Dirty Guinea Pigs and Spider's Brains: Teaching Computers in Rural Africa

Ten blank, staring faces answered my question for me, 'Who has ever
used a computer before?'

It took some thought, a bit of trial and error, some creativity, and lots of patience during my first week of trainings in Zambia. We are installing a data entry system using touch screen computers in rural Zambian clinics. The touch screen is connected to a server that uses the local cell network to communicate with a central server in the capital, relaying messages back and forth between clinics and the cell phones of Community Health Workers (CHWs) - members of the community trained in basic first aid and health care, who walk or bike between villages referring the sick to the clinic and following up with patients sent home from the clinic to find out whether or not they got better. The week encompassed training both the clinic workers on entering paper forms into a touch screen computer, and teaching CHWs how to use their phone to electronically record referrals and follow ups.

Many of those attending the trainings traveled incredible distances - biking up to 25km one way from home - getting up at 4am to be somewhere by 7:30am - hoping to get a meal or some sort of sustenance at the training session. Early morning energy and enthusiasm quickly faded mid afternoon as people started thinking about the journey home and their stomachs began to grumble. This left a short window within which to train. I discovered that a large chunk of the window on the first day needed to be dedicated to introductions, games, ice breakers, or anything that gets people involved, willing to ask questions, or happy to share their thoughts. Used to rote learning, I was not going to teach a class of parrots: "Repeat after me…" Breaking this habit, if for only one or two days, was challenging, to say the least.

I thought it would help speaking the national language - English. My opaquely thick American accent, however, often drew blank looks until my words were translated from American English to Zambian English - or Nyanja - or Bemba - or Tonga depending on the trainees origins. I
found that I needed to got creative.

To illustrate the term guinea pig, I created the analogy of an extremely dirty local rodent, and testing a new soap. If the soap cleaned the rodent, it worked. If the rodent remained dirty, the soap was a failure. Seeing those 'aha' moments makes it completely worth it - and hopefully I didn't unintentionally give the impression animal testing isn't overly abundant back home...

I explained a computer network as a spider's web, with the spider knowing where each of 10 flies on the web were located and whether they were ready to be eaten or not. This was our central server communicating via the 'web' to each of the clinics.

I used the age old ice breaker of spelling your name with your hips.

All in all - I think everyone left the training sessions enriched, myself included. There is now a growing cadre of tech savvy Zambians, at first afraid to touch a touch screen computer. Hopefully they learned something valuable, both in terms of using technology to make their jobs easier, and how to use it to improve health outcomes in rural Zambia.

Solar Power Angels and Demons

Pumulani means rest in Nyanja. The name of a local solar power training school, it is the motto espoused by the head instructor, a Dutch expat who started the school in response to demand and insight from the solar power company he and his wife run in the capital of Lusaka. His enterprise is truly amazing, but is dwarfed by his ambitions.

The school recently opened on their farm, isolated in the bush halfway between Kafue and Lusaka. Footprints of Duiker, Kudu, and Civet can be found in the dirt surrounding the complex, a large building complete enough to have started classes. After meeting the owner of the school, I imagine the school will be a work in progress for years to come, a playground of sorts for him to experiment with and teach renewable energy to the Zambian population and to further his own personal desire to tinker.

I was lucky enough to join one of the week long training courses in solar power. The class spanned from the theory of solar power to the design of solar power systems, including installation, maintenance, and troubleshooting. The classroom sessions quickly led to hands on experiments with solar panels and batteries. The entire class constructed a full-blown system to power any number of devices by the week's end.

There is a dire need for such expertise here. Knock off solar panels can be found in the cramped tin roofed market stalls, which may or may not be sold with all of the equipment required to make them work properly. Prices for the same equipment and installation vary dramatically between different local companies - some of whom may or may not actually know what they are doing. The training is open to anyone: rival company's, technicians, engineers, and even consultants like me - all in the name of spreading information and giving people power.

Their aim isn't just to create a school, but a center of renewable energy. They want to create a playground just off the main road at one edge of the farm, with games and toys designed to teach the basic mechanisms of renewable energy to youth in addition to the typical swings and slides. 'Instill it in them early,' as advocated by the proprietor. They are constructing a number of simple chalets for students during their course, for 'fewer distractions and better focus on the material taught.' His farm currently boasts a number of clever designs, including borehole pump powered by a solar panel that tracks the sun as it moves across the sky, a solar thermal hot water heater, and a fish pond provided with a stream of water from a solar powered pump - his goal is to completely power his farm and house off the Zambian grid, which can prove to be finicky at times, to say the least.

As of 2006, only 19% of Zambians had electricity. 49% of the urban population was electrified, 3.2% of the rural areas were. In a country with as sparse a rural population, getting electricity to the far reaches of the country is a daunting, if not impossible task for the foreseeable future.

One interesting conversation the class continually came back to, was theft of the panels. Evidently solar panels go like hot cakes once installed. One of the larger cell network providers here had to abandon solar powered cell phone towers in remote areas altogether. Their first installations showed the lack of consideration for theft, with panels in easily accessible and maintainable locations near the bottom of the towers. The next revision included a raised installation surrounded by a fence and barbed wire. The last revision reverted to a generator with a refueling truck making rounds to ensure the generators never die.

Another story told of a rural clinic powered by solar energy. When the in-charge discovered the panels had been stolen, the clinic was promptly closed with the promise not to reopen until the panels were returned. The panels were back in place 2 days later, and the clinic was reopened. The difference between these two stories conveys the mentality and approach needed to be successful here. Community trumps technology. Anything can be stolen by one means or another - but it takes the strength and unity of everyone for mutual security. In order to get the backing of the community, however, your system has to benefit the community in tangible ways.

We are installing solar power in a number of clinics - but its only to power a data collection system. There are no additional lights, vaccine fridges, or any immediate visible benefits from our solar power installation. In the long term, there is a great potential for the data system to improve health outcomes - the goal of the project is to reduce under five mortality by 30% within 5 years. How can you instill long term appreciation in the local population now, however,
when the immediate desire for television, radio or lights can easily usurp the good intentions of the installation?

Give Me the Rooney

Evidently the first question I should have asked was, have you ever cut a Mzungu's hair before? Or, I could have been a little more perceptive about a number of things - the hairstyles of all the local men, the location of the barber shop, the lack of any scissors within the vicinity of the barber. No, I decided to brave (or rather, braved without thinking) a barber recommended by my vegetable dealer, John. It turns out, his recommendation was a friend in the stall across from his in the market.

Free bag of tomatoes with a haircut!

I thought I gave explicit instructions motioning with my hands - 'Number three on the clippers from here to here, getting a little bit longer from here up to here with about this much left on top.' I thought we were speaking the same language. I thought again after the first pass of the clippers rampaged my shaggy hair. I never realized how quickly you have to speak up when someone has clippers next to your head. Lesson learned. After about an hour of it getting shorter - and shorter - and shorter, I began to resemble the Matt of old - ala 3rd grade - which was the last time I had a haircut like this. I'm not sure what took so long. I'm pretty sure I could have given myself the same haircut in about 5 minutes. I do give credit to the barber, taking time to make sure not a single long hair was left on my head, with infinite patience searching for any stray's that had succeeded in avoiding the wrath of the clippers. After speaking up a few times to say - 'Hey now, that's short enough,' or chuckling anxiously - 'Oh geeze, that's not what I asked for,' I gave in and let the man cut my hair like he wanted to - and started to from the beginning. By the end, I realized I would have made both our lives easier and told him to cut my hair like a white guy everyone here is familiar with, the famous English soccer star Wayne Rooney. Now I know, next time it will be as simple as, 'Give me the Rooney.'

Wayne, my sentiments exactly.

Biking through Bureaucracy

Today I added to my ever-growing list of job descriptions. I came here in a role that gave me the flexibility to be useful wherever I could be - as a technical consultant of sorts to a local NGO. Little did I know what that flexibility would entail! Within the last two months I've jumped from solar power system design to program management, written requirements documents and acted as IT support. I'm proud to say that after today, I can officially add bicycle courier to the list.

Many of my trials and tribulations thus far have focused on cutting through the unfathomable layers of bureaucracy. Despite my efforts to find ways around it, I have yet to find a way to easily and efficiently 'procure' anything. In preparation for our pilot program beginning in August, we needed to order computers. We ordered them in mid-May to make sure we had them on time. I met with the sales manager for a local cell phone wholesale distributor, who seemed ready to give me 40 cell phones on the spot if we were able to pay for them. 6 weeks later, we are the proud owners of 40 Nokia 2700 Classics. A number of the clinics we are installing our data entry system in require solar power. The search for solar power began about 5 months ago. Only after biking around the city today, delivering paper from here to there, dotting all the "I"s and crossing all the "T"s do I think we have a shot of having solar power available before the end of August.

After a number of failed attempts to issue a proposal and receive vendor bids from start to finish, we opted to purchase, install and maintain the equipment ourselves. In order to do this, we decided to send a few employees to a solar training school. We formulated this plan with the school 3 weeks ago, rushing to register for the classes starting July 26th. Only today, did we finally get written permission to take the training, a full day before the registration cutoff (luckily, there was still space left in the class). That written permission came in the form of an 'Order.' Now, this order is in no way or form a payment. It is a letter stating the official intention of our NGO to purchase said services. On issuance of this letter, payment will be made once an invoice is received and processed, but the intention is clear that any products or services should become readily available upon its issuance. In other words, I promise to pay you at some point in the future, but give me what I want now. Many times, once we present these letters, the vendors simply say, 'Sorry, we aren't going to give you anything until you pay us.' Back to square one.

Today I had the joy of running from one of our offices to another, excited to pick up the order that was finally ready. We have cars and drivers, but I've learned that fighting through the bureaucracy to get a car and driver, even if the destination is only 5 minutes away, can be equally as challenging as buying anything. Hence, the bike.

Frankly, my wheels are hot. I've got a big cushy seat on a sturdy frame. The jet-black beast comes fully weather proof with sleek splash-guards on both the front and rear tires. The single-speed bike cruises along with an easy 'reverse pedal' maneuver to break - ala my bike in 3rd grade. The sturdy kick stand and rack over the rear wheel are essential. It has nice, wide, curving handle bars, complete with a bell; which is used often and with determination as I cruise along, weaving between pedestrians and roots protruding from the dirt sidewalks (the main roads are way too scary…). I get plenty of stairs as I ride by - and usually a few laughs. I think it’s the helmet 'procured' locally at a cheap sporting goods store that finishes the look - surely the only helmet in Zambia.

This morning I picked up the Order from the Facilities Officer. I had to bring it to the Procurement Officer - luckily in the same building - to get the rest of the paperwork. The Procurement Officer was in a meeting. I was able to get someone from procurement to find copies of the necessary forms - a phone call to locate the originals hinted that it wasn’t worth the trouble to get them and that I should be glad to have what I did. I sped over to the vendor on my bike, surely the fastest method to get there for above stated reasons without hailing a taxi. The vendor kindly accepted our order and issued an invoice. Smiling, I hopped on my bike, secured my bulbous helmet to my head, and sped back to the Procurement Officer, happily handing him the invoice. Surely he was stunned by a turn-around time within the hour. Now, the invoice goes to Accounting / Finance, even though the amount due was written on the Order. Of course it wouldn't make any sense to send a check with the order - that would be too easy. It takes a week or two to write a check after an invoice is received. That check then needs to be run over to the vendor. Once things are paid for, then you hope that what you want to buy is actually in stock. Usually it isn't. You can start over again with another vendor, if there is one that sells what you are looking for, or you can return again in a month's time, if the check is still valid, that is…


And so the cycle goes.

(you can check out our company's blog that includes submissions from our projects around the world at http://dimagi.posterous.com/)

Destination: Siavonga

Combine a four day weekend, a pair of thrifty individuals, a lack of wheels, a Zambia Lonely Planet and what do you get? A trip by minibus to Siavonga!

Hoping to get an early jump on the weekend, we caught a minibus by mine at 7:30 am, skipping out on the morning coffee ritual due to the long bus trip ahead. Big mistake. Getting off one minibus, we were led by a kind-hearted soul through the streets and alleys of downtown Lusaka to City Market, the departure location for minibuses to any possible destination in Zambia. 200 well cleaned, poorly maintained blue and white buses filled the overflowing parking lot; names of the buses cheerfully inscribed on the windshields: 'Don't be Jealous,' 'Normal Life,' 'Keep Da Faith.'

There is no order to the madness - buses park haphazardly on all sides of the compound, with few signs indicating the destination. Each bus has a driver and a pimp. The driver, well, his job is obvious. The job of the bus pimp to fill the bus with passengers, from the onset of the journey until its termination. There are no scheduled departures for minibuses, they leave when they fill up. If two buses are headed to the same destination, they don't fill up one, followed by the other - rather, its a competition between the pimps to see who can fill their bus first. This usually causes the departure of both buses to be delayed, and they end up leaving around the same time, much later than a single bus would have. If this sounds like something that would drive you crazy - you are not alone. Luckily, we only found one bus heading to Siavonga.

Our intentions to leave early were quickly thwarted. We were passengers number two and three. We had plenty of time to take in the sites of the bustling station: men and women hawking anything you can imagine, knocking on windows or peering into the open sliding door inquiring for buyers - Want some socks? How about Ice Cream? Children's books? Here is a nice brush with a built-in mirror? I know someone selling slacks the next bus over. Interested? The market also provided a station for the loading / unloading of goods - like 20kg bags of mealie-meal. Huge bags of the maize were lugged by over-sized wheel-barrels and on the heads of women gracefully maneuvering through the terminal. C-van containers normally used on large shipping vessels had been turned into shop fronts. The people watching was fascinating - but after an hour, then a second hour, that cup of coffee, or another few extra hours of sleep for that matter, sounded pretty darn good.

The bus filled up around 10:30. Full is a term that you may not think is open to interpretation. Think again. A typical Zambian minibus with 3 rows will regularly have 20 people inside; sitting 4 across on benches, knees jammed into the seat ahead, children on laps and bags underfoot. After about five minutes you are intimate with your neighbors. It also seems like the driver and pimp have established some sort of business trail along their route. Every so often the bus will pull over at seemingly random locations. The driver will get out, have a smoke, exchange some money, and get back in. There is also the ever present fear that the full bus will become more full, as people alongside the road are anxious to get a ride and the bus pimp hangs his head out the window at intersections inquiring after interested parties. If no one gets off, there is a good chance that ANY extra room is quickly taken by new passengers for a few miles - or the duration of the journey. Needless to say, this lengthens the time it takes to get from location A to destination B. What would take 2 hours in a car took 4. When we arrived in Siavonga at 2:30 that afternoon, relieved to have made it, and thrilled to get off the bus.

To our surprise, we weren't greeted by a gaggle of inquisitive taxi drivers or aggressive sellers of local vegetables. Maybe that's a sign we've been in the big city too long. The weekend turned out to be relaxing and quiet. The location, beautiful. The scene of a tragic past, the damn flooded an extensive portion of land, displacing the local population from a fertile farmland and condemning them to the barren highlands. Fishing small kapenta is a primary occupation. Families once separated by a river are now separated by a border with Zimbabwe and one of the largest man made lakes in Africa. We were told that a number of the fisherman make the journey to the Zimbabwe side for better fishing, despite the chance that border guards will greet the fisherman with bullets. Like so many of the locations here, modern beauty can be clouded by a tragic past.

Where's Matt? Or his sunglasses?