I feel somewhat uncomfortable when this sanitizing starts. First, usually by that point my unclean hands have already hovered over my plate. I feel uncouth--like I've begun serving myself dinner right as someone starts saying grace. So I must participate in the sanitizing the same way I bow my head, mumble a bit, and vocalize a very enthusiastic amen at the end.
Second, I feel that I’m impugning the cleanliness of the country which has been my home for two years. I feel guilty abandoning the tradition of hand washing in which I usually participate with real enthusiasm, rather like ablutions before entering the mosque. A waitress tends to come around with a plastic jug of warm water and some orange soap. She times her pours perfectly so that you rinse, lather, rinse, with your hands twisted a bit to the side, so the water falls on the dirt floor or into a plastic bowl that she holds. Then push the water off each hand and shake a few times. Voila! Eat!
Washing my hands with this evaporating chemical hand-cleansing agent feels much too sterile for the tactile experience that is eating in Tanzania. I may complain that staples like chocolate and cheese are in short supply, and dream about unattainable condiments like wasabi and tahini. But while vast portions of my tongue loll under-stimulated for months, eating takes on different sensory dimensions.
Rather than taste, it’s the texture in my hand and on my tongue that I wait for. There is a whole list of lunches that any visitor to Tanzania should avoid hand-sanitizer for.
