I've decided that listening in Kiswahili conversation is a bit like reading Joyce: if you sort of let it wash over you, not focusing directly, you can convince yourself that you're really getting the gist of it. Of course, like Joyce, there's no guarantee that you actually are understanding anything. (My brother tells me Ulysses is also more comprehensible three drinks in. Maybe I'll try a few bias (just say it aloud) here.)

Today, 10 days after arriving, was my first real day of work. We began with a few more government offices, seeking signatures. Tanzanian officials seem to have similar taste in office decor: long, imposing tables (which they can sit at the head of), sumptuous red carpet, and a TV that is not switched off with the presence of visitors. Despite the Chamwino director's chiding that we should've known better than to ask a busy district like his to lend us his only car, we somehow ended up in a somewhat dilapidated government SUV within the hour, heading to the sun-baked terrain of Chamwino, 30 km away.

It's so, so dry out there. Very few trees, all scraggly. The soil is basically sand. It's hard to imagine how anything edible/sellable could grow there in a good year, and this has been a famine year; crops are not coming through now, in the harvest time, and the heath workers told us of parents coming to ask for food at the health dispensaries. (The health dispensaries are armed with "Corn Soya Blend" flour from the World Food Bank - thanks, US corn subsidies! - but it's supposed to be only for pregnant women and kids under 5. This year, kids over 5 don't have enough food either.)

Our first visit was to the main Chamwino Health Center, right in the middle of the town's main (sand) road. I actually found it more welcoming and reassuring than Dodoma's hospital - at least the roof was open in the middle of the building to let in sunlight. Lining the sun-filled space, shoulder to shoulder, were dozens of quiet, very young-looking moms, each sporting a bundled infant. (Tanzanians here seem to be really convinced that it's cold, at maybe 70 F. Victor went out to buy a coat last night and wore it all today, and many of the moms had their babies thoroughly wrapped in socks, hats, and thick blankets. All relative, I guess.) We took a tour of the wards to start off with, appreciating the new lab that lets them test for malaria, HIV, syphillis - all services newly available in the past few years. The wards were very clean, everyone commented, and I appreciated the nets that hung over every bed. We actually only saw two inpatients - a hilariously cute sleeping baby in the pediatric ward, and a alarmingly tiny female figure in the maternity ward, buried motionless under her kanga.

Our research "focus group" was conducted in the corner of the waiting area, with whatever 12 moms happened to be closest - I think subject selection is going to be a little more lax in our study. Probably other research aspects as well; sorry, stats professor Dr. Smith. Victor held court, trying to coax answers out of the women, but they weren't particularly forthcoming. (I think part of it must be attributed to the fact that Victor is 1) male, and 2) older than all of them, in a culture where both those qualities bestow power. But there's no fixing that, really.) I did my best to follow the conversation by reading Victor's English notes and occasionally adding a small side question for him to throw out to the group in Swahili. I think of myself as the Teller to his Penn...although that would imply I had skills of my own. That remains to be seen. Though I think I did add some good questions today (Why don't men accompany their wives to antenatal clinic? Time issues? Cultural? One woman suggested a fear of HIV testing, which I thought interesting). Over the course of our visit, I saw a total of 3 men in a clinic meant for general healthcare and with about 60+ patients waiting. Health care doesn't seem to be appealing to the male sector so well.

Upon exiting the clinic, our driver told us right away that Michael Jackson had died. Poor fellow. But still, for one's death to be mourned by the variety of people in our group today - that's true fame.

We continued with interviews at the local village government building and at a local dispensary, the latter of which occupies the lowest, most basic unit of the Tanzanian health system. (The dispensary interview became particularly noteworthy when a posse of drumming, whistling, ululating women went trotting by the office window - the nurses told us they were celebrating the circumcision of the new village baby boys. Looked exciting.)

My main tasks, besides shaking a lot of hands and apologizing for my bad Swahili, seem to be manning the computer aspect of data keeping (Victor can't open his own email) and surveying the clinics and dispensaries to see whether they have certain essental medical tools and drugs. I did my best to scan the WHO website and then narrow our list down to about 30 basic things; hopefully Geneva won't get too mad about my cuts. It's interesting to see what different sites have and don't have; the dispensary today, for example, had deprovera shots available, but didn't own a speculum.

I've eaten more bananas in the past 48 hours than I have in the previous whole of 2009. My potassium levels must be fabulous.