I'm driving 70 MPH on freeway as I type this. My laptop is plugged in to ashtray, and I'm steering with my knee. Don't worry; I'm watching road, not keyboard. I know these keys as well as I do my fingers.

I've always been crazy like this though, although sometimes I wonder where I get it. My mother is type of person that prays to God that Ferris Wheel ride will end early for fear that it will come off axel and go rolling down hill. My father is of a different sort. He would refuse to ride simply because at any given moment, his back could suddenly decide to take revenge against him. I, on other hand, have always been up for an adventure.

Allow me to set scene. Dad is freaked out and proceeds to tell me "horror" stories he's heard about these "heli-tours"; pilot cuts right, then cuts left, passengers get sick, everybody is throwing up all over place, and they vow to him that they'll never take another trip like that again, not as long as they are alive. It would be up to me to convince him that everything would be OK.

Mom's worried, but only because Dad is. His mood has always been barometer of our own. I find an entry point into conversation, and make every attempt to put them both at ease. I explain So.Cal. Helicopter's impeccable safety record, boast about their calculated decisions to use what National Transportation Safety Board considers to be safest single engine aircraft in production. I even go so far as to paraphrase brochure, attempting to capture some of excitement:

"This tour takes you from Montgomery Airport out to coast of La Jolla Shores, then north to World Class Torrey Pines Golf Course, makes a 180 degrees turn to coast of La Jolla Shores and continues southbound over Coronado Bridge. Then we go on to beautiful downtown San Diego skyline!”

As far back as I can remember, Africa wove her spell over my heart.

It wasn’t pictures of far off lands as shown so beautifully in National Geographic. It wasn’t stories preached at church of starving refugees that needed help. It was far more immediate than those. I was three weeks old when my parents walked off plane holding my brother and me. And just like a duck I was imprinted with Africa. Her sights became my reference for beauty. Her animals became my playmates. Her sounds and smells taught me of daily life. Her people became my reference for family and friends. Her triumphs were mine as I watched her growing alongside me. Her wounds were mine too. And although I never bled as so many of her people have my heart shed tears as I watched agonies they suffered.

I never thought I would leave. Funny that; most of my contemporaries did and despite every good intention, most did not return. I thought I was different. How could I not come back? Africa was as necessary to me as breathing. My heart beat to her rhythms, her songs rocked me to sleep. Her people were my brothers and sisters, my mothers and fathers. She was my home. And you always go home.

Twenty-five years later. The pull of Africa did not recede, but pull of everyday life interfered and overwhelmed. Somehow there was time or money but never both at once. I was reduced to memories and to telling stories to my children, imprinting them with same love. One day inspiration struck. We found a big glass jar and painted a picture of Africa on it and started saving money. We started to learn Swahili. Jambo — hello; Asante — thank you; Wapi choo — Where’s bathroom? We determined a time frame, summer of 2006. That would be year I would show my children their roots and place of my heart.

March 30, 2004 phone rang. It was my father. “Can Lisa (my 14-year-old daughter) leave for Kenya in two weeks? We’ll probably be gone for about a month.” Calmly I replied that I would have to check with her father and school. Then I hung up phone and started jumping up and down screaming. One of us was going to Africa . NOW.

Lisa reacted same way when I picked her up early from school that day. The many details loomed but somehow, all necessary items were crammed into her suitcase. Then big day arrived and we saw her off at airport. Her little sister was sobbing and clinging to her. I pulled her aside, and with my head turned so she couldn’t see my own tears, I reminded her that we needed to send sissy off with a smile. Bravely we managed until plane took off, then we both cried. Samantha for missing her sister, me because I was left behind.

A week later phone rang. There was a bit of an echo, then I heard a familiar voice. “Hello. This is Africa calling.” The voice of my father reached across miles. The floodgates of time opened. Memories washed over me and I shivered with intensity.

“Where are you?” I managed.