By Kari Costanza

In Kenya’s Northern Rift Valley, Sabina has gone to the river for water nearly every day since she was 7 years old. I stayed with Sabina, walked alongside her, and learned that in Kenya water defines a woman.

3 p.m.
When I arrive at Sabina’s home, she is busy. It is lunchtime and she has roasted maize for her husband, Jacob, their three young daughters, and a nephew. As Sabina works, I peek into her water container. It is almost empty, the bottom covered in sand. I ask if she boils the water. “We know we should do it, but we don’t,” she says. “With all the work to do, there is no time to boil it, so we just drink it the way it is.” It’s a big risk—19 people recently died of cholera here.

3:50 p.m.
We leave to get water, walking through territory that feels like Arizona. Our translator calls the dried-up river we walk past “a cholera pond.” It is surrounded by animal tracks. A few feet away are dishes and a water container.

4:45 p.m.
We reach the river. There are hundreds of cows, sheep, and goats milling about. The women scrub their water jugs and then scoop out a new hole near the river. It is important to dig a new hole; the animals use the river throughout the day.

5 p.m.
After scooping sand and pouring water into jugs, Sabina loads a jug onto her