“Boooom!!!!” We were yanked from our peaceful slumber as if a thermonuclear device had just detonated outside. I nearly launched myself through the roof of our safari tent in sheer shock. The thin canvas walls of our temporary sanctuary glowed a menacing orange, as though the same meteor that had wiped out the dinosaurs had returned - with vengeance - to finish off humanity. Compared to this, sleeping on one of Werner von Braun’s Saturn V test sites would have felt downright tranquil. The explosion shook the forest so violently that the baboons above us nearly fainted like teenagers at a Michael Jackson concert, and almost collapsed out of their trees. Flames erupted, threatening to ignite the entire Mara-Serengeti ecosystem in one fiery inferno.
We stumbled out to assess the chaos. The culprits were immediately identified. Our hopeless urban neighbours, it turned out, had decided to fight off the rain by dumping an entire jerry can of gasoline onto their fire. The explosion had nearly barbecued them too - only their drenched clothes saved them from going up in flames.
Thankfully, the camp staff - who, judging by their quick response, had been lurking in the bushes all along - rushed in to drag the panicked pair back to safety. It didn’t take long before the night returned to its calm, natural rhythm.
The crickets resumed their cheerful chirping, and we, once again, drifted off to sleep.
An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
“Veracity in the Dark, Part III: Fire, Fuel, and Full Mental Breakdown”
Somewhere in the Mara. April 2012.
This is not a drill. This is me, pre-coffee, mid-breakdown, post-explosion.
Still processing the thermonuclear dawn detonation caused by our neighbours who thought dousing a soggy safari fire with an entire jerry can of petrol was a reasonable idea. Spoiler: It wasn’t. Unless the goal was to audition for Chernobyl: Safari Edition.
Behind me? The Land Rover of Regret™.
Possessed, leaky, and possibly powered by lost souls and duct tape.
Inside the cabin:
One fistful of hope
Three bottles of warm water
A bag of dried meat with a questionable expiry date
Enough tools to either fix the gearbox or amputate a leg
My expression?
Equal parts caffeine-deprived optimism and “I will cut the fuel line and call it art.”
I wasn’t just fixing the car.
I was holding back the madness with a Bowie knife and a romanticized idea of bush masculinity forged entirely in reruns of Steve Irwin and late-stage jetlag.
Nicole, wisely, was somewhere far away.
Possibly praying. Possibly rebooking her return ticket.
The baboons haven’t returned since.
Neither has my mental stability.
“Tales of Tactical Cowardice, Vol. IV: Send the Wife First”
Somewhere in the Maasai Mara.
Post-downpour. Pre-divorce.
While I remained gallantly stationed inside the Land Rover—armed with a thermos and a dangerous amount of false confidence—Nicole was dispatched into the wild like a sacrificial National Geographic intern, armed only with a stick, a smirk, and the growing suspicion that this was not in the marriage vows.
She poked the swollen stream with surgical precision, checking for crocodiles, sinkholes, or metaphors about our relationship.
Meanwhile, I yelled highly unhelpful advice from the driver’s seat like a bush pilot turned armchair general:
“If your boot disappears, come back!”
“Don’t splash the mud on the clutch—it’s already emotionally unstable!”
Why didn’t I go test the water myself?
Because I was busy guarding the vehicle.
And by “guarding,” I mean questioning every decision that had led me to this point in life—inside a British coffin on wheels, surrounded by African quicksand, shouting at my wife while she risked death-by-dinosaur-pond.
Romance is dead.
Long live reconnaissance.
🔥"Hydrology for Idiots: Chapter One – Insert Stick, Regret Immediately" 🐊
Eventually, they kicked me out of the Land Rover too.
So here I am—aviators on, pride gone, poking muddy disaster with a stick like some tragic blend of Jacques Cousteau and a rejected Boy Scout.
Bush pilot logic: If it swallows the stick, we swim.
If it doesn't... it probably has crocs.
"The Resistance Ends Where the Mini-Bar Begins."
After a night of aquatic humiliation, crocodile avoidance, and Land Rover-themed trauma, we were rescued by a safari cottage so luxurious it should’ve come with a surrender flag.
Wilson, the butler, materialized like a ghost in loafers, handing out comfort like it was currency. French wine, soft lighting, and handmade furniture carved by bored angels.
I felt myself slipping... not into sleep, but into softness. The kind of softness that kills revolutions and raises cholesterol.
This was anti-survival porn.
A velvet-lined betrayal.
A perfectly arranged crime scene of comfort.
And I,
Marcel Romdane—bush pilot, idealist, former idiot—was the corpse.
"Welcome to the Bed That Killed the Mission."
Because nothing says “I’m ready for savage wilderness” like a handcrafted canopy bed, artisanal mosquito netting, and a mattress fluffier than your childhood dreams. This was where all plans, pride, and pilot grit came to die—face-down in Egyptian cotton, wrapped in duvets so soft they whispered:
“You’re not going anywhere, hero.”
Outside: swollen rivers, hippo-infested crossings, and broken 4x4s.
Inside: lavender-scented betrayal and a bedside lamp built to seduce.
I had trained for bush flying.
I had faced bureaucratic purgatory.
But nothing prepared me for this bedroom.
A tactical takedown disguised as a spa retreat.
A feather-lined defeat.
This wasn’t rest. This was a coup.
This Is Where Saving Elephants Nearly Died.
One night.
One cursed night in a padded cell made of flowers, scented candles, and warm water.
And suddenly, poaching didn't feel that urgent anymore.
Who needs field operations when your soap smells like inner peace and your bathwater whispers sweet nothings?
This wasn’t a bathroom.
It was a velvet trap.
A five-star assassination attempt on our will to resist.
Probably a good thing we were only booked for the night.
Any longer, and I’d have applied for a hospitality internship and handed over the GPS coordinates of every surviving tusker.
Rebellion status:
temporarily bathed to death.
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