Safari tourists are a peculiar strain of humanity—a traveling tribe of eccentric wizards conjuring awkward magic wherever they roam. They look different, they behave differently, and they dress... well, as if they were extras in a low-budget jungle movie the likes of Jumanji.
Take Germans, for example. Spotting them in the wild is like identifying a rare bird: distinctive, consistent, and somewhat bemusing. For starters, Germans do not laugh. Ever. Laughter is apparently a frivolity reserved for less disciplined nations. At best, they might permit themselves a restrained chuckle—if, and only if, they are certain no one is watching. Otherwise, they retreat to the privacy of their basement for such an unseemly display of emotion. Even then, these events are as rare as a polar bear in the Serengeti.
Their wardrobe is another dead giveaway. Germans aren’t just encouraged to dress the part of the adventurous traveler—they are mandated by law. You see, no German is permitted to leave the country without at least three items of Jack Wolfskin apparel and a khaki slouch hat that makes them look like a colonial administrator who misplaced their empire. Passport control officers are rigorously trained to spot this and will deny departure to anyone who fails the style test.
This is why, uniquely in Germany, duty-free shops stock a vast array of oddly coloured outdoor gear emblazoned with that little wolf paw logo. You’d think they were dressing for a polar expedition, not a guided tour of the Maasai Mara where the most exertion they'll face is lifting a gin and a tonic.
And the masterpiece—magnum opus? The reporter vest. Yes, by decree of the German pension authority, any citizen over the age of 50 must don a beige or grey vest with a perplexing number of pockets. No one knows what all the pockets are for—perhaps carrying emergency schnitzel or an instruction manual for their binoculars—but failure to comply results in the immediate forfeiture of state pension benefits.
It’s a curious thing, really. Germans may not laugh much, but they do provide endless amusement for everyone else.
Americans, on the other hand, are even easier to identify. Before you see them, you hear them. They’re shouting. Always shouting. It’s as if they’re perpetually auditioning for a role in a poorly written soap opera set in a wind tunnel. Americans seem utterly incapable of communicating without a decibel level that would make a jet engine envious.
And then there’s the way they dress. Not bad, per se—hysterically horrible would be more accurate. Their tailoring choices scream patriotism meets fashion crime scene. It’s almost always Patagonia or North Face gear, often in colours that seem specifically engineered to look good on absolutely no one. Think dung-green and turd-brown—a range of colours inspired, perhaps, by a wildlife documentary on elephant digestion.
For lounging, the mandatory NY Yankees cap makes an appearance, paired with a college sweater from an institution no one’s ever heard of, much less attended. Or, when they want to impress, they sport apparel emblazoned with names like UCLA, Berkeley, Harvard, or MIT, just to imply a proximity to brilliance without all the hassle of actually cracking open a textbook.
Brits and Frenchmen—apart from the Chinese and Klingons, perhaps—are the easiest to spot in the wild. They hardly need to dress in a specific costume to be recognised or, let’s face it, ridiculed.
The British are immediately identifiable by their signature pinkish, almost luminescent pale complexion, which transforms, after approximately two minutes of sunlight, into an angry lobster-red. This is followed by a period of blistering and peeling, leaving them right back where they started—pasty pink, like a factory reset for their epidermis. Copper-coloured hair often completes the package, as if their genes insist on broadcasting their Britishness in 4K.
The French, on the other hand, are a walking, smoking caricature. They’re never without a baguette—sometimes two—tucked under their arm like a security blanket. And the hats! Every Frenchman seems to have raided the Moulin Rouge gift shop, emerging with those jaunty little berets perched sideways, as if they’ve just stepped out of an overacted 1940s noir film.
Then there’s the smoking. A Frenchman without a cigarette is like Afghan without a goat—it just doesn’t happen. They puff away with such commitment that they outshine China’s coal plants for sheer emissions output. And as if their lungs weren’t busy enough, they wash it all down with a steady stream of red wine—breakfast, lunch, dinner, and every stolen moment in between.
Come to think of it, Brits and Frenchmen both fume like furnaces—though the Brits save their chimney for the pub, where they set their livers ablaze with Guinness instead.
Governor’s Campground, Maasai Mara, Kenya, 2012
Which brings me neatly to our “quiet” little campground on the banks of the Mara River, nestled in the greatest of all game reserves—the legendary Maasai Mara. A place so wild and untouched it practically smacks you in the face with its untamed charm.
My wife and I first stumbled upon this gem during one of our initial safaris years ago. It isn’t the kind of place you find in brochures or by asking at reception (there is no reception). In fact, calling it a “campground” is wildly overstating. There are no signs, no facilities, no picnic tables, no fire rings, no toilets—not even the faintest whisper of civilisation. The closest thing to infrastructure is a barely discernible game trail, and even that feels like nature begrudgingly tolerates its existence.
This, of course, is precisely why we love it. No conveniences, no luxuries, no Wi-Fi, and most importantly, no people. It’s the antidote to modern life—no cars honking at you, no passive-aggressive neighbours trimming their hedges too loudly, no relatives dropping by uninvited to ask probing questions about your career choices. The only company you’ll have here might be an elephant, a hippo, or the odd tortoise shuffling by. Bliss.
That’s the theory, anyway.
After a long day of game drives, we had settled by the fire, savoring the serenity. Dinner was in the works, the fire crackled softly, and we chatted about the incredible sights of the day. Everything was perfect. The kind of perfect that makes you slightly suspicious.
And that’s when it happened.
All of a sudden, two Land Rovers from the neighbouring Governor’s Safari Camp came crashing through the woods. They bounced along the uneven trail with all the grace of a drunk hippo, each jolt accompanied by the groan of a suspension system well past its retirement age.
The first vehicle was the quintessential open game drive setup: an experienced driver with the obligatory safari-worn demeanour, a smug spotter perched beside him as if they owned the wilderness, and a motley crew of camp staff crammed into the back. They moved with practiced efficiency, clearly veterans of the bush.
The second Land Rover, however, was another story entirely. It wobbled into view, graceful like a tipsy penguin. The driver, bless his soul, was clearly in over his head, fighting a losing battle to keep all wheels on the trail while narrowly avoiding collisions with the flora. This was not someone who had aced the "Off-Roading 101" portion of their safari guide exam.
What unfolded next had all the hallmarks of one of those laughable Out of Africa moments we’d heard so much about—the kind that sounds romantic in theory but devolves into chaos in practice. The premise was simple: the camp drops you off at a "wild" campsite to experience the raw wilderness alone. Then, at the crack of dawn, they return to pack everything up and rescue you from your ill-advised dabble in survivalism.
But even in a campground the size of Argentina, the caravan of Land Rovers predictably came to a screeching halt mere meters from our tent.
Out stepped the starring couple of this unfolding farce: a pair of city slickers so hopelessly out of their element, they might as well have been vegans at a Texas barbecue or chess players at a cage fight.
Their faces bore the unmistakable expression of urbanites realising that Wi-Fi, soy lattes, and Instagram filters were about as useful here as a screen door on a submarine.
Before the poor souls could even gather their wits or muster the courage to leave the safety of their vehicle, the staff of the first Land Rover sprang into action. A tent was erected with military precision, a foldable table and two stools materialised as if from thin air, a small fire roared to life, and dinner was served—all in less time than it takes to say, "Welcome to the wilderness."
And then, just as suddenly as they’d arrived, the Governor’s staff packed themselves back into their vehicle and sped off, leaving the bewildered couple alone with their dinner, their thoughts, and a whole lot of regrettable life choices.
We decided to extend a neighbourly wave as a friendly gesture. They noticed us—how could they not?—but chose to ignore our existence, staring straight ahead as if sheer willpower might transport them to a five-star hotel with Wi-Fi and turn-down service.
Shrugging, we returned to our own cozy dinner by the fire, amused by their misadventure and grateful that we actually knew how to pitch a tent without needing a small army.
The late afternoon eased into a stunning evening, and the wildlife around us prepared for their nightly rituals. The screeching baboons climbed to their treetop refuges, hippos gathered at the Mara River like heavyweight insomniacs ready to graze, and a nearby lion pride stretched and yawned in preparation for their dinner plans, which likely involved something less aware and vigilant than us.
The sounds of the night, so distinct from the daytime, drifted over the savanna, mingling with the dim, ancient light of stars that had witnessed millennia. It was the kind of raw, unfiltered magic that only Africa can conjure—a sensation so profound and primal that no glossy travel documentary, no Instagram reel, no poetic travelogue could ever capture. You don’t simply visit Africa; you feel it. It’s like returning to a home you never knew you had, standing at the cradle of humanity, where our precarious evolutionary journey began.
Back then, we humans were lunch, not lords. We lacked claws, speed, and even the ability to climb trees efficiently. If it hadn’t been for our species’ morbid knack for innovation and weapons, our ancestors would’ve been nothing more than a brief, tasty blip in nature’s logbook.
The hapless tourist couple next to us, however, seemed to be doing their best to remind the wildlife how weak and clueless humans could still be. They were the perfect modern specimens of evolutionary backpedaling: soft, clumsy, and utterly unprepared. A textbook case of how thoroughly we’ve been domesticated, now incapable of surviving in the wild—or even blending into it. Watching them fumble through this environment felt like witnessing dairy cows attempting to join a herd of bisons.
As night fell and our little fire died down, we retired to our tent, sliding into our sleeping bags under the rhythmic patter of rain on canvas. The peaceful orchestra of the African night lulled us to the edge of sleep.
And then boom!
The serene darkness outside lit up like the apocalypse. A deafening explosion tore through the forest, casting eerie shadows as flames licked at the sky. In an instant, the Mara's tranquility had been replaced by chaos, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out who the culprits were.
Apparently, our refined neighbors had decided the best way to combat the rain was to dump an entire jerry can of gasoline onto their dwindling fire. Because why not? What could possibly go wrong? Naturally, this brilliant move resulted in a fiery blast that sent sparks raining down like Armageddon, and very nearly turned the city slickers themselves into human torches.
It was only their rain-soaked clothes that saved them from becoming the main course at their own accidental BBQ. Fortunately, the camp staff—who must have been lurking in the bushes, either out of duty or morbid curiosity—rushed in like the cavalry. They whisked the pyromaniac pair away before they could incinerate themselves, the savanna, or, God forbid, us.
As the inferno subsided, the jungle’s hush returned. The crickets resumed their chirping, the distant growl of lions reassured us that the circle of life had not been entirely derailed, and we crawled back into our tent, grateful for the serenity of stupidity removed.
The next afternoon, as it turned out, would be equally entertaining.
But that’s another story.
Marcel Romdane
Me, preparing my Bowie Knife to slay the hapless city-slickers...
