sternum. They will make beautiful soundtracks for the documentary which is slowly shaping into a fitting tribute for this family and this place.
