survive

Turkana, Kenya – In the relentless heat of Kainama in Turkana county, Veronica Akalapatan and her neighbours walk several kilometres each day to a half-dried-up well surrounded by the parched earth of northern Kenya.

The dug-out hole in the ground with a wooden ladder is the only source of water in the area. Hundreds of people from several villages – and their livestock – share the well, most waiting hours to fill up small plastic buckets with meagre amounts of unclean water.

“Once we get here, we dig for water in the well and collect fruit. We wait for the water to fill the well,” says Akalapatan. “We take turns to fetch it because there is so little. There are many of us, and sometimes we fight over it.”

In Turkana, the land is rugged, roads disappear into dust, and villages are scattered across vast distances in a county of just more than a million people.

Despite it being the rainy season, weather experts warn that Turkana and other arid regions may receive little relief.

Authorities say drought is once again taking place, with 23 of Kenya’s 47 counties affected. An estimated 3.4 million people do not have enough to eat, at least 800,000 children show signs of malnutrition, and livestock – the backbone of pastoral life – are dying.

In Turkana alone, 350,000 households are on the brink of starvation.

“We are suffering from hunger,” Turkana elder Peter Longiron Aemun tells Al Jazeera.

“We don’t have water. Our livestock have died. We have nothing. We used to burn charcoal, but there are no acacia trees any more.”

Kenya is still recovering from one of its worst droughts in 40 years, which gripped the country between 2020 and 2023. The new weather crisis will likely make things worse.

But at the same time, experts note a stark paradox: Scarcity amid abundance.

Food loss and food waste

While families face acute water shortages and hunger – with boreholes broken down, and wells and streams dried up – Lake Turkana’s water levels have risen in recent years, displacing some shoreline communities.

In other areas, sudden heavy rains trigger flash floods in normally dry riverbeds – known locally as luggas – yet the land remains largely barren. The water comes too fast, runs off too quickly and cannot sustain agriculture.

At the same time, while droughts lessen food supplies and global donor funding cuts have reduced food aid, not too far away, experts say, there is a surplus of food that does not make its way to those who need it.

“In Kenya, a quarter of the population faces severe food insecurity, even as up to 40% of the food produced is lost or wasted each year,” according to a September report by the World Resources Institute (WRI).

Food loss occurs on farms, and during the handling, storage and transportation of supplies, while food waste occurs in households, restaurants and in the retail sphere, WRI researchers noted.

In parts of the North Rift – one of Kenya’s breadbaskets – farmers have recorded good harvests. But high prices and widespread poverty mean pastoralist families in Turkana cannot easily afford food transported from surplus regions.

Security adds another layer of strain. Competition over water and pasture fuels tensions, cattle raids persist, armed bandits operate in remote areas, and security forces struggle to contain violence amid logistical and political challenges.

“The biggest problem in drought areas is security,” says Joseph Kamande, a food trader in Wangige in central Kenya.

Still, he believes the country has the potential to feed itself with better planning.

“The land is vast. Some of it is arable,” he says, adding that “water is the solution.”

Untapped aquifers

In Turkana, though there is severe drought, there are also untapped natural resources.

Hundreds of metres underground are multiple aquifers, layers of rock and soil containing water. The government is hoping to tap into these sources.

In 2013, two major aquifers were discovered, the Napuu aquifer and the Lotikipi aquifer. The largest covers roughly 5,000km (3,100 miles) and holds about 250 trillion litres (66 trillion gallons) of water.

It is said to have the capacity to supply Kenya with water for decades.

However, much of the water is salty and expensive to purify, so the project has stalled.

“The big challenge is salinity,” says Turkana County Water Director Paul Lotum.

“The national government and partners are mapping out pockets where water is safe and reliable. We are working bit by bit to harness it for communities.”

Until then, relief food remains essential for Turkana communities.

The government’s disaster management teams and other agencies are distributing water and food. But supplies are stretched thin. And getting aid to those who need it most is nearly impossible in some areas.

“Most government organisations are either closed or running leaner programmes,” says Jacob Ekaran, Turkana’s coordinator for the National Drought Management Authority.

“The resource basket has shrunk. But the government is trying to do more with what it has.”

‘I can’t find food’

When supplies run low, many people turn to wild berries and fruits.

In Lopur village, resident Akal Loyeit Etangana harvests berries that she then cooks in a small pot over an outdoor fire.

She says she has not had a proper meal in two weeks, so the fruit mixture keeps hunger away. Still, it carries almost no nutritional value.

“If it doesn’t rain, trees and leaves dry up. There is no water,” she laments, adding that clinics are also very far away and people have to walk long distances to get help.

In another village, Napeillim, resident Christine Kiepa worries that there is no food.

“I try to look for food. Sometimes it’s not there,” she says. “If I can’t find food, how do I survive?” she asks.

Villages in the region are slowly emptying. Male herders, who are usually the providers for their families, have moved to neighbouring counties in search of pasture and water for their dying livestock.

Only the elderly, women, young children and the weakest animals remain in the homesteads.

Still, there have been some gains in the region.

Since Kenya adopted a devolved system of government in 2013, Turkana has seen new schools and health centres built, irrigation schemes launched, boreholes drilled, and some roads tarmacked. Officials say investments in drought response have strengthened resilience.

“In the past, drought always degenerated into disaster. You would see reports of deaths,” says Ekaran from the drought management authority. “We are coming from one of the worst droughts in 40 years, but we did not record deaths. That is because of resilience building.”

Painful cycle

For generations, northern Kenya’s nomadic communities have depended on livestock. But climate change is forcing a reckoning. Calls for diversification – irrigation, drought-resistant crops and trees, large dams – have grown louder.

“We can change our community mindset,” says Rukia Abubakar, Turkana coordinator for the Red Cross.

“We can plant drought-resistant trees. We can do irrigation. Our soil is good for crop farming.”

These proposals are not new. They have surfaced after every drought, repeated in policy papers and political speeches.

Yet for many people in Turkana, the cycle feels painfully familiar and daily survival remains precarious.

Back in Kainama, Akalapatan and her neighbours walk back from the water well through the vast, arid landscape, carrying a collection of filled yellow plastic buckets.

They finally return to their small community of thatched huts.

Akalapatan has managed to collect 20 litres (5 gallons) of water for her family for the day.

Her son eagerly fills a cup and gulps it down.

But she knows that what she has is barely enough for everyone, and she will soon have to make the journey to the well again.

Two Palestinian brothers are the only survivors after Israeli troops killed their parents and two siblings in Tammun in the occupied West Bank, according to Palestinian health authorities. The boys say soldiers opened fire on their family car and beat them after the shooting.

For the handful of skiers gliding across a sun-drenched ridge high in the San Gabriel Mountains, the wide expanse of the Inland Empire stretched to the Pacific Ocean nearly two vertical miles below.

Across sparkling water, the rugged spine of Catalina Island graced the horizon.

The view rivaled anything at the posh, world-renowned ski resorts of Lake Tahoe, but this was humble Mt. Baldy — the familiar local mountain that, for a few precious weeks each year, becomes a downhill skiing destination that holds its own with anything in the American West.

A sign inside Top of the Notch restaurant at Mt. Baldy.

Last week — after the 10,000-foot summit that looms above Los Angeles emerged from storm clouds blanketed in white — was one for the ages.

But in a rapidly warming world, and in an industry dominated by two huge and growing conglomerates that are crushing the competition, every run feels fleeting.

These days, managing a small ski business is like trying to keep a mom-and-pop general store afloat after Walmart comes to town.

By noon last Wednesday on Mt. Baldy — a little more than an hour’s drive from downtown L.A. — it was getting pretty hot, and the snow was melting fast.

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For a skier racing between towering Jeffrey pines and plummeting through soft, slushy piles of forgiving snow, the hardest part was dodging exposed rocks and random tree limbs that appeared underfoot with alarming frequency.

The hardest part for the business is the fact that one of the conglomerates, Alterra Mountain Co., essentially surrounds Mt. Baldy.

Zac Chambers and his daughter Whitney, 6, of Upland, snowboard together at Mt. Baldy.

It owns Big Bear Mountain Resort and Snow Summit in nearby San Bernardino County, and Mammoth Mountain, the closest big resort in California’s High Sierra.

Although a season pass at Mt. Baldy is a relative bargain at about $300, it’s good only when there’s snow.

For about $800, you can get an “Ikon Pass” from Alterra, which offers access to all of its resorts in California and dozens more across the country and around the globe, including South America, Europe and Asia.

All of which makes keeping the lights on and the chairlifts spinning at beloved, but beleaguered, local resorts an exhausting labor of love.

Last week, Robby Ellingson, president and general manager of Mt. Baldy Resort, drove two hours to a rival resort in Big Bear Lake to pick up spare parts for an old chairlift that had broken down. He thanked them with a few cases of beer.

He planned to grab some tools and install the parts himself, with the help of an electrician.

Michael Phelps, left, and Seven Foster, of Riverside, take the chairlift up to Mt. Baldy Resort.

“I climb the lift towers, I drive snowcats, I do pretty much everything,” he said, chuckling at all of the hard, physical labor despite his executive title. “There’s a lot of things I do that none of the other dudes who hold my position would dream of — out of necessity.”

Another Mt. Baldy executive, Ellingson’s brother Tommy, turned up for an interview on the mountain in a camouflage hoodie, clutching an electric hand drill.

“Everybody’s like a Swiss army knife up here,” he quipped. “It’s awesome, it’s organic!”

It’s also very old-school.

While resorts like Mammoth invest millions in state-of-the-art chairlifts that whisk six people at a time up the mountain with astonishing speed, Mt. Baldy relies on slow, creaking two- and three-person lifts reminiscent of the 1980s.

A lot of the ski gear, ski fashion and the skiers themselves seemed proudly rooted in a bygone era too.

A skier carves down the mountain at Mt. Baldy.

Chris Caron, a 65-year-old retiree who lives 20 minutes down the road, stood at the top of the experts chairlift with a beard as white as snow, a black plastic sun shield across his nose and a cold craft beer in hand.

“There’s big conglomerates trying to buy everybody up, and I don’t want that,” he said, shading himself beneath the bill of his Pliny the Elder ball cap. “That’s what I love about here. It’s not so commercialized.”

Caron said he snowboards at Baldy every chance he gets — 20 to 30 days in a good year.

“I grew up here. We used to ride our bicycles and hike these mountains,” he said. “It’s like home.”

Driving back from visiting family in Missouri recently, Caron stopped at Taos Ski Valley in New Mexico, a bucket list destination for people who don’t shy from pricey vacations. He couldn’t help himself, he said — they’d just had a big dump of fresh powder and it wasn’t too far out of his way. But it didn’t feel right.

“It’s pretty posh,” he said with a resigned shrug. “That’s just not me.”

Also enjoying the uncrowded slopes and gloriously short lift lines on Wednesday was Tommaso Ghio, 28, an aspiring filmmaker from Italy who spent much of the afternoon snowboarding shirtless and looking like an extra from a Visit California commercial.

Old skis adorn a light fixture at the Top of the Notch restaurant at Mt. Baldy.

He and his friends drove up through the desert where it was, “like 80 or 90 degrees, and then we just ended up on top of a mountain,” covered in snow, he said, grinning as if he had won the lottery. “You can’t get this anywhere else.”

But the balmy weather that made the afternoon feel so decadent, and otherworldly, also poses a serious threat to Baldy’s on-again, off-again ski season.

It started with a surprise early storm in November — one that had locals dreaming of a record-breaking year — followed by a bone-dry December.

Then at Christmas, an atmospheric river that dumped several feet of snow on Northern California resorts arrived at Mt. Baldy, which tops out at 8,600 feet, as “catastrophic” rain, Ellingson said.

Rain washes away existing snow and destroys the quality of anything left behind.

And since Christmas week crowds generate about 30% of annual revenue at many U.S. ski resorts, the storm soaked Mt. Baldy in more ways than one.

Things stayed grim until last week’s storm, which dropped more than 2 feet of snow at the base of the resort and up to 3 feet at the top.

With limited snow at lower elevations, people make the up-and-down trip from the chairlift at Mt. Baldy.

It took some time to recover from damage done by the howling wind and make sure none of the enormous piles of snow on the upper reaches became life-threatening avalanches. When the resort finally opened, the skiing was as good as any in recent memory.

“I’ve lived in Mt. Baldy almost my entire life,” said Ellingson, who is 50, “and last Friday was one of my top five days ever.”

He’s hoping the storm delivered enough snow to stay open for at least a month, but the heat is not helping.

Ellingson’s family bought the Mt. Baldy Lodge, a restaurant in the village far below, in the late 1970s. They started running the ski hill, which they own a substantial share of, in 2013.

Increasingly fickle winters have forced the resort to branch out in an attempt to boost summer earnings and attract non-skiing customers: hosting moonlight hikes with live music in the restaurant at the base of the lifts, renting “glamping” tents on wooden platforms — with beds and locking doors — to tempt uneasy campers to sleep beneath the stars.

And in what Ellingson called a “swing for the fences” move, the resort recently bought a microbrewery in Upland. After serving beers at the restaurant for decades, it seemed like a natural next step.

Anything to avoid getting trapped in a “desk job,” Ellingson said, like his friends working as middle managers at the big, corporate resorts.

“I hate to throw shade,” he said, but do those guys ever go skiing?

Independence is priceless to Ellingson because, when you’re the boss and the snow is good, nobody can order you to stop throwing tricks in the terrain park and flying off jumps.

“I grew up during the X Games boom. That’s my identity,” he said. “I still get rad every single day.”

Monterrey, Mexico – Portraits of the missing cover Guadalajara’s “Roundabout of the Disappeared”, a landmark renamed by families to highlight the state’s disappearance crisis.

On February 22, the streets surrounding the memorial and throughout the city stood empty after the Mexican army killed Ruben Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, the longtime leader of the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG).

In retaliation, cartel members set fire to buses and taxis, erecting a series of blockades that spread across 20 states.

The widespread unrest demonstrated the CJNG’s capacity for rapid coordination, fuelled by a ‘franchise’ model that allows smaller cells to operate under the cartel’s brand and vast financial network.

While the group’s economic reach extends into Europe and Asia, its power remains rooted in its paramilitary force. This structure relies on extortion, brutal violence and forced disappearances as its main tools to seize territory and control markets.

Oseguera Cervantes, known as “El Mencho”, consolidated one of Mexico’s most powerful criminal organisations in part due to a unique franchise-based structure.

According to the United States Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), the CJNG maintains a presence in every state of Mexico, with varying levels of influence, and operates in more than 40 countries across the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa, and throughout the US. Its primary activity is the trafficking of cocaine, fentanyl and methamphetamine.

Raul Zepeda Gil, a teaching fellow in War Studies at King’s College London, notes that rather than following a “classic organisational pyramid”, the CJNG avoids a centralised financial network.

“Instead, profits can be distributed across many locations and groups simultaneously,” Zepeda told Al Jazeera.

Besides controlling key areas in western Mexico, the CJNG controls the Pacific Coast region, including the strategic ports of Manzanillo and Lazaro Cardenas, crucial for the import of synthetic precursor chemicals.

“Their most important activity is drug trafficking,” Zepeda said. “Chemical precursors that arrive from China reach Mexican ports and are then sent to the United States already in fentanyl form.”

The organisation also generates revenues through fuel theft, illegal mining, extortion, migrant smuggling and money laundering.

On February 19, the US Department of the Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC) sanctioned a timeshare fraud network led by the CJNG that targeted elderly Americans.

“Timeshare fraud in Mexico has plagued American victims for decades, costing them hundreds of millions of dollars while enriching criminal organisations such as CJNG,” the Treasury Department stated in a press release.

The CJNG’s extensive reach and rapid growth are made possible by a vast, powerful network that protects drug trafficking operations and ensures impunity, says Carlos Flores, an investigator at the Centre for Research and Higher Education in Social Anthropology (CIESAS). Flores argues that these “hegemonic power networks”, shadow networks of business leaders, politicians, and criminals, have reconfigured state institutions to serve their own interests.

“These same networks, which control and administer state institutions – including security institutions – focus their actions primarily against their competitors, while simultaneously allowing these other networks to consolidate their power,” he added.

The rise of a deadly paramilitary force

Forced disappearances and extortion are crucial for the CJNG’s control of the market, seeding fear that silences communities and facilitates forced recruitment. This ensures a steady supply of disposable labour while following the ‘no body, no crime’ logic that minimises the political and legal costs of their operations.

Homicides and forced disappearances have surged in Jalisco since the group emerged in 2010. The CJNG rose from the remnants of the Milenio Cartel, a subordinate partner of the Sinaloa Cartel based in Oseguera Cervantes’s home state of Michoacan. While across Mexico more than 130,000 people are missing, Jalisco currently ranks at the top with at least 16,000 reported cases, and collectives of families continue to uncover mass graves and what they describe as “extermination sites”.

Raul Servin, a member of the Guerreros Buscadores, a collective representing more than 400 families of the disappeared, told Al Jazeera that their searches frequently reveal human remains in varying states of decay and torture. They have found victims who were shot, hanged or killed with bladed weapons that were left inside the bodies, he said.

“It’s a sadness and helplessness we feel when we see each body these people leave behind,” said Servin, who has been searching for his son since 2018.

Beyond its financial power, the CJNG is notorious for its extensive arsenal of military-grade weaponry, including armed drones, rocket-propelled grenades, and firearms.

On February 22, more than 25 National Guard members were killed in Jalisco. In the past, the organisation has also carried out high-profile attacks against public officials.

Last year in February, US President Donald Trump designated the Jalisco New Generation Cartel as a foreign terrorist organisation. In July, US prosecutors in Virginia unsealed an indictment against Petar Dimitrov Mirchev, a Bulgarian national accused of conspiring with East African associates to equip the CJNG with military-grade weaponry. The indictment states that Mirchev brokered these deals “despite knowing that the CJNG inflicts catastrophic suffering” to protect its prolific drug trafficking operations.

The indictment also revealed that the CJNG was attempting to buy surface-to-air missiles and anti-aircraft systems (ZU-23). Overall, Mirchev allegedly created a list of weaponry worth approximately $58m.

The paramilitary profile has allowed the CJNG to expand rapidly into rival territories and monopolise the market. Flores describes this training, deployment, and weaponry as being similar to an army, making them “practically uncontestable”.

“They operate under a different kind of logic,” Flores said. “They provide a kind of licence to [local] groups that associate with them. They fight their enemies and collaborate on trafficking in exchange for using the Jalisco New Generation Cartel as a label.”

The CJNG adopted a level of brutality similar to Los Zetas, whose founders were elite Mexican special forces soldiers trained by the US and Israel. In its early days, the CJNG was known as the “Matazetas”, or Zetas Killers.

Servin and the Guerreros Buscadores have seen the results of this brutality firsthand. Locating the missing becomes more difficult as concealment tactics evolve, Servin said. Disappearances have become a powerful economic tool to control and exploit territory. Collectives often find bodies buried under layers of dirt and animal carcasses to throw off the scent, or even encased in concrete.

“They make us work harder than necessary. If they took his life, why not leave him where we can find him quickly?”

Zepeda says that the CJNG leveraged military-grade tactics to fill the void left by the government’s crackdown on other cartels carried out between 2008 and 2010. In 2009, the Beltran-Leyva Organisation – which had been at war with the Sinaloa Cartel since their 2008 split – was reeling from a series of high-profile arrests and killings.

The death of Ignacio “Nacho” Coronel, a key finance operator for the Sinaloa Cartel, at the hands of the military in 2010 further cleared the way for new criminal players. Oseguera Cervantes was working under Coronel before breaking away to form what would become the CJNG.

“If we could summarise the Jalisco New Generation Cartel, it’s a reinvention of Los Zetas, which took over all the territory that the other cartels defeated by the Mexican government had occupied,” Zepeda added.

This history serves as a warning of what may follow the death of Oseguera Cervantes. Zepeda pointed out that the drug trade is an incredibly dynamic market where “there will always be a group of people willing to take control”.

Flores warns that “decapitating the leadership” is insufficient if power networks, along with the CJNG’s criminal and operational structures, remain intact.

“Without dismantling the power networks, yesterday’s victory will become the cause of new violence tomorrow,” Flores said. “We’ve seen this approach many times before, and we know what it leads to: It solves neither the transnational drug problem nor creates conditions of greater stability for the Mexican population.”