Another dry day today. The rain in Nairobi when I arrived had petered out to a slow drizzle by the time I reached Mpala, and it hasn't rained here since. The sky threatens rain in new ways every day: the air is close, the wind blows from the south, a vast column of clouds masses against Mt. Kenya and sails towards us over the afternoon. But they always veer off to the south, to Ol Pejeta, or slowly melt over the valley into tiny scraps of blazing whiteness. The grass stays brown, the soil turns into finer and finer powder, and the minds of men and beasts turn over and over the images connected with water. We all try to predict the rains: the birds lay eggs, the impala have calved, several species of acacia have blossomed, the humans create new theories every day. Nature is much more powerful here. People starve when the rains fail. It's harder now than when we were kids, the older folks say. There's more varieties of food but it costs more. This is where the delusions and deceptions of the people who played games with other people's money draw blood.

I've stopped reading the New York Times. It's too surreal. It's still a game for them. It's the latest innovation in reality TV.