Daydreams

I’ve been saying “I’m day-dreaming about…[xyz]” a lot lately. I will tell my roommate, Alex, this pretty much anytime I want something or am looking forward to something or miss something. Some day-dreaming is good. The good kind is when I “daydream” about something I can get here in Manjacaze. Such as crackers or pineapple or a long run. For instance, I’ll say during a long walk back from the market “I’m daydreaming about cold water” or “I’m day dreaming about that giant 30-met pineapple I bought yesterday”. Which means that’s the first thing I’m going to do when I get back because it sounds so good. The questionable (idk if it’s good or bad) kind of daydreaming is when I “daydream” about things I cannot get here in Manjacaze, or in Mozambique. You’ll understand better what I mean about not being sure whether the latter form of daydreaming is good or bad later on in this post; for now just go with it.

Some “good” daydreaming I’ve been doing includes:

“I’m daydreaming about yoga.”

Usually I say this after a long, hard, sweat-so-much-I-can-ring-out-my-clothes-and-not-because-I-just-washed-them Insanity workout. Specifically, I daydream about pigeon pose to stretch out my hips, getting lost in my ojjayi breath, and having the instructor’s voice (these are mp3 audio yoga classes) tell me pleasantly cheesy things like: “nobody is perfect. That’s what makes humans beautiful”; or “find your core. Not just your abs, but the core of who you are”; or “yoga is a safe place to practice staying calm during a challenge”; or “create space to let good things in”; or “we are all gloriously imperfect”; or “how you do anything is how you do everything”; or “open up your heart and open up your life”. I beat you to the punch by calling it cheesy, but you are reading a blog called Peace Love, and Polygons, after all. Some days, after many hours of our neighbors playing the same song on repeat, or trying to prepare 11th grade math lessons in a language I can only medium speak, and/or waking up to a minimum of 7 dead cockroaches on my bedroom floor, stuck on their backs, wiry legs flailing while a family of tiny ants eat them alive, a calming voice coming from my computer telling me to “just breathe” is the best thing.

“I’m daydreaming about Nuun.”

Nuun is like Gatorade but with less sugar. Tablets you can add to water and drink to stay hydrated. As mentioned above, saying “I sweat a lot” is quite an understatement, and sometimes my body needs more than just water. The streets in Manjacaze don’t have shade and a round trip to the market is at least 40 minutes. 100 degrees. No shade. Humidity. Sweating while you sleep/eat/read/sit/talk/be. Hydration is key, so I daydream about Nuun a lot. Luckily my mom sent me a large stock of Nuun in my first care package, so I can have it whenever I want. Good daydreamin'.

“I’m daydreaming about Chocolate.”

I’m a female and once a month I PMS and when that happens this daydream is really freaking intense. It’s less daydreaming and more if i don’t get chocolate now I’ll die and so will everyone around me. The good news is we can find chocolate bars here in Manjacaze and I will not second-think spending 70 mets on it. 

“I’m daydreaming about the iced coffee that’s waiting for me in the fridge.” 

It took me a little while to discover that I can actually make my own iced coffee. We have an ice cube tray, and a freezer, and a fridge, and a french press, and coffee, and sugar and milk. My mom sent me Starbucks Pike Place in a care package and now I drink iced coffee every morning. I brew it the night before and put the sugar and powdered creamer it in while it’s still hot so that it dissolves. I can’t put the mug of hot coffee directly into the fridge because the very hot to very cold combo will cause the cup to crack. So, I let it sit over night then put the cup in the freezer for an hour while I work out. Add two ice cubes and some fresh milk right before drinking it and it’s delicious and kinda-almost-a-little-bit like home. Usually when there is about 10 minutes left in my workout I tell Shaun T (insanity instructor) to get a move on because my chique iced coffee is waiting for me.  Who ever thought iced coffee would be a luxury that takes 12 hours to realize? Not me. But my new Mozambican self is willing to plan accordingly because the 30 minutes I spend drinking the end product is so worth it. I plan, prepare, enjoy. Then: Daydream about it until the next morning.

These are good daydreams because I actually have access to these things. I'll think, “I can’t wait to do that” or “I really want that” and I can pretty much have it same day. Instant gratification is good for the soul. Especially here in Mozambique when everything takes much longer than it should, people move without urgency, and there is a lot of time available to pass as it will (or won’t). Then, there are other daydreams—the kind one would expect of a person who is living in a foreign land away from friends and family. Things I don’t have access to, and likely won’t have access to for two years. Examples:

“I’m daydreaming about Lucy.”

I daydream about this every day. I don’t say it out loud because it just makes me feel more sad and Lucy-less. When I daydream of Lucy, one of two scenes usually plays in my head. The first one is cuddling in bed. She wraps her front legs around me like a human would and groans like an old grandpa—sometimes with a yawn too—and sighs before she falls asleep. I used to get so annoyed when she would take up half the bed and she was too heavy for sleepy Sarah to move in the middle of the night (like, not even budge a little bit). Now, I would trade the extra sleeping space for my best k9 friend in a heartbeat. The other scene is our reunion in two years. I imagine myself doing this awkward/ugly laughing/crying combo. Apologizing over and over for leaving her for two years. Being relieved that she remembers me, and grateful that dogs don’t hold grudges. I imagine her jumping up even though she knows she isn’t supposed to and putting her paws on each of my shoulders so that we are eye level. She makes eye contact with me and her mouth is open and she is panting and it looks like she is smiling. And in her face she says “I missed you mom” and I say it back out loud as I continue to cry/laugh. I hug her and she hugs me back—the way that dogs do—and it’s the best thing. In two years, it really will be the best thing.  

“I’m daydreaming about Netflix.”

Anyone who has ever had a Netflix account can understand the struggle of choosing what to watch; there is so much to choose from. Do I search by genre? Do I scan the “Sarah would like” list? Do I already have my mind made up but feel the need to consider 25 different movie titles before returning back to the one I already knew I wanted to watch? Do I make the commitment to binge watch 5 entire seasons of a show I’ve never heard of before? Do I give a show that I already tried once (but hated) another chance, hoping that this time I’ll get hooked? Do I watch a movie I’ve already seen before because I know I’m going to fall asleep? THERE ARE SO MANY CHOICES HOW DO YOU PICK JUST ONE!!!!!

Here I only have access to my hard drive with media that other Peace Corps Volunteers have shared with me. I have a lot to choose from, including every single episode of Boy Meets World that was ever made, Orange is the New Black, Mean Girls and 500 Days of Summer. It’s a pretty good spread and I shouldn’t be complaining. So I won’t. But it does not even a little bit compare to the selection that Netflix provides and therefore I will, so long as I am in Mozambique, miss the Netflix picking-out-a-moving experience that we all love and hate in huge and equal amounts. Sometimes when I am looking through my personal collection of media I daydream of all the choices I would have if my “PCV Media” folder was actually Netflix. In two years, when faced with choosing a movie to watch from Netflix, I will enjoy every indecisive second, and—let’s face it—probably pick a doozy. 

I’m daydreaming about ease of travel.”

Or: “I’m daydreaming about being able to leave one place when I want to and drive to another place, arriving at my destination in as much time--or less--as Google maps predicts it will take”. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we are not allowed to rent cars, drive cars, or do anything having to do with motorcycles besides watch them zoom by. In order to get from point A to point B, I have to find a chapa, wait for that chapa to fill up with many more people than it was ever designed to hold, wait for it to leave, make over 50 stops on the way to pick up or drop off, and eventually get there at least 1 hour after I would have been there if I had been driving myself. I said at least one hour. A better estimation of how long it takes, in relation to Google Maps, is to double it. And still sometimes that’s not enough leeway. Oh how nice it would be to get into my own car, leave point A when I want and arrive at point B in a timely manner, all while enjoying the glorious luxury of elbow room.

See you in two years, tolerable transportation. 

“I’m daydreaming about feeling cute.”

I think everyone appreciates a good, solid, fun reason to get super cute. You know, heels, a flirty dress, eye make-up—the whole nine yards. I didn’t partake in frequent fanciness when I lived in Dallas—usually a cotton sun dress, flat sandals, stud earrings and some mascara were all that went into “looking cute”. But every once in a blue moon, I would do it up. Heels. Dress. Even eyeliner. I would get a manicure and actually blow dry my hair. I would feel pretty. Not like “I look good enough to pass as a human” type of pretty. Or even the “I’m decent enough looking to not have to wear makeup and still fit into the cute category”, but like pretty pretty. I put some time into this and I like the way it came out. The type of pretty that you hope all your friends happen to want to take 200 pictures tonight because this level of pretty isn’t going to come around again for a few months. 

Well, after living here for 5 months, I can honestly say I miss having a reason to get dressed up. I sweat every day. I wear clothes that barely pass as clean (okay fine, don’t pass as clean. Don’t judge me because if you live in the States you use this incredibly convenient thing called a washing machine). We don’t have hair dryers or straighteners, so hair goes from shower wet to sweat wet, with no “dry” in between. I brought mascara and blush here with me, but with all the sweat and dirt, it’s not even worth it to put it on. Clothes should cover shoulders and knees. So instead of fun, flirty, pretty, I experience sweaty, dirty, conservative. Being an athlete, and not the most proactive in the cosmetic grooming department, I didn’t think this would be something I would miss. More like: "I don’t have to try at all and nobody’s going to care! Woohoo!" However, on the contrary, I really miss feeling pretty. I miss going shopping for a new cute outfit to wear to a specific event. I miss sitting in the comfy Pedi chairs at Garden Spa catching up with Laura and Rachel. I miss a nice new shellac manicure. I miss smelling good and feeling confident in how I look and what I’m wearing. I miss what my legs look like in heels (and I bet you do, too). In two years, after I sleep off the jet lag in my own bed in my mom’s basement, I’m going to have a pretty pretty night and it's going to be wonderful. Maybe even beautiful. But until then, I’ll settle with a capulana dress and some beautiful children yelling Mana Sara down the street. 

This type of daydreaming is, if I had to choose an adjective, I would say the bad kind. The kind that makes the idea of 22 more months in Mozambique seem like forever. For. Ev. Er (Oh yeah, I have the Sandlot on my hard drive too). It reminds me that no matter how comfortable, settled in, or integrated into the community I become, it’s just not going to be the same as home. Or should I say, there are some comforts that I willingly left at home that will stay at home for two more years. And that’s ok, because I wouldn’t, in 1000 years, exchange where I’m at for any of those faraway things that I find myself missing. 

The third type of daydreaming I do is the medium type. Things that I don’t have access to right now, or today, or even in the next week, but with time I could. These daydreams aren’t good or bad. They are hopeful. Motivating. Forward-moving daydreams. But, at the same time, can cause frustration or a feeling of stagnancy. Some examples:

“I’m daydreaming about my best friends.”

I really, really, really miss being in the company of people that know me know me. The people that call me Brades, who can—just by looking at me—know how I’m feeling. The people who I can say ridiculous, outrageous or downright disgusting things to and they will just laugh, unfazed. The people I can complain to about things that I shouldn’t be complaining about. Or do nothing with and have a blast. Or not be judged for not taking a shower even after three days and five workouts. Or for sticking my hand straight into the jar of peanut butter because I’m too lazy to walk 15 feet to the kitchen to get a spoon. I’m incredibly grateful that I have friends like this, but incredibly sad to know that they are oceans away. 

However, remember how I said that this is a medium daydream? Not good, not bad—medium. That’s because I’ve been seeing hints of this “knows me knows me” comfort level with some other PCV friends. 

A prime example:

Me: So, For a little while I thought that my boobs might be shrinking since I’ve been in Mozambique…but nope! Look at this sports bra cleavage! 

Alex: Oh…that’s good I guess? Ummm….

#gettingthere

Another prime example:

Roommate 1: *Takes a sip of water and makes a bad face.*

Roommate 2: Is that ORS? (ORS—oral rehydration salts—taste really gross)

Roommate 1: Nope, a big wad of booger just went down my throat.

All three of us: Ew. *silence. then laughter*

Alex and I share anxieties about teaching Mozambican students in Portuguese. How do we demonstrate that we know the material without being able to flawlessly execute the language? How do we teach certain concepts without calculators? What if the students don’t respect me? How are we going to handle the rampant cheating that happens in most Mozambican classrooms? Bbeca and I talk about having days where everything pisses us off for no reason. She has been here for a year and a half, so she offers insight on how to handle emotions that “America You” wouldn’t feel or face. We all three have opened up to each other about our beautiful but imperfect families, past/current romantic relationships, and future goals. I don’t feel like I can talk with my roommates about absolutely everything yet, but we’re getting there. Slowly, surely, and at exactly the pace we should.

“I’m daydreaming about race day.”

Anyone that is a runner knows that race day is the best and worst thing. It’s the worst thing because there’s a lot of pressure to perform because you’ve been training for three months and you really (really really really really) want to do your best. You push yourself and it hurts and you count down the miles and hope that when you cross the finish line your time is the best you’ve run yet. You have to wake up before the sun comes up to get to the start line with enough time to take one last pre-race dump and find your spot in the right corral. You stress about eating not enough/the right amount/too much; wondering if the shorts you picked will chafe; or whether or not you should wear the pullover or settle for freezing your nuts off until mile marker 3. It’s the best thing because race day provides one of the most positive and energizing atmospheres there is. You are surrounded by people who too have trained for the day and want to do their best. They want you to do your best because they know you trained too; your “best” and their “best” are very different, but neither less valuable than the other. People line the streets to tell you that you’re looking strong, even if you feel like shit (or promise you that there is beer at the finish line, or ask you what parade you’re a part of). And when you cross that finish line you are reminded why you pay $100 to run distances that most normal humans think are completely insane. Whether you achieve a PR or not, you are reminded that you’re a badass because your own two legs just took you 26.2 miles (or whatever distance) before most of the American population even took their morning pee. I daydream about this because in the States it had become part of my yearly routine. Four races, each with its own training plan, goal, story and new snazzy running outfit. I had a goal, I trained, I competed, I accomplished. I repeated. Race times are a concrete way to know that I have grown and improved and that I still have room to grow and improve. I miss that. 

Okay, so here’s the big news: there is a half marathon coming up here in Mozambique. It’s up north, in the province of Cabo Del Gado, which is a three hour plane ride for me. It has taken place each year for the past 5 or so years, on Women’s Day (April 7). The race is run my missionaries, and you are required to register in advance, pay 20 meticais ($0.50), and you even get a free t-shirt. On race day, all the participants pile into a giant truck, which drives 13 miles down the road and dumps everyone off. You run back the way you came and cross the finish line the same place you got into the truck. I guess if you can’t make it all the way, you’re shit out of luck (suckers!). 

I know it’s not going to be the same as the race-day atmosphere I love in the States, but it’s something. I’ll be running alongside other participants who are trying their best. The entire city of Montepuez bails on school and work to come cheer on the runners. When I cross the finish line I’ll feel proud. It’ll surely be different—not better, not worse—different. It will be wonderful and positive and surely quench this daydream, at least for a little while.

“I’m daydreaming about feeling like I have a purpose here.”

As I mentioned in the last post, I’ve been feeling pretty stagnant lately. When you hear Peace Corps, you hear, “changing the world!”. But I don’t feel like I’ve done that at all. Mostly I’ve been going to the market, cooking food, working out, and exchanging “olá!” with crianças over and over again until I become out of earshot. Integrating is a long and slow process, and it’s hard to identify when you’re actually taking steps in the right direction. I know I came here to teach math, but I haven’t had a chance to do that yet. So currently, I’m helping mães make a small income at the market with all the tomatoes and cucumbers I buy. I daydream a lot about taking ownership of my teaching job here. Having my own class—rules, procedures, structure—and truly doing everything I can to help my students understand the material. I want to be that teacher students come to in confidence with both personal and academic issues. I want them to trust me and I want to be able to trust them. I want to see their eyes light up when a concept “clicks”. I was to see test scores increase and instances of cheating decrease. I want my colleagues to trust me; I want to teach them and learn from them. I want to earn my title of Professora Sara. When I daydream about this, I usually daydream about teaching different topics, granting incentives to students who have earned them, or confronting a student that is cheating. Really, I daydream about doing anything that helps me know that I’m doing what I came here to do. Currently, I don’t feel like I’m doing any of it. But I know I will be soon.

The first day of classes will be on February 8th. On that day, my first ever group of students will enter into my classroom, likely with a specific set of expectations. I have no way of knowing what those are, or if I will or will not be able to meet them. However, I also have expectations for myself. And those are clear, challenging and attainable. I may not meet all of the expectations I have for myself on day one…or on day one hundred. But each day I will be working towards that, which is all I need to fulfill this daydream.

And now, because my name is Sarah and I am cheesy sometimes, and I don’t really know how to end this one, I’ll leave you with this:

“Daydreaming allows you to play out scenarios where you miraculously save the day. You play out scenarios in your head that are kind of crazy and then you personally, heroically resolve them.”