the richest man in India

The richest man in India is named Azim Premji. I have no idea what kind of person he is, but if he's anything like the Azim Premji in Sumbawanga, Tanzania, then he's a pretty fantastic guy.
Let me explain how I came to rely on the kindness of strangers in this little weathered town of Sumbawanga. I got into bed Thursday night feeling awesome. I'd met an american married couple my age who were doing research around the Rukwa valley region and had a fun dinner with them out at one of the nicer restaurants in town--great chicken curry and naan. I'd gotten approval to start my research, I was getting the hang of driving the Landy, things were going well. Probably around midnight though, I started feeling flushed and hot and I kept waking up from very weird dreams. I tried to shake it off, but when I woke up in the morning, I knew something was wrong. My face was as red as a tomato and my head was really hurting. Thankfully, I had found Sister Helena the day before (see last post!), and she had shown me the Catholic center and health clinic, and given me her phone number, saying to call if I needed anything. I called her, told her I felt sick and she said she would take me to the clinic right away.
Cut to the clinic--a few questions and one blood test later, it's confirmed. I have malaria. 15 per 200 cells are infected. I have no idea what this means! Except that I feel increasing horrible. All I want is the medicine. I get into the Catholic center's land cruiser with another sister (Sister Beata), and we are going ostensibly to the pharmacy. But wait first the car has to stop at the sunflower factory to load up on sunflower cakes for the animals. Excruciating. But I'm not complaining because I'm in the middle of NOWHERE in Africa and at least someone is taking care of me. Finally we get to the pharmacy (each bump in the road is like jamming the crowbar further into my skull), get the medicine, get some juice (malaria lowers your glucose levels), buy a mozzie net, and go back to my hotel. I literally fall into the bed. well not until I insist that the mozzie net gets hung up. I am NOT taking any chances!
So the next few days pass by in kind of a blur and well, yes, were pretty terrible. But not as bad as they could have been because what was amazing was the way the handful of people I had only just met in SWA were so unbelievably kind to me. Sister Helena, Sister Beata, Godwin (also from the catholic center), and...in case you were wonderful what the beginning sentence of this entry is all about, Mr Premji. I had met Mr. Premji for just a few seconds outside his shop a few days earlier, and when he heard I was a student of Tim and Monique's (UC Davis, they do research here), he was very excited to meet me. When he heard I was sick, he came to visit, bearing cookies and fruit juice. On Sunday when he came to visit and saw that I wasn't looking much better, he forced me to get out of bed and come to his house and join him and some friends for dinner. I was dubious--I really didn't feel like getting out of bed--but by the end of the evening I felt so much better! His friend Altaf produced a cellphone for me since my crappy Motorola one wasn't working--now I could hear from mom and dad--and Laura! Perhaps the best part was that on Saturday, when I mentioned from my bed-ridden position that it was my birthday, he dashed off only to return later that evening with friends, a card and a cake saying "Happy birthday, Clare", in hand!! We sat in the hotel restaurant and everyone sang, and as local tradition goes, everyone at the table fed me a forkful of cake from the first slice and gave me happy birthday wishes. It was really so, so nice.
So all was not lost--I still feel pretty weak and tired but the worst is over. And I discovered that even though I wasn't surrounded by friends and family from home on my birthday, I miraculously still had a very special one.