by OP | Oct 19, 2015 | Ecology
The last two months have seen Kenyans conduct a long running public debate on rain. El Nino has had the same traction as Obama’s homecoming. It is every third discussion topic after, “The latest (fill the blank) financial scandal and Governor Kidero’s never ending Nairobi county challenges”. Nairobians have been anticipating rain (read inconvenience) for weeks and the anticipation has turned everyone into a weatherman, peering into the skies at grey laden clouds searching for clues. Rain and El Nino are now identical words. Children of this generation will grow up reducing the El Nino phenomenon to long rains preceded by panic. Much like young people born in the 90s who grew up believing former AG. Amos Wako’s first names were Attorney and General.
I love the rain and not in the cheesy “I want to sing in the rain” way. The smell of earth moments after a downpour is one of my favourite natural scents. It conjures up pleasant memories of a time when parents expected healthy kids to be out kicking ball in the rain. My affiliation with water from above has more to do with practical stuff like planting trees and raising farm crops. For any struggling amateur farmer, the cycle of nature is invariably linked to bottom-line figures. Years of subsistence rain-fed agriculture taught me to appreciate rainfall.
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by OP | Jan 5, 2015 | Ecology
“Until you dig a hole, you plant a tree, you water it and make it survive, you haven’t done a thing. You are just talking.” Wangari Maathai
I met a man named Odera in Kisumu. I was told that he owned an island on Lake Victoria and that really got me nosy. Any claim to owning an island is an immediate conversation starter and leaves one hell of a first impression. It sounds so posh. Something Sir Richard Branson-esque about how those words roll off the tongue. Saying you own a 100 acres ranch sounds gross. But island is just around about way of saying, “I own a boat and I am sorry, my life is grand”. Besides the privilege telling anyone who bothers to ask that he owned an island, Odera wanted to plant some trees. I know a little more about trees than islands and that got me stirred up.
I cannot really remember when I was not into trees. As a child I loved climbing them and every parent expected their boys to be out climbing trees. The taller the better and nesting on top branches was part of the play routine. If there was fruit in the tree, it was always a necessary challenge. Sitting on a tree munching on guavas was the only thing that could rival a dip in the river on a hot day. Trees were our playgrounds.
I was raised in an environment where trees had many functions. In the rural home, people gave directions using trees. People understood their characteristics and their peculiarities and everyone knew them by name. “Hang a right after the huge Mugumo. You can’t miss it”. Old and huge trees were a common sight. They occupied a dominant position in many homesteads and signified the beauty of a home. Under their canopies is where children sat in anticipation of a story and played. Where the elders had a drink, smoked and resolved disputes. Where teenagers courted and danced. Routines of life happened around trees.
In my early teens, scouting opened me up to new adventures in Nairobi’s Ngong forest, my first time in a large forest. The Ngong Forest would become the location of an important rite of passage. The scout leader was determined make men out of a disparate group naïve boys seeking adventure. Of the various tasks that tested our resolve, the toughest was standing guard at night in two hours shift, marshaling the camp fire and looking out for, “God knows what”. I guess it was his man-up routine. I was afraid of the dark and the forest was always painted as a place for sinister happenings. At 11 years I consciously confronted all those gory images I had internalized from TV. The dark woods where evil stalks. I was scared shitless by a hyrax that shrills like someone is driving a knife up their gut. Fortunately, nothing dramatic happened on the two nights and we marched out of that camp with a learned respect for the forest. I would carry the habit of forest hikes into adulthood. In Mt. Kenya forest, I encountered what I came to call ‘deep forest’ when you arrive at the humbling understanding that you were an insignificant intruder in a forest of trees at the mercy of whatever forces lurked within.
Through these numerous experiences, I never imagined that I would one day become an amateur forester. It happened quite randomly. I inherited a forest. It was family land but I was the one with time and the artistic latitude to google up phrases such “How to create an Arboretum”. The piece of land is about 2.5 acres, most of it sloping steeply into the banks of the choppy waters of river Yala in Siaya county. I am fortunate to have had parents who loved trees. On the regular trips to the village, there were always tree seedlings en route to a new home and I became an eager apprentice.
The land that offered the best promise for a forest was choking with bush. It was too steep and rocky to be any good for agriculture. The scattered trees were outstanding and we concluded that if we could get rid of the bush and leave the trees, plant some grass, it would make a lovely site for a picnic. The bush was mainly composed of the latana weed, an invasive and worthy adversary as any forester would want. My brother and I launched our landscape campaign with the brute resolve to slash the life out of the bush with the sole purpose of discovering new water fronts and places we could swim. We only had access to two swimming spots and we were determined to discover a new beach and exploit the naming rights that come with it.
The bush housed many things, among them pythons and monitor lizards, two symbols of evil. I would soon discover that despite that prehistoric, dragon look, monitor lizards were pretty harmless and out rightly scared of humans. They simply fled on sight. Pythons in their wisdom, limited contact with humans and were rare sighting as they sought new cover. The objective was to create a park, with manicured grass where we could serve cocktails by the riverside to honeymooners. It was easy money or so we thought.
The journey was frustrating. We thought it would take us three months of concerted effort. It took us 7 whole years to nurture the forest. The faster you cut the bush, the quicker it regenerated. Bigger, stronger and greener. We started chopping the lantana bushes at their base, a selective elimination of a plant species that was a parasite. At some point we realized that we were fighting a losing battle. The bush was well adapted to the zone. Nothing could keep up with rate of growth. The only way was to up root the stubborn weed. It would be painstakingly slow but the effects would be lasting. Therefore we started, one root at a time. Chop to the base and then uproot. We noticed that the shrubs had a very major function. Underneath, the ground was dry and rocky. Lantanas thrive in very poor soil and were performing a very important function preventing soil erosion.
With the bush diminishing, we seemed to be nearing our mission of establishing a eucalyptus forest. We would have so much timber that we would be laughing all the way from the saw mill. Eucalyptus was supposed to be a relatively easy tree to grow. But the trees would die in their hundreds. Many just withering. Not enough water. Too much rain, relentless termites, stray cows plodding over a tree nursery and host other reasons that we summed as occult activities of our envious neighbours. Plants should die in nurseries, not out in the field.
We tried cypress trees but the termites got to the slow growers. Those that surpassed the termite assault gained significant height but they were incredible vulnerable to strong winds with their shallow rooting, tipping over frequently posing a new hazard around the home. The only trees that seemed to be thriving without our intervention were the indigenous species. They were lanky, sturdy, flexible often crooked but healthy and alive with bird life.
As we continued to attack the bush, we realized that there were little tree saplings reclaiming the open spots. In the forest, leaves fall, rot, form soil and sprout seed that had laid dormant for seasons. We began to become very deliberate in how we slashed the bush. Always keenly watching to avoid the tree saplings. In time, they started to reveal themselves and they were huge trees.
The forest had its own intentions. Birds, such as barbets and green pigeons would consume the fruits and deposit seed by droppings, often on to other trees. The seeds then germinate and rely on the host tree for nutrients until their own roots reached the ground. Every forest needs its monkeys. The cunning Vervet monkey is every farmers’ nightmare. I can share 10 ways to repel monkeys that do not work but they are also some of nature most efficient seed distributor. Six years later, a forest would form largely self-propagated and well adapted to the terrain. Nature was hard at work reclaiming its place and we were proud to have been part of the process.
I have learnt some valuable lessons in 10 years as an amateur forester. Our job is not just to plant trees. Our bigger task is nurturing. Anyone can stick a tree in a hole in the ground. But to see a tree grow to maturity takes another level of commitment. As the forest grew, my attitude changed from master to servant. Trees are living entities that respond to trial. Season after season, year after year, the trees would make adjustments, adapt and find new innovative ways of dealing with the challenges that life presented.
Trees that were always crooked would grow straight in cooperation with the competition reaching for the sky. We watched others branch out in all directions to create stability on a precarious slope. They would bend but never break and their strength came from their struggle. Every seedling emerged from the ground with meaning and purpose never afraid to grow or defined by the circumstances around it. Trees ultimately expressed their own nature, accepting things they could not change and thriving despite the odds stacked against them. We could only be caretakers and custodians and follow the forests wisdom.
The forest is constantly regenerating, making purposeful decisions and nourishing all that exists within it. Nothing goes to waste and everything has a role and purpose in the forest cycle. I hope to one day to pass it on to a successive generation of custodians, our grandchildren so that they too can learn from the wisdom of trees.
“To stand tall and proud, go out on a limb, enjoy the view, remember your roots, drink plenty of water and be content with natural beauty”.
But to get started trees need our intervention.
So how many trees have you nurtured lately?
by OP | Jun 15, 2012 | Ecology
Most people can easily name five favourite destinations they would like to visit. However put out the question of a favourite river and many will draw a blank. Modern living does not offer much opportunity for meaningful interaction with rivers. In the cities they are practically open sewers. In the news, rivers are brought to our attention only after a devastating flood misfortune that results in scores of desperate villagers getting washed out. In school books, rivers are ranked by length, size, economic or historical significance. Alternatively they are romanticized and captured as beautiful snapshots of nature. I have a few those shots as mementos taken after gazing down at rush of water under a bridge or staring at the spectacle of a waterfall.
I developed a fascination for rivers early in life. After years of exploring several l decided l had a favourite river and the attachment has nothing do with some romantic boat cruise. I compare all rivers to the Mighty River Yala. It is not so mighty now, that I have seen the raging waters of the Nile and the sheer breath of the Mekong in South East Asia. But river Yala embodies many happy memories. It’s a symbolic part of the place I call home. My ancestral roots are located in Sinaga valley of Siaya county in the Western part of Kenya. The river forms the natural boundary between two villages and our family home stretches down to the rugged and steep river bank.
Growing up, I do not recall hearing any intriguing tales of the Yala. No mythical heroines emerged from the waters to impart deep social lessons. There were no annual religious ceremonies that drew pilgrims from far and beyond. There were no gory ones either or a monster of Loch Ness proportions. Crocodile mishaps were unheard of. The closest I heard to scary was a tale my uncle kept telling. He was on his way home from the booze den across the valley one moonlit night. Halfway through the river, three guys in white plunged in after him shouting, ‘don’t leave us here’. We caught the drift and resisted the urge to swim during moonlight.
The headwaters of the Yala River rise from an altitude of 3000m in the Mau forest complex to drain in at about 1000m into Lake Victoria. The basin covers an area of 3280 km. With that much water flowing past, one would imagine thriving business along its banks. Commercial enterprise is glaring absent on our stretch of river. Perhaps the rapids only navigable by kayak act as a deterrent. Most villagers hardly seem to notice its existence. The only fishermen I ever see on its banks are solitary creatures who keep all their catch for themselves.
A good part of my youth was spent getting acquainted with the waters of the Yala. As teenagers it became the closet thing we had to an initiation rite. The ability to swim cross its rapids waters was akin to a rite of passage. We faced the fear of unknown force of nature and quickly learnt our limitations. Few dared and those who accomplished the feat enjoyed a level of respect that was sufficient motivation for the gallant effort. Boys were restricted to the shallow banks where they could splash away merrily. Men swam to the opposite bank. Swimming was all about practical purposes. Men swam when they wanted to cross the river or to wash soap off their bodies. They were really good swimmers whose reputations preceded them. They swam effortlessly and drew admiration. No one really pulled any stunts. They simply crossed the rivers during the dreaded rainy season and that is how they earned their stripes. Swimming was a skill of necessity typically amounting to an opportunistic act to get to the other side for a party or for the sheer thrill of an adrenaline rush.
Swimming trunks were generally considered vanity objects as the garment did not aid your swimming in any fashion whatsoever. It also meant that when you got to the opposite bank, you would have to wait at least a half hour for the piece of clothing to dry. Advanced swimmers simply tied their clothes on top their heads with a vine and strived to get across without causing a splash. Nudity was accepted around rivers because no one took a bath with their clothes on. There was no voyeurism because nudity did not evoke the allure that it did in urban spaces. Women usually enjoyed first user rights and when a woman or girl got to the bank before you, one had to change sites. The river was a shared resource so exclusive spots were not in existence. Whatever little exclusivity that existed was enjoyed by hardcore swimmers who had ridden over the fear of the unpredictable current.
The only reason our parents even let us anywhere near the waters was because there were no wayward wild animals like hippos. However they were designated swimming spots. Nobody ventured into uncharted waters unless they were some crazy aspiring-survivor-series types. Rivers were viewed locally as a force that could be malevolent or benign all with total disregard for human sentiment. The rules of swimming in a fast flowing river were based on pure common sense, which thankful is still prevalent in the countryside. We learnt through experience that when the waters seemed calm, the lurking danger was the under current. It was erratic, unknown and perfectly camouflaged. One underestimated its power to one’s own peril. The sheer embarrassment of drowning while naked was too much to contemplate. Distinct boulders served as water marks to gauge depth, speed and water volume. Others were clearly acknowledged points of no return. As for stray wild life, we learnt that snakes generally mind their business if you mind yours and crabs hide from humans. Since there were no life guards it was widely understood that safety was a personal responsibility.
Rivers are always in a state of flux and only the uninitiated believe that they can step into the same river twice. But it was not until I encountered ‘sick’ rivers, abused by human activity and festering with waterborne diseases that I came to appreciate the great physical condition of river Yala. A key factor of Yala’s salvation was its remoteness. Its banks were sparsely populated and it did not flow past any densely populated areas.
Even so, in the wake of climate change warnings, I have come to have more concern for its well-being. Water wars are intensifying in the scramble for diminishing natural resources and pollution that is as a result of industrial activity is on the rise. Economic prosperity is the singular aspiration placing rivers purely as natural resources to be harnessed to exhaustion. The whole green fad follows a largely aesthetic oriented approach and has become a new gimmick for making profit off the bandwagon of sustainability and conservation. Little is preached about the interrelatedness between people and the natural world. Contemporary living disregards the time tested lessons from indigenous societies worldwide who understood intrinsically that the survival of a community across generations was a function of living harmonious with the nature. They developed norms and customs that motivated the respect for the natural world as an act of gratitude.
Even though rivers have a self cleansing system there is a limit to how much abuse they can take. When we kill our rivers, the ripple effect destroys plant and animal life in our lakes, oceans and ultimately ourselves. So, if there is a river that inspires you, do a little more than singing an ode. Make it your duty to keep as pristine as possible so that those who come after you may enjoy the same bountiful gifts of Mother Nature.
