Emily was sure her guide had vanished. Her guide, Daniel, had a different version of events, and so did the elephants.
I travelled to Kenya with one backpack, two pairs of shorts, a camera I barely knew how to use and the firm belief that I was the sort of woman who could handle anything.
I had travelled alone before. I had slept in noisy hostels, missed buses in foreign countries and survived a week in Thailand with a broken phone and no idea where I was going.
A safari, I thought, would be easy.
You sat in a vehicle, looked at animals and occasionally said, “Wow.”
How complicated could it be?
My first mistake was assuming that being independent meant I never needed to listen to anyone.
My second was falling in love with a man I had met three days earlier.
His name was Luca. He was Italian, charming, and travelling around East Africa with the casual confidence of someone who had never worried about a deadline in his life.
We met at a beach hostel, where he was attempting to cook pasta in a saucepan that appeared to have been designed for making tea.
He offered me a plate.
I accepted.
By sunset, we had discussed travel, photography, our favourite places and whether it was possible to see elephants without spending a fortune.
“You should come on safari,” he said.
“I am going tomorrow.”
“Then I will come too.”
It was the sort of thing that sounded romantic at the time.
Unfortunately, Luca’s understanding of time was flexible, and his understanding of money was even more flexible.
He spent the next morning looking for his sunglasses, then his other sandal, then the sunglasses again, which he discovered on his head.
By the time he was ready, my safari vehicle had already left.
I went without him.
I told myself this was an excellent decision. I would enjoy the wilderness, take photographs and prove that I did not need a man to organise my life.
Our guide was called Daniel. He was cheerful, experienced and very good at explaining the animals we saw.
We had a wonderful drive, and I began to relax.
Then, as we were returning to camp, I spotted a small group of elephants near the track. Daniel slowed down and stopped at a safe distance.
“Look at them,” he said.
I lifted my camera.
One elephant raised its trunk. Another moved behind a tree. The smallest one seemed to be having an argument with its mother about which direction to walk.
I was so busy photographing them that I barely noticed when the other passengers began climbing back into the vehicle.
“Emily,” Daniel called gently. “We need to continue.”
“One more photograph!”
I took another.
“One more!”
Then the elephant turned, and I finally got the picture I wanted.
I lowered my camera.
The vehicle was gone.
For a moment, I thought it was a joke.
I looked along the track.
Nothing.
I looked behind me.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a cloud of dust disappearing in the distance.
My stomach dropped.
“Daniel?”
No answer.
“Daniel!”
The bush was suddenly very quiet.
I had seen enough documentaries to know that the African wilderness was not the place to wander around looking for a missing safari vehicle.
I stayed exactly where I was, near the agreed viewing point, and tried to keep calm.
After a few minutes, I heard an engine.
The vehicle returned.
Daniel was driving, looking far less amused than usual.
“Emily,” he said, “where are you?”
“I am right here!”
He stopped.
I climbed in, my cheeks burning.
“I thought you had left me.”
“I returned to check the viewing area because you were not in the vehicle,” he replied. “We do not leave guests behind. But you must stay with the guide and follow instructions, especially around wildlife.”
I apologised immediately.
He nodded.
“Good. Now let us go back before you decide to photograph a lion on your own.”
I promised never to do such a thing.
Back at camp, I discovered that the other passengers had already heard about my disappearance.
Peter, the retired engineer from Manchester, was delighted.
“Emily,” he said, “we were beginning to think you had joined the elephants.”
I groaned.
“Please don’t.”
“Perhaps you found a new boyfriend.”
I threw a cushion at him.
That evening, I called Luca.
He answered from a beach café.
“Emily! How was the safari?”
“Wonderful.”
“Did you see elephants?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get good photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic! I am thinking of coming tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes.
“Luca, tomorrow I am going on another game drive.”
“Perfect. I will come.”
I should have known better.
The next morning, he arrived twenty minutes late, wearing one sandal and carrying a coffee.
Daniel looked at him, looked at his watch, and then looked at me.
I could tell he had already formed an opinion.
We left camp on time.
Luca spent the first hour asking questions about every animal we saw. By midmorning, he had lost his sunglasses again, dropped his phone between the seats and spilled coffee on his shirt.
I began to wonder whether I had fallen in love with a man or adopted a particularly disorganised puppy.
But he was funny, and when we stopped to watch elephants crossing the plains, he went quiet.
He stood beside me, watching the animals with a look of genuine wonder.
For the first time since we met, he wasn’t searching for his sunglasses, checking his phone or asking what time we would return.
He was simply there.
And I realised that this was what I had wanted from the safari all along: not just photographs, not just an adventure to tell people about, but the feeling of being somewhere extraordinary and allowing myself to experience it.
The bush does not care whether you have the perfect angle.
When we returned to camp, Daniel found me sitting outside with my camera.
“Better day?” he asked.
“Much better.”
“Good. And did you leave anyone behind?”
I laughed.
“No, Daniel. I kept everyone accounted for.”
He smiled.
“Excellent. You are learning.”
Luca and I travelled together for another week. We saw beautiful places, argued about directions and discovered that he was actually quite good at cooking pasta when he had the right saucepan.
But the story I tell most often is not about the elephants, the sunsets or the beaches.
It is about the day I thought my guide had disappeared, only to discover that I had been so determined to get the perfect photograph that I had forgotten the most important rule of travelling.
Pay attention to the world around you.
And if you are on safari, pay attention to your guide.
The photograph can wait.
The bush does not care whether you have the perfect angle.
