Tanzania is full of surprises. In only three weeks I’ve managed to break the only promise my mom made me swear to before leaving: “whatever you do, do not get dental work done in Africa.” Well shit, sorry mom, but life goes on and the manufacturers of caramel candies stop for no one. I was sucking on, more like gnawing at, a delicious caramel hard candy, obviously not meant for chewing (but who listens to those rules anyway?), when the crown I had so conveniently forgotten about popped right out and stuck to the candy. My eyes grew as big as the caramel as I thought about my future without teeth.

Going to the dentist was a lovely experience. But truthfully, it was no biggie. However, an appointment that would only take an hour or so in the States takes up nearly half of the day after all of the traveling, waiting in line, and traveling back home. It really put things into perspective.

Anyway, the dentist just glued that bad boy right back on, said I’d be good for couple of years, and forbade me from gum and candies… ha! I’ll take my chances.

Kathleen, my community mate, and I took the dala-dala (public bus) back home from the dentist. These things are nuts. They pile and pile people in them. When you don’t think there’s anymore room, ten more people climb in. Personal space? Throw it out the window. I nabbed a seat near the front of the bus after a couple of minutes. There were limbs, purses, bags, all mixed up with each other. I looked up and through the tangled mess, which is, in fact, public transportation, I see this baby comin’ at me. Before I can think, I already have my arms outstretched and in another instant the little babe’s already made it in my arms. I didn’t get a good look at his mom, but I guess she trusted me. I thought it would only be for a second, so for a while I was holding him like he had a smelly diaper. Once his mom completely disappeared to the back of the bus, I got the picture that this wasn’t a “hold him a sec, wouldya” kind of thing, so we snuggled. This little guy must’ve been tuckered out because he fell asleep in two shakes, right in the midst of the dala-dala chaos, I couldn’t believe it! Just when my arm was about to give out from the weight of the passed out baby, our stop came up so I dished him to the lady sitting next to me all while I tried to communicate with my eyes something like, “hey I don’t where this baby came from but I can’t take him with me.”

That’s how it is here. It kind of feels like everyone’s family. It’s a beautiful thing, being able to trust your neighbor, being surprised by hospitality when you don’t think you deserve it, sounding like a fool stuttering over Swahili just to be greeted back like you’re a total champ. I’m learning how to receive others in the form of babies, smiles, hand shakes, fist bumps, mango juice and of course, chipate.

The chipate, just like that dala-dala baby (thanks to the caramel candy disaster), sure brings people together.  Chipate, a flour tortilla-esque bread, accompanies most meals here in Tanzania. It reminds me of all the meals I’ve shared with ever-patient, most-welcoming, warm and humble Tanzanian families, students, community members, and neighbors. In a way, it too reminds me of all the meals I’ve shared with my own family (who I think about everyday). The smell of chipate cooking, that warm bread smell, is slowly starting to resonate within me the feeling of being home, of being welcomed, of belonging. I’ve made it only twice, but each time, as I knead the dough with my hands, as I roll it out into what’s supposed to be perfect circles, but at this point in my naiveté kind of resembles off-kilter maps and misshapen silhouettes, I’ve felt connected to all those who make it everyday for their families, their friends, their livelihoods.

People are kind, life is simple, and I’m really happy.