Three young men stand on ledges cut into the sides of a deep hole in a dried up river bed in Marsabit, Northern Kenya.
Singing as they work, the first scratches a can into the muddy puddle at the bottom of the hole and scoops out some water and grit, passing it to the next man in the chain, who passes it up to the top.
Finally the can is emptied into a hollowed-out tree trunk. Thirsty goats push past each other to get their heads into this makeshift trough.
As each group of goats drinks its fill, a young boy with a red cloth around his waist brings a new group, the rest stay penned up.
In the two hours we have been with the herders they have had to move to a new hole eight times, as each successive shallow well becomes exhausted of its pitiful supply of water. It will take most of the day to water all 100 goats.
It is only 9am, yet the sun is already high in the sky and the heat is becoming unbearable.
While we try to find shade, we wonder how these young men can carry on passing the cans up and down the chain all day.
They walk with their animals for several hours to get water. They make this trip every three days. In between times, they walk several hours in the other direction to “pasture”.
In reality, this pasture is cracked earth with scarce remains of withered grass. Any pasture near the watering holes was eaten long ago.
In the UK, we hear about climate change every day, but the words take on a whole new meaning now that I’ve seen the scale of work necessary just to feed and water these scrawny animals.
For people who depend on their animals for almost everything – food, milk, skins, income – late and insufficient rains, leading to empty wells and dried up pasture, mean longer toiling in the baking heat and their animals becoming weaker.
It also threatens their whole way of life, followed here for thousands of years, and becoming harder each year.
Countless people tell us how the rains are more scarce and unpredictable every year. It is a story we hear over and over again.
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