Clean Hands

At breakfast I chatted with the med students I had met a couple of days ago. They explained the broad outline of their project. Apparently some Stanford affiliated engineers came and built wells in lots of Tanzanian villages. But even after clean water was flowing the disease burden didn’t go down. So the med students are here to find out why.

The water is clean when it leaves the wells; what they don’t know is where the contanimination occurs and they suspect that it may happen because people don’t wash their hands. They came in and trained people to wash their hands and then asked using questionnaires whether people were actually doing so. As you would expect, everyone said yes, they were washing their hands with soap. But then they tested the bacteria on people’s hands and the data proved that people were not in fact washing hands with soap.

So now they’re going back to set up focus groups to find out why people don’t wash their hands. Of course these students are young and they may be reducing the study to simplest possible terms – omitting the obvious issues with a bunch of white people from the US parachuting in, telling people to wash their hands and then demanding to know if they’ve done it. Infantilizing people. I had this picture in my mind, although I’m sure it couldn’t be that bad, of villagers lined up while the westerners inspected their hands like parents might ask a young child to “show me your hands.” I will learn more about their project tonight when we’ll have more time to chat.

Then the professor who got the initial grant came up – Allie. She had just returned from jogging. We talked about running in Dar and it turns out one of the people on her team is also training for the New York Marathon. And one of the two doctors I had been talking to had just done Boston. So I will begin to develop a network of runners, maybe – although in Dar rather than Pemba.

After breakfast I went up to change so I could head to KPMG. I got into the taxi and my Narcisso Rodriquez skirt just ripped down the back, not even on a seam. It wasn’t that tight so I don’t get it. Luckily I had a jacket with me to wrap around my back – because my entire butt was hanging right out there. Whew, never had that happen before. I ran up and changed my skirt, then headed out to get my cell situation improved at least a little. Turns out my T-mobile Blackberry is indeed locked and I will need to get someone to unlock it or use one of the online services. For the meantime, I just bought a cheap Nokia phone that handles the basics. Tried using it to call the apple store but of course it’s too early in the US. I will have to try again in a few hours.

While I was getting the phone, it rained for a few minutes. Nothing much but enough to turn the streets and sidewalks into mud-streaked messes. Went to KPMG to set up and, once again the Internet wasn’t working. I just don’t understand how one does business like that. No phones on the desks at the cubicles. People use cell phones – and I have to say, when I used my little Nokia to call Apple in the US, the reception was extraordinary, much better than I would get calling from a cell phone in the US.

I started charging my phone and then a cockroach crawled across the desk and started to crawl up my water bottle. I shook it off and smashed it. Can’t believe they don’t have internet service and have cockroaches in the office. At KPMG! Best and the brightest, said Michael Ward. So I programmed a few numbers into my phone and packed up, exploring the neighborhood just a little more – turning right as I left the PPF Tower, walking by the Tanzanian Conference Center and a Woolworth store that showed clothing in the window.

Turned right again and found myself heading along an incredibly packed street with a combo of women in traditional dress, women in colorful office clothes, street kids and beggars, sidewalk vendors. I came across the Holiday Inn and realized I was on a part of the path I had run yesterday. And not having found a suitably cosy place to work (ok, I wanted something like a Starbucks. I admit it.), I went to the Movenpick, which, according to my new friend Angela, has a fine café. And indeed I am sitting in European elegance, where bug invasions seem unlikely and the cappuccino is perfect. The crowd is so upscale; it is both familiar and jarring even in these few days within the relatively narrow confines of Centre City.

I have now had a “normal” lunch – tuna sandwich, bottle of water and my lovely cappuccino with perfect biscuit and am ready to go back to my hotel, check email, make some calls and figure out how to get my iPhone repaired or replaced.