I am back in Dar, and it is raining.

Explaining the last weeks would be difficult to do at best and incomprehensible at worst, so forgive me if I summarize: there were several messages, steadily accumulating, that told me it was time to leave Dodoma.

When I re-arrived in Dar in January, fresh off my plane from the States—when Anania picked me up at the airport and navigated me around the hot nightmare of the city streets—it was such a relief to see Dar passing by my windowpane and to know that I wasn’t going to be living here again. There is something about this place that, living in it day in and day out last fall, I found so strenuous, so exhausting to push back against, to be constantly vigilant regarding.

Yet here I am again.

And while I dread the humidity, the dirt, the pressure, the aggression, and the frustration that I associate with Dar es Salaam—the lack of amenities from water to electricity to cool, quiet nights and mornings—when my bus trundled into Ubungo station yesterday evening, I was exhilarated to find myself in the midst of this uniquely Tanzanian bedlam. I felt almost buoyant as I hopped (after an hour of waiting–this is still Tanzania after all) into Anania’s car—catching a glimpse of myself in the side-view mirrors, wearing a yellow, crumpled T-shirt, laughing fit to cry as Anania told the tale of his father chasing him with a shot-gun through the bush hollering: “I have eight children! What do I care if I kill one, and it is seven? Better not to have such a trouble-maker in my family!” It felt welcoming. It felt right.

Because there was—and is—always something happening in Dar—from the crazy traffic jams, to the pumping discos, to the crowds of banana and cell phone and newspaper vendors in front of the post office; this city is alive. And the aid organizations here are active as well—in contrast to the 10 or 15 that DCMC attracts, Buguruni, for instance, sees well over 150 patients per day.

I am not going to Buguruni again, however—there are certain stressors that I know well enough to avoid. I will, instead, be outside the urban center of the city, in the ward of Mpigi Magohe, working at a girls’ secondary school for orphans from all over Tanzania, situated at the end of what my friend Beverly has told me is an 8km dirt road, perfect for running on.

And I will be busy.

I expected a lurch leaving Dodoma—leaving behind the rock hills I’d climbed, the ice cream store I’d frequented, the dusty roads I’d run, the men and women of whom I’d rapidly grown fond. And I felt it—felt the pull of goodbyes and the wonderings of whether I’d ever have such a comfortable life anywhere else in Tanzania.

Simultaneously, I knew this was the right thing. There was nothing more for me to contribute in Dodoma, and as the bus circled the downtown round-about, roared past the Jamatini Mosque and daladala stand, and headed out toward the rainy hills of Morogoro, I felt only expectation: what, exactly, will I be called upon to do next?