In this dream the days and nights are undulating, as if the relative duration of the days shifted with time. I am with a large group of about 20 people and there are several clear factions which are roughly separated into two groups. We are all travelling together, staying in large open spaces with our own camping gear. Regular squabbles break out amongst the group members but I don't pay any attention to what they are about.
One day we are in a small town, run down and dusty like every other town we pass through. I spot a small knick-knack shop, and it seems so out of place in a place that is desperately poor and hungry. Inside are strange relics from other people's lives - a few plates here, a decorative jar there. I find a box of books and pick two. When I take them to the counter, the man tells me it'll be $66 for the two books. I am shocked but when he explains that they are the taxes to be paid for leaving this place, I feel somewhat reassured and pay up. One small red-covered book is nestling within the other large white-covered book, but I can remember neither.
I go back to the camp and they are arguing about what to to do next. I secretly know that I will need to leave this group soon. One half wants to build rafts to go down the river, and the other half of the group want to walk. The pros and cons are debated back and forth till I fall asleep next to the fire.
The next day we are all out walking in a cemetery, through lush green grass, like a thick carpet underfoot. The sensation of moisture and scent of fresh grass is exceedingly strong, and I wonder how such lush grass can exist in Africa. We continue discussing which route to take, and eventually the two subgroup leaders decide the group will split up. Friends in both halves appeal to me to join their side - one girl who looks like the violist Natasha from ADO in particular tells me that I have to be in her raft. I tell her that I need to see a map of where we might join up again, because I don't want to lose touch with the other half of the group.
The big leader, who is a frizzy haired girl called Lizzie, comes up to me and says that she needs to talk to me before I decide to split off from the group. I ask her how she knows about my intentions to leave the group, and she says she knows everything. When I press her further she says that I was spotted at the bus station looking at bus routes, something that I don't even remember doing.
She shows me a map of the region and I struggle to recognise any countries on the map, let alone the shape of Africa. She points to where we are, at the mouth of a river in the middle of the desert on the western side of Africa. But it's not the Sahara and the shape of the desert is all wrong. I follow the river with my finger and it traverses the continent from west to east, gradually opening up until it drains into a huge lake. What is this lake? I ask Lizzie. She says she doesn't know, and on the map it is labelled simply as "crater". On the eastern side of the crater is all green, huge swathes of green that do not exist in real life. I see a small country labelled "Liszt" and know that I must go there.
I trace back all the way to where we are, seemingly thousands of kilometres away. I tell Lizzie that I will not join the group in either rafting down the river or walking alongside it. She asks me what my plans are but I have no idea.
At dawn the next day, I make my way to the bus station next to the market. Here there is the strong smell of decomposing vegetables and animals, something which is familiar to any developing world traveller. Several rusting metal hulks sit in the parking lot, wearily chugging out black gas. I look at the front of the buses searching for clues to where they might go, but the script is unrecognisable and I have no idea what language they are in. I ask someone where the next bus goes, and they point to one of the buses. When I climb aboard the entire bus is filled with frightened people. They look terrified, their eyes bulging out of their sockets, holding onto each other for comfort. I take a seat somewhere at the back, and wait for the bus to leave.
Soon a man in a dress shirt and proper pants, easily the best dressed man in the entire town, gets on the bus and sits next to me. He starts telling me about how the bus is going to Bamako, where these starving people are looking for their family. He tells me about the new wave of slavery in the post modern age. I wonder to myself which age we might be in, and how slavery can exist again. He shows me pictures of old men, and as he scrolls across the faces I wonder what they mean, whether they are relatives of people in the buses. Then he takes a small plastic bag out of his big satchel, about a pound in size in a ziplock bag.
They catch these people, and grind them to a powder. He says, running the coarse sand-like granules through his fingers.
There is no more food left in the world, so we must eat these people. The granules look not unlike pet food, brown-grey in colour. They are the new slaves of the world.
Then I wake up.
One day we are in a small town, run down and dusty like every other town we pass through. I spot a small knick-knack shop, and it seems so out of place in a place that is desperately poor and hungry. Inside are strange relics from other people's lives - a few plates here, a decorative jar there. I find a box of books and pick two. When I take them to the counter, the man tells me it'll be $66 for the two books. I am shocked but when he explains that they are the taxes to be paid for leaving this place, I feel somewhat reassured and pay up. One small red-covered book is nestling within the other large white-covered book, but I can remember neither.
I go back to the camp and they are arguing about what to to do next. I secretly know that I will need to leave this group soon. One half wants to build rafts to go down the river, and the other half of the group want to walk. The pros and cons are debated back and forth till I fall asleep next to the fire.
The next day we are all out walking in a cemetery, through lush green grass, like a thick carpet underfoot. The sensation of moisture and scent of fresh grass is exceedingly strong, and I wonder how such lush grass can exist in Africa. We continue discussing which route to take, and eventually the two subgroup leaders decide the group will split up. Friends in both halves appeal to me to join their side - one girl who looks like the violist Natasha from ADO in particular tells me that I have to be in her raft. I tell her that I need to see a map of where we might join up again, because I don't want to lose touch with the other half of the group.
The big leader, who is a frizzy haired girl called Lizzie, comes up to me and says that she needs to talk to me before I decide to split off from the group. I ask her how she knows about my intentions to leave the group, and she says she knows everything. When I press her further she says that I was spotted at the bus station looking at bus routes, something that I don't even remember doing.
She shows me a map of the region and I struggle to recognise any countries on the map, let alone the shape of Africa. She points to where we are, at the mouth of a river in the middle of the desert on the western side of Africa. But it's not the Sahara and the shape of the desert is all wrong. I follow the river with my finger and it traverses the continent from west to east, gradually opening up until it drains into a huge lake. What is this lake? I ask Lizzie. She says she doesn't know, and on the map it is labelled simply as "crater". On the eastern side of the crater is all green, huge swathes of green that do not exist in real life. I see a small country labelled "Liszt" and know that I must go there.
I trace back all the way to where we are, seemingly thousands of kilometres away. I tell Lizzie that I will not join the group in either rafting down the river or walking alongside it. She asks me what my plans are but I have no idea.
At dawn the next day, I make my way to the bus station next to the market. Here there is the strong smell of decomposing vegetables and animals, something which is familiar to any developing world traveller. Several rusting metal hulks sit in the parking lot, wearily chugging out black gas. I look at the front of the buses searching for clues to where they might go, but the script is unrecognisable and I have no idea what language they are in. I ask someone where the next bus goes, and they point to one of the buses. When I climb aboard the entire bus is filled with frightened people. They look terrified, their eyes bulging out of their sockets, holding onto each other for comfort. I take a seat somewhere at the back, and wait for the bus to leave.
Soon a man in a dress shirt and proper pants, easily the best dressed man in the entire town, gets on the bus and sits next to me. He starts telling me about how the bus is going to Bamako, where these starving people are looking for their family. He tells me about the new wave of slavery in the post modern age. I wonder to myself which age we might be in, and how slavery can exist again. He shows me pictures of old men, and as he scrolls across the faces I wonder what they mean, whether they are relatives of people in the buses. Then he takes a small plastic bag out of his big satchel, about a pound in size in a ziplock bag.
They catch these people, and grind them to a powder. He says, running the coarse sand-like granules through his fingers.
There is no more food left in the world, so we must eat these people. The granules look not unlike pet food, brown-grey in colour. They are the new slaves of the world.
Then I wake up.
