Divergence of Fate – The Brazil Connection

I had forgotten a bit which happened before the last dream.

I am standing in a self-service restaurant around a smörgåsbord talking with a young woman. She asks me if I have been learning Dutch or Afrikaans.

I say, “no, have you noted a Southern lilt to my voice?”

“Yes, at first I thought it was South African now it sounds a bit more Aussie.”

“How do you know?”

“I am a Kiwi.”

I explain to her that I lived as a child in Australia and Zambia, both Southern Hemisphere.

In 1977-78 the war for the founding of Zimbabwe was getting hotter. This had knock on effects like air raids of guerrilla camps, marauding “soldiers” and shortages in the shops in Kabwe, Zambia.

There my father was working on a German built rotary lead kiln to extract lead from the lead rich tailings, waste which was abundant. Later Kabwe was acknowledged as one of the most polluted  places on earth. My mother was getting anxious and my father was looking further afield for jobs. He was offered one in Windhoek, one in South Africa and one in Brazil. As an ex-army officer in REME during the Malayan insurgency he would be required to serve in the military reserves. When I reached 18, I would have to do national service. The first two were vetoed.

Dad was interested in the job, possibly in Santa Amaro City near the Subaé river. I would have gone to international school either in Rio or Brasília. It was by the same German kiln manufacturer. He was keen, my mother less so. If they would have paid him in Deutschmarks and not cruzeiro novo, we probably would have moved there. Instead, we came back to blighty…

A possible fate diverged on a simple decision. My life would have been very different had I gone to international school in Brazil as opposed to a grammar school in North Kent.

I would have been very Southern hemisphere in my adolescence and education….

Stolen / Mistaken Identity Dream 31-1-23.

This dream was in part hyper-realistic and took place between 4:40 and 7:20 AM this morning.

The dream starts with me trying to pay for something in a shop. I open my wallet and look through my cards there. I have my carte vitale, carte de séjour and French driver’s licence. There are no bank or credit cards. There are a few business cards and an old one for Blockbuster video. I am very surprised by this. I look in a different part of my wallet and find a bank card. The salesperson tries it in the machine and it is refused. I realise that it is an out of date card and that all my others have somehow gone missing. Someone has stolen them along with my identity. I must find a branch of HSBC so as to put a block on the cards.

I exit the shop and find myself on the South bank of the Thames near Waterloo station and the Festival Hall. I do not understand why I am there in crowded London.  I bump into C and explain to her what has happened. We must figure out who has stolen my cards and therefore my identity. In a maternal fashion she kisses me on the forehead and we go off into an arcade to search for a branch of HSBC.  We stop in a small shop and she buys me a small, sealed carafe of white wine which she says I will need for later. We go into a café which is serving wholefood and drinks. Waiting table is DMcG. I haven’t seen her in ages and she is looking young and stress free. Her ginger hair is long as it was forty years ago. She is no longer wearing a business suit and is in hippie attire with a flowing skirt. She is braless under her shirt and very hippie, patchouli of smell. On seeing me she comes over and gives me a great big hug. She is very pleased to see me and we chat briefly about what has happened. She says that she now works at this shop five days a week on the lunchtime service and that she would be very glad to see me again.

There is no HSBC bank to be found. C checks if I have my mobile ‘phone. I do. I explain that there is no danger of anyone having cloned my banking app. because I do not use one. She checks that I have her new number in the ‘phone. I do. She thinks that it is very likely that whoever stole my cards and identity has mixed me up with someone else. Because why would someone behave as if they were me and copy my history? It is not all that interesting especially now. She says that she has a meeting and will meet me back at #111 later. She rushes off before I have the chance to explain I no longer live there. She thinks that it was while I was at #111 that someone stole my identity and reminds me of the two/three burglaries in the flats below.

I now find myself in Battersea. It is a very rough part and there are quasi-derelict houses and people hanging out in doorways. I know that they are selling drugs and that this is a dangerous place. I make my way through the wasteland and onto a high street. I am still looking for an HSBC. I know that with my identity card, carte de séjour, I stand a better chance face to face in fixing the problem. Otherwise, I need good internet access and my pass-codes. I think I remember them but would like to check them with the numbers I have written on a piece of paper in the top right hand drawer of my desk.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that three men are now following me. One is in charge with a Panama hat and the other two are his goons, lackeys. They are younger, Hispanic and are wearing leather jackets. I decide to see if they are following me so I duck down an alleyway and into an arcade. Sure enough they follow me. I walk into a clothing store and out the back door into an alley that leads to a canal. They follow me and sensing that I am trying to evade them they give chase. One of them tries to grab my wrist and I perform an Aikido move, kote-gaesh, which sends him flying. I run along the canal. There is a canal boat approaching a tunnel. I jump from the bank onto the canal boat and just mange to hold on. My feet drop into the water. I pull myself up onto the boat and it disappears into a tunnel. I can see my pursuers are very frustrated.

The boat leaves the tunnel and I get off on to the bank. I exit the canal tow track and know that I am in South London a little bit West of Clapham. I know that if I walk South and then head East. I will reach Clapham and then Brixton. I will be able to go to #111 and see if I can find my old passcodes which are in the drawer of my desk.

I arrive at an estate management office, which manages all the now rental property in my old street. There is a tall young man with light ginger hair sat behind a desk. I enter the office and explain my predicament to him. He asks who I am, what is my name. I tell him. He says that he has had three South American men recently asking about me. He says that they were asking for Alan from “Rezilia” {Brasília?} in Brazil. He thinks that they thought that I was this man. I explain that I have never been to Brazil and that it must be a case of mistaken identity.

I explain that there is an outside chance that my passcodes are still in the drawer of my desk and would it be possible for me to have a look. He says that he will have to ask the tenants.

It becomes clear in the dream that someone has assumed aspects of my behaviour and cloned parts of my personality way back when I used to live at #111 {around 2003-2006}. They have copied me as I was then. Someone has been pretending to be me for quite a while.

The young man takes me to look at #111. Someone has done a truly excellent refurbishment job and it has an ornate wooden façade with moving giant carvings. He says that we cannot go in until the tenants return.

We go back to his office and he suggests that we use the good internet access there to log onto HSBC in order to block the cards. I say that they will need a pin to use them. He says that there are some places that still use the old fashioned method. I get out my modern tablet and ask him as a “youth” to start to log on. First, he checks my contacts list which is intact and holds C’s number for later. He runs his eyes down the list and there are none with a Brazil dialling code.

I ask him again about the people who came asking after me. The description fits those who were chasing me. I know that some kind of partial identity theft happened whilst I was at #111 and that someone has copied me, “stolen” a part of my life even.

The alarm goes off and the dream ends.

#111 is the number and the name by which I refer to my old flat in Upper Tulse Hill, Brixton.

Djembe Attack Dream and Brazilian Tree Dream 23-10-22

I’ll put these two together even though I woke up between them. They seem geographically linked.

I am on a Caribbean Island which has a South American feel. I get off a train on an overground railway and descend a staircase into a partially lit underpass. There is a news stand there selling newspapers and cigarettes. Next to the stand are two young men with djembe drums. They are both Afro-Caribbean. One of them has a tatty looking hat. A young boy comes up to me and asks if I like Djembe. I say, “yes I do”. On hearing my reply, the young men strike up a call and answer Djembe beat. This goes on for a while.

Soon more performers join in and quite quickly there are a multitude of performers along with some very energetic dancers. There is a carnival feel and it is very colourful. I lie down on the ground to watch. A young, well fed, South American black woman sits herself astride me and starts to grind. She looks over her shoulder and notices that her boyfriend, who is a gangster, has noted. Even though it is not my fault he will be angry. She says that I had better leave.

I get up and start to walk away. Around the boyfriend a gang of men gather. They have sticks which reach from their hands down to the ground.  Some have machetes. The atmosphere is very threatening. I continue walking away. They ominously start to follow me. I am feeling threatened, but I know that this is a dream. All I have to do is wake up and I will be back here in Brittany.

I wake up feeling a heightened awareness that one gets from threat. It is 3:13 AM I go downstairs and have two yoghurts. I go back to bed and am awake for an hour or so.

I am in Brazil somewhere inland and far from the coast. It is a kind of mission station with bungalow buildings each with a veranda equipped with a fly screen. Just outside the village in a cleared area there is a small crowd of people. I go over and they are cutting up and moving the big tree which has fallen during the night. The tree is enormous, and the understanding is that it has stood there for hundreds of years. It has had a special role in the lives of the people.

When the tree has been cut up and stacked. They start to work on a new bed, turning the earth over with care. Along with others I start to bring whitewashed stones. These stones are very white and the size of a rugby ball. There are others much smaller, the size of a hand. They are flat. We place the big white stones around the edge of the flower bed. In the middle of the bed the priest and an elder are planting a sapling which is about six feet tall and securing it to a wooden post. There is a sense that this is an energised spot. This tree will, in time, replace the big tree. The villagers and I place the smaller flat stones onto the bed. Interspersed with the white flat stones are some black ones to make a fairly intricate pattern. When the work is done, we all stand back in a loose circle and admire the handiwork. There is a sense of good will and satisfaction.

I awake and find myself once again in our bed in Brittany.