In the north of Kenya, forgotten in a region which precedes the desert,
lies a territory of enormous contrasts.
It is the so-called Northern Frontier District,
the geographical limit beyond which reign the laws of life in the wild.
Here, man is an intruder and survival is determined by the water, the wind and the sun.
In the heart of this unforgiving land stands the Shaba reserve,
a place of biological endemisms;
a haven for wildlife at the edge of a blazing desert.
Shaba is a place of extremes, constantly putting life to the test.
Severe droughts alternate with tremendous floods,
turning the savannah into a hell which generates paradises;
a land of contrasts where the harshest rigours give rise to the most beautiful works of nature.
In a land where life seems impossible,
Shaba guards the treasure of its exclusive biodiversity in a paradox without precedent;
as if the harshness of the environment were the reason for such richness;
as if scarcity were, deep down, the creative force behind the development of life.
The Danish writer Karen Blixen wrote:
“Africa teaches you this: that God and the devil are one and the same”.
And in the Kenya that she loved and immortalised in her novel Out of Africa
no other region demonstrates this to quite the same extent as Shaba.
Wind, sun and dust; for three years,
not a single drop of rain has fallen on the cracked lands of the Northern Frontier District.
The plants that have managed to survive on the humidity and condensation carried by
the wind rise stunted and tortured from the parched land.
It is the heart of the kingdom of thorns of East Africa.
The natives call this region Nyica, the wild, desolate region.
But even in this time of prolonged drought life clings on in Shaba.
In the cool of night, the herbivores appear in search of the drops
of dew and the last shoots softened by the humidity.
But thrice now the rainy season has failed to appear and vegetation is virtually non-existent.
The darkness also tempts the carnivores out of their hiding places.
Every day the drought claims more victims from among the exhausted animals,
and the inhabitants of the shadows seek out the flesh
and blood of the dead bodies in order to survive.
As a demonstration of its split personality,
at night a truce is declared in the unbearable drought of Shaba.
The clear skies are lit with millions of stars stretching to infinity
and a serene beauty engulfs the tortured savannah,
turning it for a moment into a place of dreams,
a mirage in the heart of the kingdom of thorns.
It is the rainy season, but the dawn once more brings cloudless skies.
One more day without water.
During the early hours of the day,
the animals take advantage of the lingering cool of the night to carry out their daily activities,
before the heat makes all movement impossible.
This group of elephants has found the last green patches
along the slopes of a karst hill where the limestone rock has retained the water.
The elephants move constantly in search of water and food,
and now, with the plants parched and withered,
they need to travel even longer distances
to get the 200 kg of vegetable matter they consume every day.
But, despite their incredible needs and the precarious situation of Shaba,
the enormous pachyderms survive here
while many other herbivores have had to choose between emigration or death.
The old matriarchs know the secrets of the land,
and their wisdom and prodigious memory enable the group to survive.
Among the baboons, too, the family structure is the key
making it possible for them to remain in Shaba even during the severest droughts.
While many species leave, the baboons remain,
and even manage to raise their young.
Their diet is so varied they will eat virtually anything,
and among the dry grasses, the scorched stones and the tree bark,
it is always possible to find bulbs, insects,
small rodents or some reptile of the savannah.
Each member of the family contributes to the survival of the group,
tasks being shared out for the common good.
They all work together in the search for food and water,
they are all aware of the precarious situation in which they live; or almost all.
For the youngest, life is a never-ending round of games and diversions.
During the first weeks of life these small baboons
have no obligations within the group and the drought doesn’t appear to affect them.
Mother is always close by, ready with her milk,
and they have a group of inseparable friends to play with,
so for them the scorched savannah is a marvellous world full of adventures.
Day after day, the clouds fail to appear.
The desert seems gradually eat into the savannah
and the dust spirals up like desperate emissaries in search of rains that refuse to come.
In the clear sky sinister spirals convey the message of death.
Illness has defeated an elephant weakened
by the lack of water and the precariousness of its diet.
Its body is now scorched leather.
The folds of its skin are like wrinkled mountains of a landscape tormented by the drought.
Even the most powerful succumb to the power of the sun.
Hundreds of butterflies gather round the body,
licking the skin and the ground impregnated
with the salts and nutrients of the decomposing elephant.
In Shaba nothing goes to waste.
Death generates life; the circle is complete.
And again god and the devil appear by turns, becoming one.
Finally, the clouds arrive, bringing hope.
Huge cumuli form over the parched savannah and, three years late,
finally release the long-awaited rain.
The time of great changes arrives,
and does so with the extremism characteristic of this remote region;
violently and apparently without measure.
The rains perform a miracle here at the edge of the desert.
In a matter of hours new rivers appear, flowing across the savannah.
It is the annual miracle of the lands of the Northern District,
ephemeral water courses which remain only during the time of rain,
but which leave beneath the ground the water reserves
that will maintain life during the rest of the season.
To the south the clouds release enormous quantities of waters
over the Aberdare Mountains and Mount Kenya
and shortly after arrive in Shaba in the form of violent floods.
The only permanent river in the Shaba region again flows with force,
carrying the sediments to which it owes its name: Ewaso Ngiro,
the river of the brown waters.
Green once more returns to the lands of Shaba.
In just a few days it changes from a hell into paradise.
Like the animals, the plants that survive the rigours of this region
are true specialists in withstanding prolonged periods of drought
and as soon as they receive water they immediately shoot up,
taking the maximum advantage of the time of abundance.
There is now water all around. Impalas and grivet monkeys
lick the fresh leaves in order to obtain all the water they need.
For a few days they will be able to avoid the risk inherent in going to drink at the exposed,
clear banks of a river like the Ewaso Ngiro in which, moreover, there are crocodiles.
Shortly after the first rains, from the ground of the savannah
emerge winged emissaries which will mobilise an army of small hunters.
With the humidity, the termites fly out from their underground homes,
and their presence attracts the avid predators of miniatures.
For many birds they are an invaluable source of protein.
Even those that generally feed on grains, like the turtledoves,
take advantage of the easy pickings, competing with true specialists like the kalaos.
The sunbirds catch some termites, despite the fact their beaks
are designed to sip the nectar from the flowers.
It is so narrow they cannot swallow the termites with their wings still attached so,
unlike the kalaos and other specialised birds,
they have to remove them before they can eat.
Among the mammals of Shaba,
the appearance of the termites does not go unnoticed.
For the dwarf mongooses, the best adapted to arid regions,
these energetic insects form a considerable part of their diet,
so even when the termites no longer come out to fly,
these small hunters armed with powerful claws for digging,
are able to penetrate into their fortified homes and avail themselves of the feast.
The rains completely change the landscape of Shaba.
Not only do the plants turn green and multiply, but the scorched plains,
where previously the only movement had been the wind, now teem with fauna
a sight which just a few days before would have seemed impossible.
The secretary birds are hunters adapted to the open savannah.
Their long thin legs may give the wrong impression.
Because the secretary birds, despite their appearance, are birds of prey.
In other words, they are great hunters.
They will spend most of the day here, strutting elegantly along as they hunt in pairs.
Attracted by the insects that have come out with the rains,
a black kite joins in the feast.
The kites are aerial hunters which from high up locate their prey with lethal precision.
But on land they are clumsy and seem helpless compared to their relatives the secretary birds
whose specialisation has made them experts at hunting on the ground.
The diet of the secretary birds includes everything
from small insects and birds to rodents and even some small felines;
and this pair of timid bat-eared foxes prefers not to take any risks,
and so make good their escape.
In Shaba, all the animal species are adapted to the semi-desert climate.
No one would be able to withstand the scarce seasonal rainfall
if they were not real specialists in survival in arid climes.
And among the different species guinea fowl that inhabit the continent of Africa,
none can better cope with drought than the vulturines; and they,
precisely, are the most abundant species in Shaba.
The digestive system of the vulturine guinea fowl
is specially adapted to conserve the maximum amount of water obtained from their food,
so that even in the driest times on the thorny savannah,
the vulturines are able to survive on their diet of roots, bulbs, insects and molluscs,
drinking virtually no water.
Among the zebras of Shaba are also those best adapted to arid climates:
Grevy’s zebras. During the time of abundance that comes with the rains,
Shaba fills with herbivores.
The vegetation cover suffers the relentless attack of the animals,
but the balance is maintained thanks to the adaptations that each one
of them has developed in order to get at a layer of vegetation where they will have fewer competitors.
Like the Grevy’s zebras, some seek the lowest pasture, at ground level.
Others, however, have developed increasingly long necks
to access the vegetation higher up.
Among mammals too, some necks have become elongated.
This is the next step: a gerenuk, a Somali word which means “giraffe neck”.
The gerenuks are the gazelles best adapted to the desert conditions.
Only the males have horns and this one, an dominant adult
with seven females in his charge,
take advantage of their grazing to mark the territory with his swollen facial glands.
The gerenuks are the only gazelles
that inhabit these sub-desert regions in the driest months.
They can survive on the humidity contained in the shoots
and the leaves of the savannah, and can go for months without drinking.
But their adaptations do not end there.
A flexible upper lip, a thin nose and narrow nostrils make it possible for them
to eat among the thorns of bushes and acacias.
And to avoid competition with other herbivores as much as possible
they not only have their long, thin necks,
but have also learnt a trick to reach the highest layers of vegetation.
Only the gerenuks can stand on their hind legs
to reach the branches above two metres high.
The higher you can reach, the more food you can get at.
And the gerenuks have made considerable progress in their stretch towards the tops
of the bushes and trees of Shaba.
But on the savannah even the height of the gerenuks
is insignificant compared to the highest mammal in the world.
At up to five and a half metres,
the giraffes leave behind all other competitors,
and can reach the tops of the acacias,
where they find indispensable food reserves during the dry season.
Of the eight subspecies of giraffe,
the pattern of the reticulated giraffes makes them the most attractive.
It is as if the rigours of this semi-desert savannah, the kingdom of thorns,
had given rise to the most spectacular forms;
as if beauty were the prize for the tests of survival imposed by the aridity of the environment.
The Grevy’s zebras, the vulturine guinea fowl, the reticulated giraffes…
incomparable hides and plumages emerge from the thirst of many months,
the scorching heat, and searching for food among the thorns.
And once more Shaba unites extremes, as if hardship generated marvels,
as if the limits of death were the creators of life,
as if God and the devil were,
in the final analysis, one and the same.
With the arrival of the rains, the elephants once more return.
Their four metres in height, along with the length of their trunks
and their ability to stand on their hind legs means
that not even the giraffes can reach so high in their search for food.
The rains have again brought fertility to the savannah,
attracting the herbivores that moved off in search of water during the months of drought.
And with the arrival of the herbivores in Shaba, the powerful hunters also return.
Though the new vegetation has refreshed the atmosphere,
the central hours of the day are still unbearably hot.
For the lions, this is the time to rest in the shade.
It is too hot to even attempt the exhausting task of hunting down a herbivore,
and even less if that herbivore is a powerful Cape buffalo.
The herbivores know that during the hours of midday
they are unlikely to suffer an attack, and are happy to simply keep the felines
under surveillance, upwind.
These young lionesses are also resting among the fresh green grass,
though they never take their eyes off a group of zebras.
If one of them shows signs of weakness or is wounded,
the lionesses will not hesitate to attack, but the group is perfectly healthy,
and the patterns of their bodies confuse the hunters,
turning their silhouettes into a blur of moving stripes.
During this time of abundance,
the Grevy’s zebras are joined by the Burchell’s zebras,
with which they form mixed herds.
These zebras, more common in the rest of Africa,
have thicker and more widely-separated stripes than the Grevy’s zebras,
and during the dry season, when only those best adapted to drought can survive in Shaba,
they leave these lands and head for the Aberdare mountains,
where there is green pasture all year round.
In this season, when the climate has changed, and there is food all around,
the animals get ready to bring their young into the world.
And during the weeks immediately after the first rains,
the different species come into mate and breed.
Among the Kori bustards, the males mark out their territories
and begin a strange courtship ritual which consists of inflating air sacs
on their necks while emitting a booming guttural sound.
Their swollen necks and the dull sounds
are intended to attract the attention of the females,
while warning off other males who, as in this case,
try to take over a territory which is someone else’s domain.
Among the antelopes only the dominant males can mate with the females,
and to occupy that position you have to beat the others in face-to-face combats,
so hopeful males gather together in groups and permanently practice.
These are not real fights.
The young Grant’s gazelles are simply testing out their strength
and keeping in shape until the time
when they believe they are capable of challenging the ruler of a harem.
And the process is the same with the impala males.
Not far from where the young males are training,
a dominant impala stands watch over his group of females;
there is a possible challenger nearby,
and it is time to make absolutely clear who is the strongest male.
Under the watchful eye of the females, the males clash.
But the conflict does not have serious consequences.
After the initial confrontation, the challenger realises his time has not yet come and,
before the combat turns serious, he retires uninjured.
Among the oryxes, the groups are mixed and highly structured.
The horns and the strength of these antelopes mean that clashes
are extremely risky exercises which could cause terrible injuries or even death.
But in the groups of oryxes, where there is a clear hierarchy of males and females,
the dominant position is decided by ritualised combats
in which they test their strength but avoid serious aggression.
In the herds, mating is also decided by the hierarchy.
Each one knows what it can aspire to,
depending on its status within the group,
so in the same herd different couples can mate without this creating
any conflict among them.
For the secretary birds, too, the mating season has arrived.
The same couple that was looking for insects
shortly after the first rains is now preparing its nest.
Though both animals engage in this task,
it is essentially the male that collects the branches,
while the female arranges them on the flat top of an acacia,
creating an enormous circular nest, characteristic of this species.
During this time, the secretary birds are attentive and affectionate
with their mates, courting them on the ground,
in flight and in the nest.
And shortly afterwards, in a way ornithologists have still not been able to describe,
they mate, then lay no more than three, extremely valuable, eggs.
In the same acacia forest in which the secretary birds have built their nest,
a family of warthogs grazes on the nutritious green grasses
that have grown since the rains.
The little warthogs are only a few days old,
but already they are expert savannah dwellers.
They still lack the experience to be able to find food like their elders,
but they have the mobile food store of their mothers and,
though she doesn’t want to stop to feed them,
the young warthogs are determined to get at the nutritious milk.
Their only task during these first weeks will be to exercise
in order to acquire the speed and strength which will enable them to flee from hunters.
And they dedicate themselves to this in body and soul.
Wrestling matches,
or football with a pat of elephant dung form part of their training.
Anything will do if it serves to make them faster and stronger.
Because it will not be long before the savannah puts them to the test.
In the shade of an acacia, a cheetah watches over a nearby group of oryxes.
The oryxes are too strong for him,
but at this time of year are always young calves,
just a few days old, and it is one of these that the cheetah has his eye on.
The calf appears to be perfectly healthy,
and the possibilities of catching it are virtually nil,
but the cheetah has been building up tension and decides to launch a desperate attempt.
The oryx moves off unhurriedly,
confident of its superiority but without exposing its young to unnecessary risks.
The cheetah has not even had the chance to test out its prodigious speed.
There are many adults in the group and it knows that when it comes to defending its young,
an oryx is capable of killing even a lion,
so he abandons the attempt,
and returns to his slow wanderings in search of more accessible prey.
During the short rains,
between December and February,
there are frequent storms at nightfall.
The climate mellows and the heat of the day gives way to fresh,
humid air; the temperature the large hunters have been waiting for to go into action.
The evenings and nights of Shaba are extraordinarily beautiful.
But, ever loyal to its contrasts, they are also the time when death lurks in the dark.
Night falls over the Ewaso Ngiro.
Along the dark banks, long shadows emerge from the water
in search of the warmth of the sand heated up during the daytime hours.
The metabolism of the Nile crocodiles depends on their body temperature,
and this in turn depends on their surroundings,
so at sunset the narrow shores of the Ewaso fill with these dragons.
For the lionesses, the night is an advantage.
Lions have eyes that can see in the dark.
Under cover of the shadows,
a mother and her young from the previous year lie in wait for the herbivores,
guided by the sounds coming from the thicket.
Tonight, they are not in luck.
From the forest alongside the river three elephants emerge,
and no hunter in Shaba would dare disturb them,
so the lionesses lower their guard and rest,
waiting for other signs that reveal the presence of possible prey.
The rains have done their work.
In mid January, Shaba is at its most splendid.
There is abundant vegetation, water all around,
and the savannah teems with hundreds of animals,
taking advantage of the bonanza.
The elephants have returned to the region and remain here longer.
Different, inter-related matriarchal groups
come together by the Ewaso Ngiro to enjoy the end of abstinence.
Elephants need between 80 and 160 litres of water a day,
and the adult males can drink twice this amount,
so they must always have water sources available.
The banks of the Ewaso Ngiro, whose waters are now high and stable,
every day attract large herds of pachyderms.
The adults can drink and bathe,
and the young can wallow in the mud, protected by a forest of colossal legs.
These clans spend the dry season communicating
with each other at great distances but physically separated
in order to more efficiently explore and utilise the land devastated by the drought.
But now, Shaba is witness to their reunion and can enjoy the spectacle,
once frequent in East Africa, of herds of over two hundred individuals.
Today the region that comprises the reserves of Shaba,
Samburu and Buffalo Springs is home to the largest herds of elephants in East Africa.
And again, there is a paradox: this miracle of abundance in the kingdom of drought.
The river bank is the meeting place for the majority of the species of Shaba.
In the course of the day, many of the animals of the savannah come here to drink.
And that is a risky moment, when they inevitably expose themselves to danger.
With the heat of the sun, the large Nile crocodiles have returned to the water.
On one of the banks, a group of Grevy’s zebras are slaking their thirst,
and the appearance of a young colt attracts the great saurians.
The crocodiles are silent in the current of the Ewaso,
and when they submerge they become invisible.
But the zebras are on permanent alert,
and the shallowness of the river is a factor in their favour.
A surprise attack is the crocodile’s only change of claiming
a victim from the land along the Ewaso Ngiro.
The baboons, too, who have remained in this region all year,
thrive in the shade of the forest along the river banks.
The dominant males never lower their guard.
The hunters also know that sooner or later their prey will come to drink,
and in the strip of forest there are frequent ambushes.
The risk is worth it.
Few carnivores would dare to challenge a family of baboons,
and the candelabra palms that grow along the banks of the Ewaso
are now heavy with fruit. So while the large males stand watch,
the young climb up into the treetops and throw down the ripe fruit to the rest of the group.
Another of the advantages of family life.
Among the shadows of this same forest,
just a short distance from the baboons,
two Kirk’s dik-diks nervously keep watch as they eat.
Standing two hands high,
and weighing around five kilos, they are the smallest antelopes in Shaba,
and even the large baboons could easily kill them,
so they nervously graze, never wandering far from the protective undergrowth.
The nervousness of the dik-diks is fully justified.
Because the forest in which they live is the habitat
of the most beautiful and elusive hunter in Shaba.
The leopards spend most of the day hiding in the boughs of the acacia,
where their mottled skin makes them invisible.
But when the sun goes down,
when the shadows creep over the savannah,
they come down from the branches to begin their hunting rounds.
The time of the hunters has arrived.
The animals retire to their night-time ride away.
Life on the savannah offers no truces. And the night of Shaba fills with living shadows,
prowling around in the eternal game of life and death.
By the river, beneath the fallen trunk of an acacia,
the leopard scans the night in search of prey.
Its hearing and sense of smell receive the information of everything alive
and moving about under the cover of night.
Another leopard emerges from the shadows,
and the couple continues its silent round.
From the river come messages of potential prey,
but the water and the crocodiles place them beyond their reach.
Then, the male detects a furtive movement in a tree alongside the Ewaso Ngiro,
and the hunt begins.
The female waits at a certain distance.
Only if the prey is large will she come to the aid of her companion.
Silent as a ghost,
the leopard approaches the base of the tree in which the prey hides.
Its senses are alert, waiting for fresh signs. And then a new sound is heard.
The leopard knows there is something alive in the tree,
and that there is no escape for it.
Beneath the branches runs a river full of dangers and to reach the ground
the prey has to reveal itself.
It is now just a question of time,
and beneath the attentive gaze of his companion, the hunter gets ready to attack.
A last movement reveals a monitor lizard,
provoking a reaction from the leopard. For the terrified lizard,
this will be its last night on earth.
Beneath the tree, the female waits, disappointed.
The prey is small, and the male will keep it all for himself.
In the harsh world of Shaba there is no place for any other attitude
but ensuring one’s own survival.
And if it had been the female that had caught the monitor lizard,
she would not have allowed the male to come near.
Having devoured his catch,
the males comes down from the tree to join his mate.
And again two shadows melt into the night,
combining beauty and death beneath the starry sky of Shaba.
Shaba is a fascinating land beyond the influence of man;
a world in which life is a series of stark contrasts;
where hardship gives rise to beauty and survival imposes constant tests.
And it is precisely the harshness of its conditions that makes this land a world apart,
an exclusive paradise for its survivors.
With the return of the dry season,
Shaba goes back to the beginning.
Little by little drought sets in.
And again God and the devil alternate until they become one and the same,
with no beginning or end,
in the perpetual cycle of life.