in the Nandi Hills

The adjustment period to the astonishing rurality of Kipsamoite was rough but short, unlike the viciously bumpy truck ride up the Nandi escarpment. Once out of Kisumu, the countryside quickly turned verdantly tropical, and I was glued to the window as we edged out of the plains and up into the cascading highlands. Jenga nearly ran over a small monkey.

The research team deposited me unceremoniously outside the town's health clinic, near which I would stay in a small house. Unlike the other houses in the area, my house has very nice plumbing, complete with sink, shower, and toilet. Unfortunately, none of these items actually work. In the days to come they will lurk inside the house, taunting me, as I wash myself by splashing chilly water over my head from a red plastic bucket.

Chandy, the doctor in charge of the project, sat shotgun in the beleagured KEMRI vehicle. As I retrieved my backpack, he said, "I think you'll be very happy here." He said it looking through the front windshield, without making eye contact.

The transition from the relative luxury of Kisumu to a small farming village lacking running water or electricity was eased by the kind hospitality of my neighbors. Peter, 31, is the head field assistant on the project and small shopkeeper. Like everyone else in Kipsamoite, he grows maize and vegetables. He also keeps goats. He leads me on lengthy excursions around town, pointing out traditional crops and points of interest as we walk. We cover remarkable swathes of land, hiking miles each day over the hilly terrain. I learn about the process through which millet is grown; the proper technique for holding a knife while harvesting, as well as how it can be seasoned in a sack for several days to give it a darker color and richer taste. Maize is ubiquitous, and no family goes without. Tea is the prime cash crop, planted in neat rows of shiny green shrubs. To harvest, only the top two leaves and the bud are cut, since addition of the older, less delicious leaves would decrease the crop's value.

My next-door neighbor, a doctor named John, brings me a plastic thermos of hot chai each morning, for which I will be eternally grateful. Sometimes in the evenings, just before the heavy rains begin, he makes a millet porridge for me. The Lonely Planet guidebook, somewhat more accurately, calls this concoction "gruel". Some days I find it difficult to stomach the lumpy gray-brown substance, but on the colder evenings I find it delicious.