Zombie dreams aren’t so bad after all (or Africa dreams)

I always have epiphanies right before I fall asleep. Sometimes, they hit me like a punch in the head and I wake up, sitting up straight in bed with either horror or wonder.
Other times, they slide in on the edges of a doze, a sly thought or awareness that plants itself into my memories like wild honeysuckle, leaving its scent behind and growing faster than any plant you pay $50 or more for.
I’ve had a lot of these late night epiphanies, these sudden truths or desires that hover on the edge of dreams. The two that really stand out for me are about Africa.
I should probably explain my lifelong obsession with going to Africa. When I was young, about 10 years old or so, my mother brought my brother and me to see the movie, “Greystoke – The Legend of Tarzan.” For those who have never seen it, it’s as close to the original novel as it could be, so my mother told me.
I was entranced! I soaked up every jungle-filled scene of that movie with the wide eyes of a child realizing suddenly how big and how mysterious the world really was. I absorbed the whole wondrous impossibility of a boy growing up among apes, of running wild through the Congo, of pulling out a rotten elephant eyeball to show the injured European that eventually takes him from the jungle of Africa into the jungle of European aristocracy.
I had one of those experiences watching that movie as a child that most people reserve for religious experiences. I begged my mom to bring me back a couple more times, to drop me off at the movie to watch Tarzan over and over again.
I’ve had a few movies and books do that. They leave such an indelible impression on me that it quite literally changes the course of my life, my philosophy, my beliefs and, at the end, the inner core of me. “Platoon” was one of those movies. So was “Braveheart,” “The Empire Strikes Back,” “Excalibur” and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” only because when the girl turned into a giant blueberry, it scared the living piss out of me.
The books and characters in books that have altered me are too numerous to list. Merlin is one character. I think, in a lot of ways, he’s my spiritual guide through this life, and I love finding him between yellowed pages of used books.
On that note, the miracle of miracles happened. At our favorite trade and swap bookstore, my mother found the entire Edgar Rice Burroughs Tarzan series – all 24 books.
I absorbed them all like religious texts. I sat on a branch of a large elm that sat in our small backyard (which would eventually succumb to Dutch Elm disease and large black ants) and read all the adventures of Tarzan in Africa. I marveled that he could keep alive in the desert by pretending to be dead and killing the vulture that came to feast on him. He drank its blood. He fought poachers. He had run-ins with dinosaurs and discovered ancient, cannibalistic societies.
I learned all the Swahili words in the books and even tried my tongue on the secret language of the apes.
And I knew that I would go to Africa.
That belief stayed with me throughout my childhood, teenaged drunken rebellious years, my equally drunken college times, my more drunken professional life as a newspaper writer and finally into my still drunk role as an editor of 11 small country newspapers.
In my mind, I saw myself in the Congo or on the plains of the Serengeti. I was tanned and wild and beautiful and clothed in khaki and white tank tops with my hair pulled back into a soft ponytail. I was comfortable there, wise in the mysteries of that ancient and primordial land. I was tough and experienced in dealing with the local warlords and politics, and I had the begrudging respect of visiting Americans who looked at me as a hardcore journalist with a mystical connection to the land.
It was never a doubt. I would go to Africa. Going to Africa was a TRUTH. It was always there, like a mote in the eye or a mole on your chin.
Until one night when I was laying in bed, dozing on the edge of sleep, it died. I was having a light little fantasy of being the guide to a bunch of actors who were in Africa and I, of course, was the wise little hottie that that had to keep them out of trouble, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, my voice spoke in my head.
“You’ll never do that.”
It was said in a very calm, very stern and very simple version of my own voice. It was shattering.
My eyes flew open. I was awake instantly, alert, and the gut-dropping pain I felt in that one moment was explosive and as sad as finding baby bunnies that your pet cat kills for you. That feeling of sadness was so strong that I remember literally thinking, “Is this what the death of a dream feels like?”
I lay in bed for a few minutes, my eyes open, my heart breaking. And then I fell asleep… deeply.
The next day, I thought about that moment. In the months to follow, I would get fired from my editor’s job by a vindictive jealous bitch, would wallow in self-pity for a few months, would continue drinking as I always did, would get a job doing media for a large non-profit, start a small little freelance side-career, fumble through boredom and sticky pawings, transition from wanting to be a bellydancer to being a bellydancer, venture out of the country into the jungles of Costa Rica, start taking stupid risks with money and men and…
And never again, did I believe in Africa as a TRUTH again.
Then, one afternoon after work, I lay down to nap. I think I was remembering Costa Rica. Or maybe I was just practicing the whole “The Secret” Power of Attraction thing that I had gotten into. Whatever, it was, somehow it led to this.
I had a vivid vision of myself on a jeep with a camera around my neck wearing khakis and a white tank top with my hair pulled back into a soft ponytail and I was on the plains of the Serengeti. I saw it as real as I see my keyboard right now, my messy desk and the little bottle of Acai Berry Extreme fat burner that I’ve never opened.
In that little moment before I dropped into a thick nap, a voice said, “You can do that.” It wasn’t the stern teacher voice of mine that killed the dream. It was just a quiet little whisper to myself, and I knew that yes, I would do that.
So, the TRUTH is back. And I will be in Africa.
This starts my journey to get there.

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Tags: Africa, daydreams, dreams, hope, journeys, Tarzan, travel