It's the Safari Hangover. Not caused by gin and tonics - though they certainly don’t help - but by something far stronger. A slow-burning ache that settles in somewhere behind your ribs and refuses to budge, even as you march back into your old life with its emails, traffic, and supermarket lighting.

You’re not alone. This is a thing. And it’s a powerful one.

Back home, it’s all noise - but not the right kind. Where’s the distant whoop of a hyena? Where’s the 4am lion calling from across the river? Even the most committed city-lover can find themselves craving the rhythm of the bush: cicadas rising with the heat, elephants sloshing through water, campfires cracking open the night.

Instead, you’re jolted awake by trucks... Your neighbour’s car alarm... That couple on the train having a full-blown row on speakerphone... You long for the soundtrack of safari - quiet, but never silent. Wild, but never chaotic.

Your phone suddenly feels offensive. You haven’t looked at it properly in days. No signal. No WiFi. No doomscrolling. Just you, the bush, and that one leopard in a fever tree who was far too cool to care you’d flown halfway across the world to see her.

Now it’s buzzing constantly, asking you to rejoin the group chat, update your software, book a smear test, and read about things you didn’t even want to know existed. You eye the off button like it’s a cold beer in a hot tent. Because once you’ve felt the liberation of being untethered, it’s hard to want the leash back.

Food doesn’t taste right. Where are the flapjacks? The rusks? The surprise sundowner snacks that materialised out of nowhere just as your stomach growled? Why is no one pouring you a drink just because you sat down in a chair?

You open your fridge. It’s tragic. You consider a Deliveroo. It’s worse. Safari food hits different - not because it’s fancy (though it often is), but because it’s served with soul. Around a fire. Under the stars. And always, always with a story.

You're impossibly homesick for somewhere that isn’t technically your home. This is the kicker. The real weight of the hangover. Because what you’ve left behind isn’t just a trip. It’s a version of yourself that only exists out there - sun-kissed, dirt-smudged, wide-eyed and wonderfully, radically present.

On safari, time bends. The urgency drops away. You remember what it means to watch the light change. To sit still. To track something with your whole body. To feel. Back home, everything speeds up again - and the re-entry can be brutal.

You find yourself missing the guides, the camp rhythm, the boma fire. You check the weather in the Okavango, the Mara, the Serengeti, just to see what it’s doing there. You wonder how the lion cubs are getting on. Whether the painted wolves came back. Whether that one elephant bull is still patrolling the riverbank like he owns the place (which he does).

So, what do you do? You can’t stay in the bush forever. (Well, you could, but that’s another story.) But you can stay connected. Wear the dust on your boots a little longer. Frame the blurry leopard photo because you know what it took to get that shot. Read the field guide you bought at the airport. Light a fire, even if it’s just a candle. Cook something with far too much paprika and call it safari stew. Tell the stories. Rewatch the videos. Keep the wild close. Subscribe to our newsletter. Drop us a longing email.

And when it really gets bad - when the craving to hear a lion roar at midnight is just too strong - you know where to find us. Because the best cure for a safari hangover is another safari.

Want help planning your next escape to the wild? Let’s talk. We won’t judge you if you’ve already packed. 

Text: Sharon Gilbert-Rivett