The first time I saw a Super Tusker emerge across the landscape of Amboseli, I felt a kind of stillness I hadn’t expected – not awe in a dramatic sense but something quieter: reverence, perspective and humility. The kind that settles in your chest and lingers long after the dust has cleared.
At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about rates, spreadsheets or trade systems. I was thinking about the privilege and the responsibility of working in a space where experiences like this are part of someone’s once-in-a-lifetime story – and what it means to translate that kind of encounter into words, rates and, ultimately, safaris.
Working in luxury safari travel teaches you things you don’t always see coming – that stories aren’t only told around camp fires. They’re told in every contract, every room night, every email to a trade partner deciding where to send their next guest. Often, the stories we tell are the difference between a passing interest and a lifelong connection to the land.
Most of my time is spent behind the scenes distributing rates, managing trade systems, supporting trade partners – all technical work. Yet the longer I do it, the more I realise it’s also deeply human. At its core is the building of trust with our trade partners, with the land we steward and, ultimately, with the guests who entrust us with their meaningful journeys.
Because behind every contract is a conversation. Behind every partnership is a potential story. And behind every well-run lodge is a delicate balance of people, place and purpose.
One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is that conservation isn’t just what happens in the field; it happens in the choices we make about how we sell, who we work with and how we tell the story of the land.
In this industry, especially at the top end, it’s easy to lean on big words and to make promises: exclusivity, intimacy, even untouched wilderness. But none of that matters if it isn’t held with integrity. If we sell safaris without respect for the people and ecosystems that make them possible, then we’re not storytellers, we’re just marketers.
And that’s where everything becomes real. I’m learning to listen more: To guides who’ve spent years tracking animal migrations and weather patterns long before any data is published. To communities whose generational relationships and daily lives intersect with the wildlife we build journeys around. To trade partners navigating shifting guest expectations in a world that’s becoming more conscious.
Luxury travel gives us a platform not just to delight but to educate and spark a sense of shared responsibility. And storytelling is how we connect what is experienced with what must be protected.
Conservation storytelling isn’t about sensationalism. It’s about authenticity, stewardship and humility. It’s about inspiring reflection and reminding people that nature’s beauty is fragile. It’s our way of saying: “You were not the first here but you are welcome. And now that you’ve come, you share a responsibility.”
For me, the future of travel, and the role I hope to play within it, isn’t about better linens or smarter technology. It’s about intention, about more meaningful stories. Stories that connect guests to purpose. Stories that don’t end when the journey does.
Because when we tell better stories, we make space for better choices. And in a world where wild spaces grow more fragile by the day, that’s something worth working for.
And maybe one more thing: Sometimes the most meaningful work isn’t the most visible. Sometimes it’s the choices no one applauds, the quiet advocacy behind closed doors. We don’t always need to shout from the rooftops to prove we care. Often, it’s enough just to keep showing up, doing the work with integrity and letting the land and the legacy speak for itself.
