“I thought of ice-cream today,” my fellow researcher announced last night. We were sitting outside, shivering in three layers of clothing, clutching beers to toast the setting Ethiopian sun. I nodded as he added that the fat little birds called francolins that run in front of the truck every day make him salivate. They look so plump and delicious. I can relate. We are far from starving, but food has become the topic of every second conversation. Even the grass looks tasty.

Being out in the middle of nowhere with minimal comforts can transform trained intellectuals into beings whose mood depends on the amount of rain that fell the night before. It becomes hard to look past the here and now; cravings for our favourite foods tie us to the world beyond the Simien Mountains. Little victories help us to adjust, from a successful two-minute conversation in Amharic (the local language) to making pancakes that taste like the real thing.

For a couple of weeks I've had the company of two fellow researchers: a graduate student and a professor out here to investigate gelada behaviour. After three solitary months it was wonderful to engage in intellectual conversation, babble about ideas and experiments and politics. But after a spell, the focus changed to basic cravings. I really just want to know how to get my hands on a T-bone steak, right now. I'll trade my field hat for it.