How to Dress in Style for an African Safari and Vacation

In Cape Town, I thought about how sea travelers during the spice trade viewed the port as a place to resupply for food and drink and decided to use it as an excuse to overindulge in good food and good wine at hand. From Cape Town, I flew to Windhoek, Namibia, where I rented a temperamental Toyota and began driving, sliding and climbing across the Namibian desert in a sort of frantic pilgrimage to see the Dune-scape wonderful world of landscape there.

A little more dusty and sun-drenched from my troubles, I returned to South Africa to Johannesburg, this time where I encountered a new suit that the J. Mueser guys in New York had made and sent by mail to me. Suit in hand, I boarded a luxury family train, the Rovos Rail, in Pretoria, bound for Victoria Falls. If you've seen an Agatha Christie adaptation, you might have a good idea of ​​train cars. But you have to imagine them swinging and rolling through Zimbabwe, past trailside baobabs and baboons, to get a sense of the wild wonder of this stage of the journey.

All dressed and ready for a thrill in Cape Town. Shirt by Drakes. Pants by Rick Owens.

Then I came to a great crack in the Earth, one of the natural wonders of the world: the roaring smoke, as it is called in Tonga. Victoria Falls is a bit of a headache (especially for those of us who are absolutely afraid of heights). From Zambia, I crossed the border into Botswana and took a four-seater Cessna to the Kalahari Desert and a place called Jacks Camp. This legendary old hunting lodge is located in the Makgadikgadi salt flats, a big nothing, as one of the guides called it, and a great place to play with the meerkats and go for a mountain bike ride. From Jacks, I flew due north, towards the geological marvel that is the Okavango Delta, a huge floodplain teeming with game and some of the best safari lodges I have ever seen. On my last morning in Botswana, at a tent lodge called Tuludi, in a mopane forest, I spent an incredible few hours watching a family of leopards play together, then was escorted to a trail gravel landing by at least 200 elephants. Peter Beard liked to call these kinds of sightings the greatest spectacle on Earth. And I don't disagree. I almost don't miss seeing The guy who falls just in time at home right now.

As I traveled within the continent, airline and baggage allowances decreased significantly. And it occurred to me that I had brought way too much stuff and too many bags, partly because part of the impetus for this kind of trip, for me, is to build a world and to equip myself for this. Just ask Yves Saint Laurent, Ralph Lauren or Kim Jones: the idea of ​​gearing up for a safari is incredibly exciting, and so I went all in.

Sunset in the bush.

There was of course this J. Mueser linen suit in a mushroom tobacco color, complete with a matching military jacket. My oldest and dearest friend, Rick Owens, made my safari suit with a plaid overshirt in the same vein as Peter Beards' preppy version of the bush outfit and a pair of caramel cargo pants, as well as my basics, my t-shirts and my toiletry bag (of which I almost have the contents). travel now, a month and a half after the start of the trip).

But most of the weight in my tote bags from heritage luggage brand Ghurka has nothing to do with clothing. Instead, it's the '90s Nikon SLRs I insist on using and the 220 or so rolls of film I brought along, like an idiot. The only book I had with me was a gift from a friend in Johannesburg, about an overland journey from the eastern border of the Congo to the Atlantic.

And then there is my Globe-Trotter briefcase, which contains a Herms poncho, to resist the cold of morning safaris, as well as a bucket hat and a scarf at the same time; two more safari costumes, from Rick and Stffa; a Rick swimsuit; District Vision workout gear and sunglasses; and my beloved Jacques Marie Mage sunglasses.

A view from the Zannier Sonop observation deck in Namibia.

Also in this case is another J. Mueser suit, in olive cotton. Because man can't survive on bush clothes alone, and sometimes you have to look a little smarter, whether it's dressing for dinner on the train or going out on the town at Cape Town or, possibly, Cairo. But I'm not in Cairo yet. Instead, I'm right in the thick of it all, halfway through the journey, wondering what it all, the journey and the trappings, the clothes and the continent, could mean.

If, initially, I wanted to engage in some sort of conversation with the generation of travelers emboldened by the Royal Geographical Society, I am now delighted to think how differently I do travel to a Grogan or a Livingstone. If, at first, I thought I could take my own trip from Cape Town to Cairo with the glamor and glitz of Agatha Christie's golden age stories, as well as some of the bamboo adventures of a Patrick Leigh Fermor, In order to think about how travelers' habits, behaviors, and tastes have shaped our travels today, it may be too early to see the whole story halfway through a trip.

Right now, I'm only in the middle. The middle of the journey, the middle of this story and the middle of Africa. The circles are a great place. Every good story needs it.

Story and photos by Chris Wallace