Travel Reference
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Philippines, now Papua New Guinea—but no place so far has felt quite right. I've always
tried to follow my dreams, ever since age nine, when I had nobody to help me through the
grief of leaving behind my first language and first culture, my first self, and changing from a
Japanese into an American. My parents, American to start with, didn't notice my sadness, so
I learned to rely on myself, on the banished, secret self who speaks to me through dreams.
Now I tighten the drawstring of my sleeping bag, breathing the thin cold air in the mission
house, and dream in Japanese. I'm driving a jeep up a dusty mountain. It's a child-sized, toy
jeep, and my two baby sisters bounce on the seat beside me. After circling round and round
the mountain, we come to a high stone wall with a carved, medieval-looking gate. The air
is very still. Not even a fly buzzes. Suddenly the gate swings open, revealing a jumble of
square, flat buildings piled oneontopofthe other,staircases runningfromrooftoroof.Then
we see them. Up and down the narrow streets the elephants walk, slowly, quietly, with great
dignity, careful where they plant their enormous feet.
Aswedrivethroughthegate,oneofourtiresgoesflat.Weallthreestarttocry,andalmost
immediately,severalelephantscometowardus,murmuringinJapanese,“There,there,please
don't cry,” changing our tire with their trunks. “Thank you,” we say, and the elephants bow:
“Don't mention it.” I see their huge heads bobbing toward me and draw in a deep, contented
breath,assweetasthehaylikescentoftatamifloors,adelightatbeingsmallandhelplessand
cared for.
As the dream fades, I want to stay with it, am swept by a terrible sorrow at its slipping
away.
Then I open my eyes to the dim morning light and feel ashamed at my mood of sappy
nostalgia. I've had the dream before—I first dreamed it the night before I started law school
in America—and though I don't remember much about my early years in Japan, they can't
have been as Edenic as my unconscious paints them. Nobody's childhood is all sweetness
and light. As usual, I dismiss this longing for a lost paradise as an embarrassingly transpar-
ent wish fulfillment. From my experience practicing law, I've learned to question people's
motives, imagine worst-case scenarios, and mistrust any story that isn't at least somewhat
dark.
Famished, I get up to look for some water in which to boil my rice. I try the faucets in the
kitchen and bathroom, not really expecting them to work, and they don't. In the yard, I find
emptypails,butdonotknowwheretofillthem.IfonlyI'dthoughttoasktheweaponpeddler
where the closest water is. I unpack my peanut-butter-and-crackers and inhale their tempt-
ing aroma, which reminds me that I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. Reluctantly, I
seal them back in their plastic ziplock bag. On the mountain, I'll need high-energy foods that
don't have to be cooked. Since Kweptana is only six miles farther, I decide to trudge on up
