My father’s binoculars were Atlases from Japan. They were big and black and heavy, 10x50, and they sat on top of a book shelf of weighty tomes that had changed the world.
The binocs changed the world, too. In the distance, what seemed like a rock in the veld would be revealed as a stately kudu with a splendid crown of horns, an African paradise flycatcher would turn into a punk teenager with iridescent blue eyeliner and lipstick. We’d sit on the stoep for hours to watch the soapie of puffed up, acid-yellow male weavers sweat over intricate nests, only to have the females inspect them and turn their backs with cool indifference. I loved the feel of the binocular’s heavy body in my hands, and the magic of life…