We had left the luxurious confines of some missionary friends' house, so different from the little concrete boxes that we lived in. From Nakuru we headed north through the area where the Kenyan president was from, an area that had received much benefit from all the aid coming in to the Kenyan treasury. There, at one of the many stops that public transport makes, we saw something for sale that we had not seen in over a year and a half, a watermelon from an irrigation scheme. We carried one the size of a small baby in our laps the rest of the way to Lake Baringo. My fiancée and I found lodging in a quaint rest house with half-log walls and a thatch roof. Sitting under a wide porch that overlooked the lake and the Njemps, in their curious canoes that they paddled with their hands, we read and feasted on watermelon. Our own little villages were not touristy, and sitting outside, even though we knew many people, was an invitation to wholesale staring events. It was glorious to sit feasting on Pringles and watermelon with no one to care.

Fast forward to that evening as we settle down to bed. A rain has started to fall, settling the dust, and as we are just about to sleep there is a knock on the door.

"Would you like another room? It is raining."

"Thanks, but we're fine."

It seems that we visited Baringo when one of the very few rainstorms came through. I would swear that almost as soon as the manager got far enough away that he couldn't hear us the rain picked up. Not a problem, we had been in the country during El Niño when it hadn't stopped raining for five months. We just roll over and go to sleep. Now I don't fall asleep as quickly as my fiancée, never have. The dripping that I hear I think is from the overhang, but then it gets louder and nearer my head.

"Hey, I'm turning on the light."

By the light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, we see running down the picturesque log and cement walls a literal torrent of water. The roof needed a bit of work, to say the least. In their defense there was no need for it, it didn't rain much. We travel light, only what can fit in a bag small enough to fit on our laps and we have them packed quickly. It is raining in sheets when we dash up to the main building.

"Now we need another room."

The manager smiles and leads us to a concrete box a lot like the ones we have to live in every day. Is this when I should mention that there is a party going on in the other room? Standing on the bed, we could look through a vent in the wall and see the local revelers at a table. There is no way to sleep with all the noise, but then we’re engaged and we only see each other on the weekends. We can't even call the other up during the week, neither of us has a phone, let alone running water. The bed is too squeaky, but there is always the floor.

For the third time that night we try to go to sleep. The roof over our heads is metal and in the rain sounds like a drum concert, the party next door has cleared off, and the building is in darkness. We are almost asleep when a goat, a cute little white kid that my fiancée had been petting as we lounged on the porch of our original room, starts bleating. Being a kid the owner had put him inside out of the rain, not a problem except his mother is on the other side of us in the courtyard. Moreover, the manager went home so he isn't there to hear it.

"You awake?" my fiancée asks. It is probably three in the morning by now.

"Like I can sleep," I moan.

"How much do you think that goat is worth?"

I smile. "Oh probably not more than 800 shillings."

Barbecued Meat
Nyama ya Kuchoma

1 kilo meat
juice of 2 lemons
2 pounded onions
2 crushed chilis
4 crushed cloves
salt to taste

Marinate: Clean meat and make a few stripes ½" deep all over meat. Mix in the rest of the ingredients and let stand for 2 hours.
Barbecue: Prepare the charcoal fire and place grilling wire on top. Place meat on the wire and roast it on a very low heat. Cook evenly on both sides.
Garnish with lemon slices. Serve with potatoes.

Recipe courtesy of Recipes from the Kenya Coast by Samira Hyder.

P.S. No goats were harmed in the living of this story, but oh, the cooking we did mentally as dawn tinged the sky without a wink of sleep.