I'm sitting in the sand looking across the ocean on a cloudless summer day. My elbows are on my knees and I've got a ripe mango in one hand and a long, sharp knife in the other. Starting at the top of the fruit I make meridian-like cuts - north, south, east and west - and peel away the green-red skin between the flat edge of the blade and my thumb. Then with my teeth I scrape the undersides of the skins for my first taste and let them fall where them may, left for the sand fleas and the fiddler crabs.

I learned this technique that one night a blue-tinged baby came into this world. Its first, strong cry for its mother's breast filled my hotel room in Mombasa with relief and we helped the new mother pull herself into sitting so she could hold her child for the first time. Salty tears of relief, elation and love replaced the soaking sweat of her labor. And once the baby found the desired...
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