Rain, rhinos and a new member of the family

"It must be raining somewhere," the taxi driver opined. "Maybe Nakuru?" Turns out he was right and the rain has now returned with a vengeance to Nairobi. I know we have only recently come from London -- and it was raining when we arrived -- but the sudden change from salad days to umbrella days has taken me by surprise. Raincoats have been unearthed, proper shoes ferreted out from the backs of cupboards and I have had to grapple with the question of what to do with the girls on a rainy day.....
But before Nairobi's potholes became swimming pools, we had a glorious sun-filled afternoon visit to the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust inside the Nairobi National Park. Kind friends told us that if we sponsored an elephant, we could go in the evening and watch the babies feed. So, Suguta has now joined our family. Just eight months old, she was orphaned in northern Kenya and flown to the trust after she wandered into a manyatta, seeking fluids and shelter. She was in a bad way but is thriving now. Our first sight on arriving at the Trust, was a teeny baby rhino being ushered into its shed, a bright red blanket covering its back. Cue universal coos and aahs, which faded slightly as we wandered round to see the grown-up rhinos, one of which was sporting a nasty gash in its side. I wondered if the gate secured by a single chain and padlock was really strong enough, wished I had not worn heels (more on this later!), and pondered how quickly I could climb a tree carrying a rather hefty two-year-old. None of these thoughts was particularly reassuring. Then the keepers ushered us up a thin path into the bush nearby and next thing we knew a herd of elephants trundled past, babies being led by the green-coated, wellington-booted keepers, and larger, more rambunctious beasts running at a lively pace, trying to give their carers the slip. It was a breath-taking sight. The sound, the proximity of the animals, the red dust flying in the dying rays of the sun. Lucy's eyes were like saucers as she turned round afterwards. I knew mine were the same. We followed the elephants to their stalls, where the keepers were feeding them with giant bottles of milk. The girls were fascinated. Lucy clambered on to the cross bar of the half-door to get a better look, but Rachel hit the jackpot...partly because she had just hit the dirt. I stupidly tripped (ah yes, those high heels) as I moved between the stalls, and landed flat on my belly. Not too bad, except I was carrying Rachel. She luckily fell on her bottom (again a paean of praise to the inventor of the nappy, much much more than just a diaper), but was shocked and wailed as was her due. A kindly keeper lifted her over the door of one of the stalls so she could pat the elephant (turned out to be Suguta -- our elephant!). The tiny pachyderm was wrapped up in her blanket, ready for bed. Lucy got a turn too, her long legs in school uniform shorts twisting as she tried to avoid kicking the elephant as the keeper held her aloft for a photo. The keepers sleep with the elephants and wake up every three hours to feed them. I simply could not believe it. It's as much work as a baby. The children joined the keepers as they washed their hands in water poured from a bottle, giggling hysterically. Warthogs snuffled about the yard, and a one point a small herd dashed through the few visitors, the last beast stopping dramatically before conquering his fear to join his companions on the far-side of the foreign, flip-flopped feet. Truly a great afternoon, pour les grands et les petits, as the Haribou ad says. And yet, it wouldn't be Africa -- or at least my experience of it -- without a stab of irony. As we meandered back into town, merging with the snarling, unstructured rush-hour traffic, we went past Kibera. It's a sight to chill the soul and I haven't even been in yet. People were rushing home on foot, and I wondered what kinds of beds they would lie in. They were not going home to hot baths and TV as we were. And we had just spent 4,000 shillings on an orphan elephant. A good cause, and I don't mean in any way to take away from it, but it's a funny old world. As a journalist, I know that the stories that get most play from war zones, conflicts, or deprived parts of the world, are ones about animals. When I lived in the Ivory Coast, I wrote about some chimpanzees that lived on an island west of Abidjan. http://www.africanconservation.org/dcforum/DCForumID1/162.html
They had been in a viral research centre but had ended up here in this lost lake-land. One man from a riverside village took them bananas every day. We sat on a boat and filmed and watched them. It was a brilliant experience, strange, captivating, surreal in a country hurtling towards civil war. A woman from California sent me a letter after my article was published with a fistful of dollars to buy bananas for the chimps. It's the only letter I've ever received from a reader, and the only money, though I have written about Liberian refugees living in squalour and under fire, teenagers trying to forget what they did during Sierra Leone's civil war, and women suffering from fistula.
For more details of the David Sheldrick Trust /sponsorship etc, go to www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org

Powerless

The scream of a child is a terrible thing. It rends the air, raw, inexplicable, a rebuke to our carelessness, our powerlessness, our imperfection. It is the sound of innocence defiled, of a shocking, untimely realisation that the world is not a haven, not a paradise waiting to be explored by pudgy fingers, saucer-like eyes and stubby, stumbling, seeking legs. How then to explain Gaza? As any mother knows, one scream will bring you running, your heart pounding, your hands shaking. You scoop your child into your arms, and promise, promise that everything will be alright. "Mummy's here, Mummy's here."
But what if you couldn't.
I have a two-year-old, a beautiful bundle of golden curls, pool-like eyes and boundless enthusiasm for a world that is still a playground of infinite possibilities. When she cries in the night, tormented by dreads that are as yet nameless, formless, perhaps childhood's premonitions of a harsher reality, I rush to her side, I cradle, I croon, I reassure, I vow. I could not imagine not doing this. I could not imagine not being able to do this. How then to explain Gaza?
I can't do anything about the images on my television screen, I feel I should. Surely, it cannot be right just to sit here, aghast, tears welling in front of pictures of terrified children with eyes full of "why", or covered in bloody bandages, or screaming with a pain that cannot be soothed because there are no medical supplies? The parents' grief is unbearable. The children's pain unimaginable. The screams unconscionable. The hope of an end intangible and too late now for more than 300 children. Children with infectious giggles, eyes like windows on a perfect soul, cheeks made for kissing, heads full of fantasies, dreams, barely born hopes. Children like my two-year-old or my four-year-old. Children too young to understand why.
When I am older, will my daughters-old ask me, 'What did you do Mummy?'?
I won't have an answer and I feel ashamed.