At three I encourage a voyage up to the nearest mlima, the undulating flood plain interrupted by great granite outcrops. We sit on boulders looking out at the view. On the large, class room sized boulder that forms a flat area under our feet cassava has been laid out to dry and the work of generations of women pounding millet, the other ingredient of ugali have hollowed out little bowls in the rock. In the past the young men would have visited the women here, flirting with them as they looked for the strongest; the one who made the finest ugali. In the distance I can see a solitary young girl on her own using a similar rock for the same purpose but no men accompanies her, or the women forming a colourful procession of gangas as they walk to fetch water from “the Danish project” a pump down hill from the village. I guess they are sitting around somewhere smoking, or maybe bustling and hustling in the town as they try to put together some cash.