Micah Chebus

“Marsabit is well known as the cradle of mankind”

Those were the words of an elder I met on my first morning in Marsabit town—and they stayed with me long after the fog lifted. He spoke with quiet pride about the land beneath our feet: ancient, patient, and generous with stories. From the fossil-rich grounds around Lake Turkana to Sibiloi National Park, Marsabit holds some of humanity’s earliest footprints—Homo erectus, the Turkana Boy—silent witnesses that this place is not just a county on a map, but a beginning.

My arrival in Marsabit was wrapped in mist and cold—a thick fog that softened the town into silhouettes. Visibility was low, but the welcome was warm. As we talked, a local resident pointed toward a mountain emerging faintly through the haze. He spoke solemnly of the tragic 2006 incident when poor weather claimed the lives of several Kenyans, including prominent politicians. The mountain stood still, carrying memory and warning alike. Marsabit, I realized, speaks softly—but it speaks truth. From Marsabit town, the journey continued toward Kalacha, a four-hour drive toward the far reaches of the county, edging closer to North Horr. Along the way, a fellow passenger leaned over and said, almost casually, “Did you know Chalbi Desert is one of the biggest deserts in Kenya?” I didn’t. But I was about to learn. We entered the Chalbi Desert—vast, flat, and startling in its emptiness. Someone explained that this land was once a lake, long dried up by time and climate. There was no vegetation in sight—only endless openness and soil bleached white like salt. It was beautiful in a haunting way, stripped down to its most honest form. The desert didn’t shout. It waited.

Crossing beyond Chalbi, we finally reached Kalacha. At first glance, there was relief—wetland-like areas, open grazing lands neatly fenced. There is hope here, I thought. But hope, in Kalacha, is complicated. Most of the land had no water. The grazing fields were wide and empty of life’s most basic requirement. Water scarcity here is not seasonal—it is structural. It is urgent. An elder welcomed me and spoke plainly: “We have water here—plenty of it underground. What we lack is the capacity to build boreholes. If we could tap it well, we would have reliable water.” It was not a complaint. It was a fact. Something puzzled me. I noticed patches of deep green vegetation and asked the elder how this could exist in such dryness. He smiled gently and said, “What you are seeing is not life—it is a problem.” He introduced me to Prosopis juliflora, locally known as Mathenge—an invasive species that thrives aggressively even in harsh conditions. It grows fast, spreads relentlessly, and resists clearing. Its thorns are toxic, causing itching and irritation. Livestock that feed on it suffer damaged teeth. It blocks roads and shelters predators like hyenas. Green, yes—but destructive.

My key reflections are —Marsabit is a land of contrasts: fog and clarity, history and hardship, resilience and neglect. It is rich in heritage yet challenged by capacity gaps. As a researcher, walking these landscapes and listening to these voices transformed data points into human truths. This fieldwork reminded me why research must begin with presence—with seeing, listening, and feeling. Marsabit is not just a study site. It is a story still being written, and I am grateful to have walked a few pages of it. As this research journey in Marsabit comes to a close, I am deeply grateful for the trust and opportunity to walk this path. Huge thanks to Bibhav Basnet and Pooja Koirala, Founders/Directors, and Joseph Watila, my immediate Supervisor for entrusting me with this assignment and allowing me to make a meaningful contribution. Your confidence in my work made it possible to listen, learn, and document stories that truly matter. I carry this experience forward with humility, responsibility, and renewed commitment to research that serves people and place.