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Joseph Ole Parsaloi moves slowly across the sun-scorched plains of northern Tanzania, his cattle grazing lazily on the arid landscape. Dust swirls around their hooves, catching the fading sunlight in a golden haze. The 56-year-old Maasai herder, accompanied by his children, guides his 143 cattle, sheep, and goats across several kilometres in search of pasture and water before returning to their boma — a traditional thorn-fenced enclosure.
Armed with a club and a spear, Parsaloi skilfully navigates the rugged terrain. A sharp whistle keeps strays in line as he leads the herd through the dry savanna, following rhythms passed down for generations.
“This land is essential for cattle grazing, but we have been instructed to change our grazing methods to help store carbon in the soil. I worry this will disrupt our feeding plans,” Parsaloi told Down To Earth (DTE).
Like thousands of other Maasai pastoralists, Parsaloi finds himself entangled in the growing global carbon credit industry. Foreign companies, backed by wealthy investors, are securing deals that allow them to claim carbon stored in Tanzanian soil as offsets for pollution elsewhere. While these initiatives are touted as climate solutions, the Maasai see them as a direct threat to their way of life.
In recent years, carbon offset projects have targeted nearly two million hectares of Maasai grazing land. Two major initiatives — the Longido and Monduli Rangelands Carbon Project, funded by Volkswagen ClimatePartners and The Resilient Tarangire Ecosystem Project, backed by The Nature Conservancy — have promised financial and environmental benefits for local communities.
However, many Maasai fear history is repeating itself.
Their traditional system of communal grazing and seasonal mobility is being upended by structured rotational grazing models imposed by these projects. Under the new system, cattle must be moved in strict cycles every 14 days to maintain soil carbon levels — a radical departure from practices honed over centuries.
Villagers say the deals have been pushed through without proper consultation, leaving communities bound by long-term contracts — some lasting up to 40 years — with little understanding of their implications.
“Most people don’t even know what they signed up for,” said Na Nalichilichi, a researcher at the Maasai International Solidarity Alliance (MISA), a coalition advocating for Maasai land rights. “Women and young people—who will inherit these contracts—were completely left out of the discussions.”
Project organisers insist the carbon credit programmes will benefit local communities. “Carbon markets can provide a new source of income,” said Lucy Magembe, country director for The Nature Conservancy. “These projects help communities adapt to climate change while preserving biodiversity.”
But the Maasai remain sceptical. They have heard similar promises before—when their land was taken for wildlife tourism, trophy hunting, and conservation zones. Many fear they are being lured into agreements that benefit outsiders while leaving them with little in return.
“The biggest problem is control,” said Parsaloi. “The contracts dictate how we use our land for decades. If we want to leave the deal, we have no clear exit.”
Villagers also report receiving meagre compensation. Some communities have been offered one-time payments of just a few thousand dollars, with no clear long-term benefits. Critics liken these payments to a “dowry,” offering temporary financial relief while locking communities into restrictive land-use agreements.
The Tanzanian government is intensifying efforts to expand carbon credit schemes, framing them as a tool for both environmental conservation and economic growth. During a recent climate meeting in Dar es Salaam, Vice President Philip Mpango outlined plans to streamline the sector, calling for greater transparency and faster approvals from the National Carbon Monitoring Centre (NCMC).
As Tanzania enters international carbon markets, officials anticipate significant financial gains — projected at $1 billion annually from carbon credit sales. Yet, critics argue that local communities are being sidelined in the rush for profits.
Tanzania is not alone in facing controversy over carbon trading. A 2023 investigation by The Guardian found that more than 90 per cent of rainforest carbon offsets sold by a leading certifier were effectively worthless. Soil carbon offsets, such as those in the Maasai rangelands, are even more uncertain.
“The idea that you can capture carbon in Maasai rangelands and sell it to polluters is based on flawed assumptions,” said Henry Kileo, an environmental researcher specialising in carbon storage. “In semi-arid climates like northern Tanzania, soil carbon levels are highly variable and difficult to measure accurately. There’s no guarantee these projects actually help fight climate change.”
Faced with growing opposition, the Maasai are organising. Across villages, elders gather to discuss their options. Young warriors, once trained to defend cattle from lions, are now preparing to defend their land through legal battles and advocacy.
The crisis has deep roots. In 2022, Maasai communities in Ngorongoro and Loliondo faced violent evictions under the guise of conservation. In response, Joseph Oleshangay, a Maasai lawyer and other activists formed MISA to defend pastoralist rights.
“MISA started as a response to the crisis in Ngorongoro and Loliondo,” said Oleshangay. “But as we dug deeper, we realised the same challenges were spreading across the Maasai region, driven by conservation policies and now carbon credit projects.”
A January 2024 study by MISA uncovered troubling details about carbon credit deals in Maasai villages. Nalichilichi, who led the research in Longido and Monduli districts, found widespread violations of Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC).
“Our research showed that most villagers didn’t understand what they were signing,” she said. “Village meetings were rare, and women were excluded from discussions.”
Some villages received small “engagement payments,” which Nalichilichi argues were used to coerce leaders into signing deals.
“They were framed as goodwill gestures, but in reality, they pressured communities into agreements without genuine consent.”
For Maasai rights activist Saitoti Parmelo, the most alarming impact is the disruption of traditional pastoralism.
“The Maasai way of life depends on flexible grazing patterns that adapt to unpredictable weather,” he said. “Forcing us into a fixed system designed for carbon markets, not our survival, is a recipe for disaster.”
Legal experts are also questioning the fairness of carbon credit contracts.
“The contracts last for 30 years, but village land-use plans are reviewed every 10 years,” said Yonas Masiaya, a lawyer who has reviewed the agreements. “Locking communities into such long-term commitments undermines their ability to adapt.”
Another major concern is financial secrecy. “Nowhere in the contracts does it specify how much revenue villages will receive,” Masiaya added. “The actual buyers of these credits are unknown—only intermediary companies appear in the paperwork.”
For Maasai pastoralists like Timan Tina, the stakes could not be higher.
“Land is everything to us,” she said. “Without it, pastoralism is impossible.”
Tina fears carbon credit schemes will lead to land loss, similar to past conservation projects controlled by outsiders. “Our land is not just a place to graze livestock,” she explained. “It holds deep cultural and spiritual significance.”
As the battle over land rights continues, the Maasai remain determined to resist.
“We do not want carbon credit projects to become another way for outsiders to take our land and profit at our expense,” Tina declared.
“This is not just about land — it’s about our survival as a people.”
MISA and its allies are demanding transparency, genuine consultation and the protection of Maasai pastoralist rights. Whether their voices will be heard remains uncertain, but for the Maasai, the fight is far from over.