After the pandemic I took my father to Africa to fulfil a long-held dream. Stubborn packing, a charging rhino, a hard-won oryx and a zebra earned by sweat.
Africa is a cherished place every hunter dreams of reaching. In our large family, hunting and the falconry tradition of saiatshylyk were always part of life, and one day I too set out for the Black Continent. By my fifth year of trips I had come to know both the country and my African partner well — a man whose word never parts from his deed.
The pandemic took many; the illness did not spare my father either. When he recovered, I decided not to wait: I kept my nine-year-old car, saved up the money, bought my father a ticket and planned the trip I had long dreamed of. “I haven't set foot on an aircraft's steps in thirty-five years, I have no passport, there's an inspection at work,” my father found a dozen reasons to refuse. I only talked him round with my mother's help. His friend and younger brother came along too.
We laid out the route in style: there via Doha, back via South Africa and Dubai. The two elders packed as if for a wedding feast: pressed shirts, neatly folded suitcases. In Qatar we hailed a taxi at once and drove around the city — that in thirty years, from nothing, on oil alone, a world business hub had risen is astonishing. My father, who knew Doha only from the television, saw it all with his own eyes and was as happy as a child.
Africa welcomed us as warmly as ever — with songs and dancing. After a quick lunch we sighted in the rifles and headed into the bush. From the Land Cruiser's cab came animals known only from the screen: zebra, wildebeest, giraffe. We couldn't take any at once — wary game does not give itself up easily to beginners.
But my father's younger brother got a huge eland. This giant can leap three metres high; it spotted the vehicle from afar and grew wary. Without slowing, we drove off, left the Cruiser behind a rise and approached on foot, hidden behind the bushes, to within fifty metres — and tate (uncle) made his first African shot.
«A safari with your father is the kind of treasure you'll talk about for the rest of your life.»
After that it went more easily. The next morning we took a very old, solitary wildebeest bull — without us he would have been easy prey for hyenas. The zebra, though, was earned by sweat: the herd kept catching the wind, then bolting at a twig snapping underfoot. Only towards evening, after circling around, did we wait out the stallion — he walked at the back of the herd, and a shot to the heart dropped him within a few steps.
Once, stalking an impala, we ran into a rhino. Honestly: the sight of a three- or four-tonne mass charging at you like a train, head down, crashing through the brush, makes you forget you're holding a rifle. A rhino doesn't need to trample anyone — it only drives strangers off its territory. Having seen us past its invisible border, it calmly went back to grazing.
I took a fine oryx myself. Despite the 200 metres, my hand wavered and, instead of the aiming point, the bullet landed closer to the neck — the animal dropped dead. Over the whole trip not a single wounded animal got away: every shot either dropped the quarry on the spot or simply spooked it without touching. The kudu, a dream for many, slipped away from me — but went to tate.
Hyena, jackal, baboon and springbok eluded all of us this time — we'll note them in the plan for next year, for that is exactly what makes hunting interesting. The result: the goal was reached. We saw animals we had only heard of, breathed the singular scent of hot sand, ate unforgettable food and lived an adventure for a lifetime. And to those whose fathers are still alive I'll say one thing: a safari with your father is the kind of treasure you'll talk about for the rest of your life.