I've spent 20 years guiding clients to some of the most stunning places on Earth, but what I witnessed on a trip to the Masai Mara in 2010 makes most of what I've seen before pale in comparison.
Big cats normally top the wish list for my guests (and me), anc certainly the sight of a spotted feline quickens the pulse faster than anything else But on this particular safari, the cats were eclipsed by a giraffe. Well, one and a bit giraffes, to be precise.
March is my favourite time to visit the Mara. The skies are spectacular and the northern plains teem with game. We had already spotted plenty of great wildlife, and the recent drought had been assuaged by some of the fiercest downpours I've ever seen, so the baize-coloured oat grass fairly gleamed with fertility.
One afternoon, 10 minutes into a game drive, the radio crackled and the voice of my dear friend and seasoned guide Joseph Sengeny came over the airwaves.
"Paul, I've just seen a giraffe give birth," he said calmly, as if reporting that he'd changed a wheel. "Do you want to know where?" I should point out here that Joseph's eyesight is far from normal.
There have been many occasions when I've seen him stop, rub his nose and then point out a predator that was barely in the same country as us, but on this occasion he'd outdone himself. The clients told me later that Joseph had spotted the momentous event from almost a mile away, and some even claimed that he had heard the thud as the amniotic sac hit the ground. Needless to say, we diverted immediately.
You hear stories of giraffes giving birth surrounded by a thicket of other giraffes, so I was shocked to find a lone mother and her calf in the middle of a vast open grassland.
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This area of the Mara has one of the highest concentrations of hyenas in Africa, and my heart filled with fear as I considered the baby's chances of surviving its first night.
Its mother seemed equally worried and kept a constant vigil. I watched as the spindly sprog struggled to rise to its feet and take its first, stilt-like steps. Without mobility, the calf stood no chance, but again and again it crumpled to the ground like Bambi on ice.
Mum groomed and chided the newborn, willing it to walk - and live. So began a tense hour that seemed to last an eternity.
Then came the totter: that most natural, instinctive initiation of limbs and, one by one, the tiny calf managed to bring all four legs to attention. That was only half the job. however, because it still had to locate its mother's teet. More anxiety followed as we watched it searching in vain for the milk tap.
As if at a pantomime, I heard people murmur, "It's behind you", as the calf missed the optic yet again. Finally, it locked on and slaked its thirst. Buoyed by this fatty fillip it was time to go. As the youngster followed its mother, its unsteady steps grew in confidence and gradually in speed. One guest joked that it managed o-25mph in 55 minutes. The calf was doing well, but it still had to get through the next few days.
OUR WORST FEARS seemed to have been realised when, for the next three days, the pair disappeared. Then, on the final morning, while we were en route to see a leopard, the radio crackled into life. It was Joseph again (naturally). "The family is doing well," he announced. We sped off and found the calf gambolling by the swollen Mara River.
During the birth, Joseph had confessed, "I have never seen this before." But somehow, on a cloudy afternoon, he had recognised what he was seeing... from a mile away. Remarkable man, remarkable giraffe.
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Paul Goldstein is a safari guide
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