True story: an old friend of mine, Bob, and his buddy decided to go to Kenya. They landed in Nairobi, rented a jeep at the airport, and set off on a self-guided Safari. 

They asked the rental car guy: where should we go for a good safari? He told them to drive west a few hours. 

They drove late into the night. Street lights and homes thinned out, then stopped.  The roads got progressively worse. After a while they were on dirt roads. They saw no signs. 

Finally around midnight they stopped, threw their sleeping bags on the ground, and went to sleep. They were lost.

The first thing Bob saw when he awoke was a large black boot, inches from his face. He looked up – it belonged to a tall black man with an automatic rifle. Luckily, it was a park ranger. 

“You’re Americans, aren’t you.” 

Um..yes. Why? 

“Get up.”

They got out of their sleeping bags and stood up.

“Look at this.”

The ranger pointed at the ground. All around their sleeping bags were lion tracks. Dozens of them. 

“You’re lucky they weren’t hungry. If they had been, you’d both be dead.” 

How did you know we were Americans? 

“The only tourists who ever die out here are Americans. They’ve been camping in America’s national parks, and they think this is the same thing. Each year we lose about a dozen guys like you.”

After a stern lecture about the dangers of Kenya’s national parks, he gave them directions to a safe camping spot, and let them go.

The next day, Bob wandered too close to the river with his camera, and was charged by a hippo.  He had to run. I really like my friend Bob – I’m glad he’s still alive.