I stand on a bridge with a giant tribesman alongside an enormous freighter beached in shallow water. It’s full of refugee pilgrims, many of whom spill over onto the shore. My companion shows me one of his traditional practices. He holds a long pole with a hollowed-out cup at its end. In his other hand he holds a small silver ball. He jumps down from the bridge, landing on his feet, then springing back up—while repeating these motions with mathematical precision he alternately raises the pole to hurl up and catch the ball in the cup at its tip. At one point the ball veers far off course, landing somewhere on or near the ship.

The remainder of the dream consists of my companion and I searching for the silver ball. We traverse the length of the ship, which is incredibly crowded with children and adults. Some listen to talks or attend prayer sessions. On the sandy shore we look in the shallows and find thousands of tiny white crosses on chains flashing in the water. I keep hoping to find the ball, but feel it is an almost futile search. My companion is much more hopeful; resolute, he plods on. Soon we see a few members of his tribe approaching from the opposite direction. He speaks with them in their native language, which consists of clicks and other short abrupt exclamations. I do not understand. I wake up as if entering a new world.