Nairobi - In the tiny north-western Kenyan village of El-Hadi, two Gabbra pastoralists prepare to take their herd of bleating sheep and goats out to pasture.

The short rains have just come, and shoots of grass are springing up around the cluster of domed huts being warmed by the early morning sun.

At first glance, the scene seems to embody the pastoral idyll, but it belies serious problems in Kenya's arid north.

Population pressures, exacerbated by climate change, have led to constant armed clashes between tribes fighting for dwindling water sources and pasture.

The residents of El-Hadi, which sits in rocky terrain around 20 kilometres from the Ethiopian border, know all too well about the troubles.

"When there is no water, there is no peace," says Sora Godana, El-Hadi's chief.

Two years ago the rains failed and the villager's search for water took them to Ethiopia, setting them against a Borana community there.

"The fight went on for 15 days," says Godana. "Twelve people from our community were killed."

Cattle rustling is part and parcel of the fighting. El-Hadi lost 1,200 camels, 8,000 sheep and goats, and 500 cows in the tit-for-tat raids that followed.

The pattern is repeated elsewhere. Over the last five years there have been countless battles between northern Kenya's many tribes, with sometimes dozens of people being killed by automatic weapon fire.

Security forces policing the thousands of square kilometres of remote scrubland, rocky plains and swathes of desert are struggling to cope.

The Sabarei area near El-Hadi is one of the major flashpoints for cross-border raids due to the proximity of several wells, but the soldiers based there are a ragged bunch.

Most of them are young boys in flip-flops and torn t-shirts carrying weapons almost the same size as them.

According to local aid workers, Ethiopian raiders last year wiped out the force at the nearby Bulluk, which is just a ring of graffiti-covered metal huts atop a hill.

Climate change is stoking the conflicts, and locals say that they are seeing changes in weather patterns.

"We are experiencing longer dry seasons," says Goba Duba, a Gabbra pastoralist. "Ten years ago the rains came and we got good grass. Now there is no grass."

However, according to Lammert Zwaagstra, Drought Coordinator for the Horn of Africa at the European Commission Humanitarian Aid department (ECHO), overpopulation is the real culprit.

"There are more people and less access to grazing - this is an explosive mixture," he says.

Tribes such as the Gabbra, Borana, Turkana and Dasenach are traditionally nomadic, moving to where water and pasture are available. But now most of the land is already occupied.

According to UN figures, the East African nation's population has hit 38 million - up from around 8.2 million in 1960.

"Fifty years ago communities would have coped with drought," Zwaagstra says. "They would have moved on in the dry season, but now people are in those areas already."

Health services are also dire. People often die from diarrhoea after drinking whatever water they can find and the ever-longer dry seasons are leading to a high animal mortality rate.

The upshot is that communities are struggling to survive. Aid agencies say that up to 1 million people are dependent on food aid in northern Kenya.

In an attempt to address the problem, ECHO has committed 30 million euros over 18 months to help communities prepare for drought by funding the rehabilitation of shallow wells, the setting up of rainwater catchments and animal health improvement.

Fledgling peace agreements also offer hope for the future.

The Gabbra community in El-Hadi has struck a deal with the Borana to share water and pasture. Similar deals have been struck around North Horr, and ECHO's partners are taking a lead role in mediation.

But even with aid trickling in, some are left behind.

Darare Baqata, a 23-year-old mother of three, has lived on a barren rocky slope near the village of Dukana for four years.

"The Borana came with dozens of men," she says in the baking sun, two small children clinging to her legs. "They did not fire - they just took our animals and money and told us to leave."

The villagers walked for two days to their new home, where they say they have been left to rot.

"Here, we can't survive," says Umuro Jatani, 53, the head of the small settlement. "Nobody cares about our problems."

Zwaagstra believes the only way to help such refugees and the larger communities is to pump money into long-term programmes with a focus on education. Literacy rates in the region are under 20 per cent.

"We are getting better at keeping people alive, but not providing livelihoods in the long term," he says. "Without education, they are trapped in their environment." (dpa)