A Rant About Burnout, Bush Life, and Why I’d Rather Fix a Land Rover Than Take Orders From a Spa Managerant.
It’s a Monday morning. Not the romantic kind with birdsong, mist over the plains, and a black coffee brewing by the fire. No. I’m in Pretoria. At my parents’ house. It’s raining. And not the poetic kind either — it’s the “of course it is” kind.
Now normally, I’d be somewhere in the wilderness, chasing buffalo or trying to stop tourists from standing up mid-sighting pretending to enjoy a drizzle-soaked Sunday and pretending even harder that it’s part of the magic, instead, I’m reflecting. And that’s dangerous. Give me five minutes alone and a cup of Nescafé and suddenly I’m Jeremy bloody Clarkson on safari — complaining, pontificating, and drawing wild animal comparisons to the modern workplace. So buckle up. But not this week.
This week, I spent actual quality time with my mother. You know, that rare moment where the adult-child dynamic is replaced with something real. It was a genuinely beautiful moment — which of course, has me deeply concerned.
But this isn’t a sentimental write-up about family bonding. No, this is a cautionary tale, a philosophical hit job, and a somewhat aggressive commentary on the industry I’ve given my life, sanity, and spinal health to — conservation and guiding. Yes, the so-called “dream job” where you spend your days in the wild and your nights wondering how it all went so very wrong.
Where It All Started: One Breakup and a Dream Later…
There was a breakup. A long one. The kind of relationship that leaves you with so much emotional baggage you’d need a trailer to haul it. But silver linings and all that — it gave me the push I needed to finally do what I’d always wanted to do: become a field guide.
Did the course. Had a mentor so brilliant I half expected him to start glowing. The man could track a termite with one eye closed. Learned how to track dung and fix my own mistakes. Came out the other side qualified, hungry, and naïvely optimistic. I was ready to work. Problem is, South Africa isn’t exactly known for making it easy. Shocking, I know.
Yes, interviews poured in from the types of places that have words like “eco” in the name and throw the term “bespoke guest experience” around like confetti. But here’s the thing: I’m full of nonsense. I’m not built for five-star fluff and serving canapés to people named Giles. I didn’t want a job where the highlight of my day was pointing out a giraffe to a man who thinks it’s a type of horse. I wanted something real. Something gritty. Something… slightly unhinged.
The Place in the Wild North: Baptism by Fire
So I went bush. Proper bush. The kind of place where you are the staff. All of it. You guide, you host, you fix the fridge, you tow the Land Rover out of a river, and if a pipe bursts at 2am — congrats, you’re also the plumber.
It was chaos. Wonderful, soul-breaking chaos. I’ve never worked harder in my life. I’ve also never learned more — how to manage crises, how to deliver five-star service, and how to smile through gritted teeth while telling a guest that no, you can’t just “order a lion.”
But let’s not romanticise it. It nearly killed me. I burned out so hard I left skid marks in the bush sand. I didn’t sleep. I spoke to more impalas than humans. And still, I look back and think — that was the best job I’ve ever had.
A Lodge Under a Tree in Pilanesberg: Where Passion Goes to Die
Naturally, after escaping the madness, I went corporate. Commercial lodge. Slick operation. Crisp uniforms and even crisper rules. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like working in a place where creativity goes to die, this was it.
Imagine trying to bake a gourmet cake while being repeatedly told to “just use the packet mix.” That’s what it felt like. I tried to elevate things. I tried to bring the magic. Management said, “Please get back in your box and don’t scare the guests.”
I lasted a month. A month that felt like a sabbatical in a bureaucracy factory. When I left, they called it “creative differences.” I called it survival.
The Place of Rhinos: Everything, All at Once, All the Time
After licking my wounds (again), I returned to Pilanesberg — this time to a small, intimate lodge where I was, quite literally, the entire operations team. One man. One lodge. About three people’s jobs. For over a year.
Let’s not sugarcoat this: it was insane. Gloriously, impossibly, beautifully insane. I did everything. And somehow, I made it work. People laughed when they heard one person would be taking over that whole operation. Then they watched me do it — and thrive.
But it wasn’t sustainable. I gave it everything. Blood, sweat, tyre changes, guest tantrums, and more than a few sleepless nights. It worked, until it didn’t. Not because I failed — but because some things are simply out of your hands.
So, the chapter ended. Quietly. Undramatically. And still, I’m grateful. I learned more there than in any course, book, or wildlife documentary.
Now What? Namibia, Rhinos, and Freedom… Sort Of
The next step? Freelancing. Namibia is calling. The Kalahari is on the horizon. I’ve got private guests, a few bookings, and the kind of to-do list that makes your average office worker reach for a Xanax.
I’m building something — slowly, clumsily, but with purpose. Because I’ve learned that working in this industry full-time is like being in a toxic relationship that gives you incredible sunsets and then gaslights you into thinking poverty is noble.
The Industry Is Broken. And No One’s Fixing It.
The bush industry is dying. There, I said it.
Turnover is through the roof. Why? Because unless you’re powered by pure masochism or wild-eyed passion, you won’t make it past a year. The hours are insane. The pay is a joke. The accommodation? Often a glorified tent. And don’t even get me started on missing birthdays, weddings, funerals — it’s not the exception, it’s the baseline.
And here’s the real kicker: guides are the face of the operation. We are the experience. We’re the reason guests come back. But we get paid less than the receptionist at a mediocre city hotel. Fair? Not remotely.
Then there’s freelancing. It pays better. Offers more freedom. But the moment you thrive outside the traditional system; everyone wants to drag you back in. Like a naughty dog who’s learned to open the gate and run free — someone’s always trying to clip your wings. Or collar.
But I’ve found a way. Kind of. A hybrid model. My own guests, my own bookings, and the ability to benefit lodges who actually value me. And that? That feels like victory.
Nature vs Human Nature: Same Same but different
Here’s the real metaphorical meat of this monologue: mammals are mammals. Lions, zebras, humans, managers — it’s all the same.
If you’re a lion now, enjoying your rule, don’t get comfy. There’s always another male coming to knock you off. If you’re a zebra, old and tired, there’s a hyena waiting in the bushes. That’s nature. That’s business. That’s life.
And just like cheetah cubs need years to learn the ropes, we too need mentorship, failure, experience — all before we become the old bull that young guides look up to… before they inevitably replace us too.
And when they do? I hope they know how to fix a Land Rover or that the industry has moved over to Toyota.
Wildlife Beyond the Lens 