I feel a bit as if a very good friend of mine just gave birth to 27-uplets, all identical, and is expecting me to remember their names.  That is how it feels following Faridu around, him pointing at a baboon and me thinking, “She looks EXACTLY THE SAME as the last 20.”  I got more right today, though.  Except for Aculpulco.  That chick looks different every time I see her.  I swear.

But that wasn’t the only birth.  Faridu and I last went out Friday (they don’t follow baboons on the weekend…not sure why) and a little number named White Lawn (or Lown…it’s unclear) was pregnant.  Today, she was carrying around this weedy little black thing, pink face, unable to hold on for longer than a minute or two.  We watched her for a bit while the little thing spazzed against her gently and then along come Akamera, a juvenile female, and Acapulco (my arch nemesis).  They are transfixed by this jerky, damp little thing.  They dodge and dart and make weird lip-smacking noises, doing all within their power to get close enough to White Lawn just to touch it.  They groom her incessantly, picking nits out of her fir.  They gently cup the baby’s head.  They dart away when Mom moves, only to come cowering back, smack smack smack, wiggling their lips, backs low, obsessed.  And they aren’t unique.  Baboon troops the world over (or at least Africa-over) are replete with females trying to touch other females’ babies.  It’s like they’ve never seen one, like they can’t just make one of their own.  It’s like an alien or a gem.  It’s magic.  And it’s also frickin’ strange.