mtoto and mtoto

Of the many things I love, giraffes and babies are pretty high on my list. This is fairly well known among anyone who’s known me for longer than six seconds- especially the part about babies. I have a ‘baby voice’ that I have absolutely no control over: I get really excited and high-pitched when I see a puppy, or any child under the age of seven, or even a pregnant woman. I also have a ‘mom voice’ which I can only bring out when the occasion demands: when they ask for the tenth time if they can have dessert, even though they know they can’t. When one sibling is hitting the other, and I’m driving the car. When a child turns off their listening ears and runs in front of a car.

Or, apparently, when a four day old giraffe decides to walk toward its mother.

Anyway: Friday, July 15. In order to fit in as many things as possible, and in order to kick jet lag out of the way, I packed our first few days in Kenya pretty full. Friday’s agenda was as follows: children’s home, lunch, giraffe center. Keeping in mind that we are taking public transportation, this is dangerously close to a full day. Miraculously, everything went as planned. Which is harder than it sounds- it’s not like we’re a bunch of fools, and can’t get anything done. It’s not like I didn’t give us any credit.

It’s just that NOTHING EVER GOES AS PLANNED IN KENYA. EVER.

So when I say ‘everything went as planned’, I mean that the busses were actually running, and on time no less. The children’s home let us in even though we were a larger-than-normal group. Lunch was actually available and served in a timely manner. The giraffe center was open. Etc. Let us celebrate the small victories, here. It was a pretty good day.

New Life Children’s Home was founded in the early 90s by a British couple living in Kenya. They take in abandoned babies, care for and nurture them, and adopt them out to loving homes. Their oldest children are preschool aged.

We arrive around eleven in the morning; this involves two bumpy bus rides, a ten minute walk, and a brief stint to buy a banana and take several pictures of a cement wall. We check in at the gate, wait patiently in the lobby, and go through a brief introduction to and tour of the home. We are taken to the back to put on aprons. They are out of aprons.

We go upstairs so they can show us the toddlers. One baby literally lunges toward me, and since I haven’t washed my hands yet, I can’t pick him up. I try to explain this to him and he throws himself at my feet.

It is torture. I somehow survive.

We decide to forage ahead, apronless. We wash our hands hospital-style. We are reminded that picture taking is okay, but posting said pictures on Facebook is not. We are free to choose a room, choose a baby, choose an activity.

I meander upstairs and back into the toddlers room. There are about a dozen children here, and a few Kenyan workers who will tell us the babies’ names if asked. Untold are their histories, their sob stories, their HIV status. We don’t need this; it’s just the morbidity in me that wants to know the nitty and the gritty. I’m just being honest here- judge me if you must.

Speaking of honesty, this is as good a time as any to admit that this children’s home was mostly worked into our schedule for Lindsay’s benefit. Lindsay loves her some babies, and in her fundraising efforts for this trip would ask her sponsors for money ‘so she could go to Kenya and hold babies’. Of course, the rest of us enjoyed the visit as well, and I always think it is beneficial for Americans to both see the need in Kenya, and the people who are working toward a solution. But between you and me, this particular day was mostly for Lindsay’s benefit. And after watching her sit in silence and bliss with a baby in her arms, I can confidently tell you it was worth it. In the meantime, my newfound friend (whose name I can’t remember) and I played a rousing game of ‘take Pete’s hat off Ashby’s head and put it on Pete’s and then put it on his own and then back on Ashby’s’. He won every round.

Eventually I became aware that while babies always, always need love and affection, the reality is that there is a lot of behind-the-scenes work that needs to be done to run a children’s home, so I asked an employee if there was anything we could do to help them. She mentioned that after the kids went down for a nap, they’d be folding laundry and mopping floors, and that in the meantime, there were dishes to be washed if anyone was interested?

We were. Pete and I found the kitchen (leaving Keith to the mercy of several children who only reached his knees) and began washing cups, cups, sippy cups and more cups. This is notable because for one, do you see how selfless I was being here? not playing with babies when I could have been? does anyone feel my pain? And two, it is a rare man who will wash dishes in Kenya, and I think the workers at New Life were duly impressed. As Pete washed and I rinsed, I chatted with the woman whose station we had taken over. I was pleasantly surprised to find that she was a volunteer. It seems uncommon to me to find a Kenyan who is willing to work for free, and I’m not sure how they manage to survive in Nairobi without an income. But with a 50% unemployment rate, clearly a lot of them are managing somehow.

After a couple hours of baby play, dish washing, and a crash course in Diaper Folding 101, we say goodbye, collect our things and depart. Our next stop: lunch. Fairly uneventful, but Kimberly would like me to mention that her ice cream was disappointing.

I will spare you the details of the bus ride for the sake of brevity (key words: bumpy, crowded, confusing). The point is that we got to the Giraffe Center, and the REAL point is that we got to see, pet, feed and photograph giraffes to our hearts’ content.

The Giraffe Center lies on the outer edge of the Nairobi National Park. They have several acres reserved specifically to protect the Rothschild Giraffe- a breed which is endangered, and which slightly differentiates from its cousin, the reticulated giraffe. (The Rothschild’s spots are different.) For slightly less than $10, you can climb up a balcony until you are head level with a giraffe. You can feed it. You can pet it. You can take your picture with it. If you hold the food in your mouth, the giraffe will take it from your lips. But if you aren’t holding food, watch for head-butts.

I know I say this a lot, but this time I really mean it: this is one of my favourite places on earth. I don’t get tired of them. I don’t do a lot of touristy things while I’m in Nairobi. But there is something incredibly life giving and therapeutic about seeing a giraffe at such a short distance.

The center keeps one male, for breeding, and several females. Male babies are sent away when they are three. With us today were several hungry, impatient female giraffes, one bull, a few warthogs, and one tiny, tiny baby giraffe.

Like, four days old. Like, as tall as our friend Keith. (Who wants to give birth to something six feet tall? Raise your hand.)

After everyone had taken a turn feeding the giraffes, taking myriad pictures, walking around the grounds (there are a couple tortoises and a souvenir shop. Also for our viewing pleasure, a local kindergarten was making a field trip that day) we began to drift to various areas: Susan and Lindsay sat down at the café. Pete took a few too many pictures of turtles. Keith mooned over the love of his life, Daisy. And Angie, Kimberly and I hung out on the balcony.

With our arms dangling over the side, our heads angled absently toward a distant giraffe, and a cool breeze in our face, we reflect on the day. Our talk turns to animals, among them, the ‘big five’: the five quintessential game animals that everyone must see when on safari.

‘Giraffe...’ I think, ‘…and lions, for sure.’

‘Rhinos’, Angie adds.

Kimberly counts on her fingers: ‘Rhinos, lions, cheet-‘ I clutch her arm with the urgency of someone choking on a hot dog and shriek: ‘THE BABY IS MOVING!!!!!!!!’

You honestly would have thought my baby was moving; that I was 9.2 months pregnant and my water had broken, or that my newborn infant was about to fall into a pit of crocodiles. (NO. I’m NOT PREGNANT. Quit starting rumours.)

Angie, Kimberly and any other human with a camera frantically turned toward the infant giraffe and photographically documenting its every move. I’d started a digital riot. I didn’t even have my camera with me (the battery was dead, or something). I had already seen baby giraffes before. I hadn’t meant to cause such an uproar. I hadn’t meant to violently scream out about this groundbreaking news.

But in my defence, the baby was really, really cute.

(For the record, the big five are the rhino, lion, leopard, elephant and buffalo.)