GOTU, Kenya — Under the shade of an acacia tree in northern Kenya’s sweltering dry season, a group of elders have gathered to discuss community business in the town of Gotu. Two hours or so from the regional capital of Isiolo, the small but bustling cattle town of Gotu is typical of Kenya’s northern rangeland. Young men whip herds of camels across the road. Goats nibble on shrubs next to small mud-brick homes and tin-roofed shops. A nearby river, reduced to a trickle in anticipation of the coming rains, bakes in the sun.
Rashid Susa, a wiry 70-year-old herder with a weathered face and dyed red beard, is explaining his support for a conservation NGO that everyone in this area knows well: The Northern Rangelands Trust (NRT). He lists the benefits it’s brought to Gotu in the 14 years it’s been operating here: the salaries earned by community wildlife rangers, scholarships divvied out from carbon credit payments, help tracking down stolen livestock after raids by neighboring communities.
Around the circle, heads nod in agreement. The town is part of the Nakuprat-Gotu conservancy, one of 45 NRT “member” conservancies in Kenya and Uganda. At least in this crowd of older men, NRT is popular. The men here are from the Borana ethnicity, but their conservancy is shared with Turkana herders they used to fight with. Violence and cattle raiding between the two communities was once so bad it made the highway that runs through town impassable, but co-managing Nakuprat-Gotu improved their relationship.
“They came together to form a conservancy and intermingled,” says Gallogallo Halkano, who finished a second term last year as the elected chair of Nakuprat-Gotu’s board. “Rangers were employed, they came to sit together and became friendly. The communities started exchanging in programs and finally became peaceful.”
This is a vision of NRT’s operations in northern Kenya that aligns with the organization’s self-image. In the two decades since its founding by conservationist Ian Craig in 2004, it’s grown into a behemoth. The conservancies Craig and NRT helped establish now cover more than 10% of Kenya’s total area: 6.37 million hectares (15.74 million acres), around three times the size of Rwanda.
Pitched as an alternative to the older fortress-style national park model that’s dominated Africa since the colonial era, NRT represents arguably the most successful community conservation experiment on the continent.
“As Nakuprat-Gotu conservancy, we are very much pro-NRT,” Susa says emphatically.
It’s also, some others around here now say, potentially on the brink of collapse.
The past year has been one of turmoil and crisis for NRT, culminating in last week’s decision by carbon credit certifier Verra to suspend approval for a project it manages — for the second time. The project, which has earned tens of millions of dollars by managing livestock grazing routes to maximize soil carbon storage, has been a major source of funds for NRT and its member conservancies.
The suspension follows a decision by a Kenyan court in a long-running dispute over the legality of two of its biggest conservancies. In January, Kenya’s Environment and Land Court ruled that the conservancies had been set up without adequate public participation and were thus unconstitutional.
On top of that, funding from USAID, historically one of NRT’s biggest donors, came to an abrupt halt under the current U.S. administration, and last summer Craig himself departed in a very public and acerbic dispute with the organization’s board.
It’s been a tough stretch for NRT, which has found itself in uncharted waters. And not everyone is rooting for it to find its way through.
A few hours west of Gotu, in the town of Biliqo, Hassan Godena sits cross-legged on a couch in his small home, gaunt and frail at 75 years old. A decade ago, Godena’s wife and daughter were killed in a cattle raid. He blames NRT for their death, along with those of others from Biliqo who’ve been killed in intracommunal violence. It’s a view shared by some others here, rooted in NRT’s deep relationship with neighboring Samburu communities, long the bitter rivals of Borana herders from this area.
Godena has a very different perspective than that of Gotu’s elders. It’s one that underlines the fraught politics of community conservation in northern Kenya, where NRT has filled roles that would normally be expected of a government. And it demonstrates the depth of the difficulties the organization is now facing.
“We’re going to eradicate that monster called NRT from this area,” he says, grimacing.
Court battles and finger-pointing
In its two decades of existence, NRT has enjoyed a meteoric rise to prominence in northern Kenya. Spurred by the collapse of rhino and elephant populations here, Craig encouraged communities neighboring his Lewa ranch to set up their own wildlife conservancies. They became NRT’s first members.
Under the model developed by Craig and NRT, when a community becomes a member of NRT, it signs an agreement allowing its land to be managed for conservation purposes. In exchange, the organization helps train and equip community wildlife rangers, called “scouts,” and directs donor funds toward local development projects like schools and water boreholes.
Some conservancies have become part of the Northern Kenya Rangelands Carbon Project, which has generated tens of millions of dollars’ worth of soil carbon credits purchased by corporate buyers. Those credits come from participating conservancies that agree to implement rotational grazing rules that allow grasses to regrow and store carbon.
Conservancy leadership boards are elected, but not everyone who lives inside conservancy areas is a voting member. That’s led to disputes over representation. The conservancies are typically registered by a “community-based organization”; NRT says the conservancy needs to prove it’s obtained the consent of the entire community first, but critics have argued that the process is often weak and haphazard.
In 2021, U.S.-based advocacy group the Oakland Institute published a report accusing NRT rangers of being involved in the deaths of Borana herders in Biliqo Bulesa, one of its largest conservancies, and violating the land rights of conservancy opponents. A subsequent independent review commissioned by The Nature Conservancy, one of NRT’s funders, found no evidence to support the allegations made against wildlife rangers, but it acknowledged that Biliqo Bulesa’s establishment in 2007 was “driven by a few community leaders with close NRT involvement.”
In a landmark decision earlier this year, Kenya’s Environment and Land Court agreed. On Jan. 24, the court ruled that the Biliqo Bulesa and Cherab conservancies had been set up illegally. Both are predominantly Borana, in Isiolo county, west of Gotu en route to Somalia.
The decision set off a wave of controversy and protests across the county, with both sides accusing the other of misrepresenting the views of conservancy residents.
“They took us to court on behalf of the community without our consent and paralyzed the operations of the conservancy,” says Mohammed Waka, the manager of Biliqo Bulesa and an NRT employee. “It was a shock for us as a community.”
The dispute cuts to the core of NRT’s vision for nature conservation. Communities, the group has long argued, need to be empowered to care for wildlife and the environment on their own instead of relying on state agencies like the Kenya Wildlife Service.
But what happens when members of a community disagree or stop getting along with each other?
Waka dismisses the lawsuit as the work of a tiny disgruntled minority, saying they were influenced by outsiders to oppose NRT.
“The majority of the community supports our work, because they are seeing the benefit of conservation,” he says.
Innocent Makaka, lead counsel representing the case’s 165 plaintiffs, disagrees with that framing.
“What do you mean by majority?” he says. “You did not even invite our clients for meetings to let them decline if they want. I think it’s just an argument to try to disparage the judgment.”
NRT’s request for a stay of judgment in the case was rejected in late April, and it’s now winding its way through Kenya’s appeals process. If the decision is upheld, the ruling wouldn’t automatically apply to other conservancies under NRT’s umbrella. But Makaka says it will set a precedent that could be used to mount similar challenges, should anyone living in those other conservancies decide to bring their own case to court.
The stakes are high. This month, Verra, which certifies carbon credits for sale on global markets, put NRT’s flagship carbon project under review. Biliqo Bulesa is one of project’s participants; last year, its Carbon Community Fund received nearly $200,000 as its cut of sales, some of which went to scholarships for 550 students living in the area.
Overall, in 2024, around $2.5 million was disbursed to such funds in the 22 communities that have contributed land to the carbon project.
In a statement emailed to Mongabay, Verra confirmed that the court’s ruling led to its decision to suspend certification of the project. If Verra doesn’t reinstate it, those payments would cease.
“If the conservancy operations are paralyzed, it will be impossible for us to get the carbon funds, which really transformed the life of the community,” Waka says.
NRT said it expects the project to make it through Verra’s “Section 6” review and be reinstated.
“The project remains fully compliant with the requirements of the Verified Carbon Standard. This Section 6 will proceed alongside the finalisation of the project’s next verification, including submission of external legal opinions,” it said in a joint statement with Native, the company that developed the project, that was emailed to Mongabay.
The case’s plaintiffs say they aren’t opposed to conservation. But they want to structure decision-making in line with Kenya’s community land law, rather than NRT’s conservancy management charter.
“We are really pushing for community land registration, so that when you engage the community, there’s a structure and a formula on how to engage [it],” says Makaka.
Here in Biliqo, a windswept town of livestock herders, the ruling is a blow to some, and a reason to celebrate for others. Whether or not Waka’s claim is true, and the majority of people here support the conservancy, it’s not hard to find its opponents.
“Since they came, I’ve been against them,” says Hadija Jillo, a shopkeeper on Biliqo’s dusty main strip, who cheered the January ruling and describes herself as a “pioneer” in the court case.
“We don’t want to see NRT’s staff or vehicles in this area,” she adds.
‘I think NRT is dead’
Biliqo’s not the only source of vocal opposition to NRT in northern Kenya at the moment. Lately, it’s been coming from an unlikely direction: Lewa, and Ian Craig himself.
Before last year, NRT and Ian Craig were interchangeable in the minds of most people in northern Kenya. The organization was Craig’s brainchild, born from years of work convincing donors and community leaders in the north to buy into his vision for conservation.
“We grew the organization over 20 years, and it was founded on one premise: that we would bring together communities using conservation as a tool to bring development,” he says in a soft voice, sitting on a park bench inside Lewa as a giraffe ambles past behind him.
Craig, a descendant of white settlers in Kenya, has been the most visible personality in NRT. It’s earned him awards, including a knighthood and the Order of the British Empire. But it’s also made him a prime target for the organization’s many critics.
“I come from a colonial background, I’m white, I’m old, I’m the perfect target for Survival [International] and Oakland and all the bomb throwers,” he says.
NRT’s board is chaired by Julius Kipng’etich, CEO of insurance company Jubilee Holdings, and includes other senior figures from the Kenyan business, conservation and donor communities. According to Ruben Lendira, manager of the Sera conservancy’s rhino sanctuary, an internal power struggle between Craig and the board turned ugly last year.
“They wanted to chase him [away] so they could take over,” Lendira says in his office near the sanctuary.
Last June, the organization posted a surprise announcement about Craig’s retirement. Less than two weeks later, he wrote a scathing letter accusing the board of “mismanagement,” criticizing its decision to remove NRT’s financial controller and move its headquarters out of Lewa.
The split was not amicable, and Craig’s departure has been polarizing in northern Kenya — including inside some of NRT’s conservancies.
“I think since pushing Ian out, things started going down in NRT in terms of its operations and community support,” Lendira says.
In a statement posted to NRT’s website, the board said the decision to move the organization’s headquarters out of Lewa was taken to “enhance access” and that it was policy for employees to retire at 60.
Tom Lalampaa, NRT’s current CEO, declined to respond to a request for comment on the circumstances around Craig’s exit from the trust.
Craig, on the other hand, is not shy about sharing his bitterness over what he calls the “dirty circumstances” around his departure.
“I think NRT is dead,” he says. “It’s not a crisis, we’re just waiting for the ceremony to bury it.”
Losing USAID
Adding to its woes, earlier this year NRT had to contend with the unexpected and sudden loss of one of its primary funders: USAID.
NRT declined to answer a question about what percentage of its operating budget was financed by the now largely dismantled aid agency, but between 2015 and 2020, it received nearly $20 million from USAID. That support continued through 2024; in his introduction to NRT’s annual report from that year, board chairman Kipng’etich specifically thanked the agency, calling it “instrumental in advancing our mission.”
When USAID’s support for NRT ended in January, the trust was forced to lay off nearly 100 staff members, according to Lendira.
Craig says that’s not the only funding hit the group has taken this year.
“I was the catalyst for the private philanthropy that came to NRT. It all went with me because of lack of trust in the remnants,” he says.
An NRT spokesperson disputed this portrayal of the group’s financial health.
“We have not had any grants or significant donations withdrawn, with the exception of USAID funding, which was cancelled following the executive order,” the spokesperson wrote in an email. “Like all of the other affected organizations, this led to some downsizing; however, our operations and projects continue as before.”
In its two decades, NRT has transformed northern Kenya, helping to establish a sprawling network of community conservancies, carbon projects, tourist facilities, and ranger operations. It’s been one of the most significant conservation initiatives in East Africa, with far-reaching impacts on nearly every aspect of daily life here.
Now, it faces the future without one of its keystone donors, in a war of words with its most recognizable face, and in legal limbo over a land rights case that’s choking off a critical source of carbon credit funding. How it fares from here will have ripple effects throughout the region, and for community-led conservation in East Africa as a whole.
“They cannot come to a close,” Lendira says. “But they will have to narrow their support.”
Banner image: A herder minds his goats in Isiolo County, Kenya. Image by Ashoka Mukpo/Mongabay.
