So Pithy

Sometimes I dream about Africa.

I’ve been to Africa. Once. For a couple months during the summer.

In my dreams I’ve been back several times. But not to the continent I came to know. My subconscious has transformed it into a collage of extremes, juxtaposing tropical coastlines with Middle Eastern cityscapes. It’s nothing like the blend of African, Arab, and Indian cultures I encountered in the waking world.

But I know it’s Africa, because in every dream I’m just arriving, and there’s chaos. Uncertainty. Who is meeting me at the airport? Where am I staying? Why am I there at all?

When I arrived in Dar es Salaam, in real life, my host was not at the airport. Nobody answered the phone. The first hotel my taxi driver took me to didn’t accept credit cards. The place I ended up staying cost more than I would normally spend in the United States. And even then I had no guarantee of ever contacting my host. I was frustrated and more than a little scared.

By the time I left I felt differently about Africa. But at night, when some part of my brain is trying to transform the fear, uncertainty, and doubt of everyday life into the stuff of dreams, I’m transported back to that Africa.