African Safari - 03/25, PT. 1
This story actually starts somewhere around 2016 or 2017, in a small gun shop in a small Oregon town that most Oregonians don’t even know about. A buddy of mine and I had gone in to talk with our friend, Marcus, the owner of said gun shop. If I’m remembering correctly, we had just come back down out of the forest after a bit of target shooting, and were talking to him about a strange encounter with a coyote we had, which then turned into talks of various hunts he had done. Finally, the question came up; “Marcus, out of any place in the world, if you had to choose only one place to hunt, where would that be?”
I don’t remember who asked it, but I remember the answer clearly – South Africa. There was no hesitation, no thought required. He then regaled us with stories of his hunts there, and some of the crazy experiences he’d had. One of us said, “I sure wish I could afford to go there to hunt.”
“You can afford it,” he replied. What? How? “If you have a job, and you want it bad enough, you can make it happen. If you think you can’t afford it, you’re making excuses to not go.”
The rest of that conversation is lost to memory, but I can remember that part as clearly as if it were spoken yesterday. We ended up spending a lot of time there, often times long after closing. “I can’t sell you anything,” he’d say, “but I’ve got a case of beer and a crock pot full of chili.” Marcus, who has since passed, influenced us far more than either of us realized, and after he passed it was decided that in order to honor his memory, we were going to Africa; it was then only a matter of when.
Fast forward a few years, and my buddy states plainly that he’s going to Africa for a safari hunt. He had gotten involved with a professional hunter through some work he did for a trail camera company, and had started the paperwork process. I told him I wanted to go too, and I too was in touch with the professional hunter. Through a twist of fate, only I was able to go, and I would say it was every bit of the experience I was hoping for.
The trip was planned about a year in advance, and that year seemed to be the longest year of my life, but finally the time had come. My paperwork was all in order, my rifles put into their airline cases, my bags packed, and passport in my pocket. It was a cold, rainy morning in March, not quite 40*F, as I made my way to the airport. This would be the very start of my (admittedly minor) issues with baggage; there was some sort of issue with the computer system that wouldn’t let me check both of my rifles and my ammunition. As it would turn out, my airline tickets only covered two bags, and I ended up paying quite a lot in extra fees as the trip would progress.
From PDX I flew to Atlanta, Georgia for my first layover. After a few hours and many beers, I boarded the first international flight since I had left my duty station in Japan almost 12 years prior. By now, the anticipation was eating me alive. I kept with me a journal, and feverishly scribbled down notes and updates and times, thoughts, questions I needed to ask my PH.
After the 17 hour flight, the plane touched down in Johannesburg, South Africa. The rain was coming down like crazy, and I could see the water pooling on the runway. My bag with the ammunition had gone to the carousel and the rifle cases had gone to the SAPS (South African Police). After what seemed like forever waiting, my cases were brought out, my paperwork was verified and my temporary import permit granted, and I was allowed to take my cases and baggage up to the hotel. My hotel reservation was there at the airport, and once I had dropped everything off, I took the opportunity to clean up and change my clothes, then head down and get some food. This was the first time I had experienced South African beer and food, and my mind was absolutely blown. Boerewors will forever be one of my favorite things to eat, but little did I know that many more culinary delights were yet to come.
After eating, I made my way back up to my hotel room, and proceeded to stay up the entire night, unable to sleep due to the excitement and the fact that I had slept for a very large portion of the flight. In just a few short hours, I was going to be on my way to Port Elizabeth, where I would meet my PH for the first time in person.
Checking my bags for the flight from JoBurg to PE resulted in paying more airline fees for luggage that my airline ticket didn’t cover, then after getting through the security checkpoint I immediately found an open bar (I have to say, the majority of the beer I had in South Africa completely blows away most American beers) to wait out my layover. Once the flight began boarding, I ran into my second issue; they couldn’t process my luggage when I presented them my ticket. Luckily I had saved my receipt from paying the baggage fees, so it ended up being a non-issue, but it was still one of those situations that was just a bit nerve-wracking. I was then put on a bus out to the tarmac, and boarded the plane to PE.
Around midday, a warm Wednesday afternoon, I landed in PE. There, waiting for me, was Christo, my PH and soon to be very good friend. We collected my rifles and bags, verified my SAPS paperwork, and walked out to Christo’s truck, where I was immediately handed an ice cold beer. We then drove for several hours out to a place in the hills, stopping every so often to look at various animals that were visible from the road, and brief detour to let me pick up a phone that would work in South Africa. Also in the truck with us was Arno, Christo’s heper and photographer/videographer. Eventually, we made it to our destination, a quaint, idyllic little venue called “The Wild Olive”. This was to be our base camp for the next several days while we hunted.
Enjoying a refreshing beverage while stopped to examine some zebra and giraffe on the side of the road.
We arrived sometime around 4pm, where the drinks began flowing immediately after setting down my bags and gun cases. Christo was working on dinner and threatening me with Jagermeister while Arno and I talked while drinking a bunch of Flying Fish (a lemony alcoholic beverage similar to a shandy, but more lemonade-like and less beer-like). At some point the jet lag and booze caught up to me, and I nodded off in a chair, only to wake up some time later to more food and drink. I believe Christo cooked up some steaks that first night, but I can’t quite recall. It had been a very long day by that point, and the jet lag was absolutely kicking my ass. I do know that I ended up finishing my dinner the next morning for breakfast, despite being incredibly full still from the previous night.
The jet lag got me.
