We drive across the East African plains and wonder at the moonscape they have become.  Along the roadside, the trees stand brittle and covered in a heavy coat of dust.  The faces of the little shacks along the way are the same.  Fine, powdery dust has lifted easily in the dry wind and painted everything a lifeless brown.  The monotony of color is strange and disturbing.

Even from my desk by the window in my bedroom at our house set in a watered garden, I can see the dust.  Carried on the tired wind, it billows against Mt. Meru, the quiet volcanic mountain that our city sprawls at the base of.  Instead of misty blankets of moisture, Meru is shrouded in a gritty cloud of dust. Though I don't see it coming through my window, I feel the build up on my keyboard and stop to wipe it often.

Last night I sat in a Chinese restaurant in East Africa with a group of Californians while cable television beamed Michael Jackson's memorial service above us as we ate our Szechuan Beef.  The Tanzanian waiters were attentive, though their real focus was on the screen.  We munched our Spring Rolls as I pondered it all...

The memorial service and the entire giant "event" of Jackson's passing, felt both very close and very far.  I return to LA every 2 years and I just drove past the Staples Center less than 3 weeks ago on my way to LAX for my flight back to Africa.   I can easily imagine the buzzing helicopters overhead, the snarled freeway nightmare of traffic, the way all else seems to be on hold until LA decides to move on again.

But our group of 12 at the table was out for dinner after a day of prep for some days in the wilderness. Byron, my husband, is leading them today into a remote area of Maasai-land  on a reconnaissance trip, if you will, to visit different projects we are involved in.  The team is on a journey of discovery regarding how they might build involvement in Africa.