For Karin Jones, safari has never been only about the sighting.
After nearly four decades designing journeys across Africa, her work sits at the intersection of conservation, community, and deeply personal travel. Through Artisans of Safari and her video podcast, Safari ChangeMakers, Karin has become a leading voice in a more regenerative way of experiencing the continent — one where travelers don’t simply pass through a place, but help protect it.
We spoke with Karin about the future of safari, the difference between luxury and true presence, and why the most meaningful journeys are the ones that give back more than they take.
Origins & Approach
You’ve been shaping safaris for more than two decades. How did Safari ChangeMakers begin, and what inspired your approach?
Safari ChangeMakers grew out of my almost four-decade career designing transformative journeys in Africa.
I’ve always believed that tourism can fund conservation and support communities, but I’ve also seen how it can contribute to overtourism, environmental degradation, and economic inequality. After the pandemic, travelers began searching for more purposeful experiences, and it became clear that Africa’s future depended on genuinely regenerative models.
I launched Safari ChangeMakers to amplify the voices of African conservation leaders, lodge owners, and social entrepreneurs who are creating community-owned conservancies, plastic-free programs, indigenous-led tourism, and new models for protecting wild places.
The show features people like Praveen Moman of Volcanoes Safaris, whose gorilla lodges in Uganda and Rwanda channel tourism revenue into community projects and habitat protection; Simon Teede of Ele Collection, who is pioneering zero-waste solutions in Zimbabwe; and Matthew Saus of Manta Resort on Pemba Island, where marine protected areas and reef-guarding initiatives are directly tied to each guest stay.
For me, storytelling is only part of it. Every episode connects back to actionable travel — journeys that channel funds into the very projects being discussed. My approach is built on long-standing relationships, intimate knowledge of Africa’s ecosystems, and a belief that local voices should always be centered.
What makes your approach to safari different from traditional models of luxury travel?
Traditional luxury often equates “five star” with chandeliers and thread counts. I’ve always believed comfort and conscience can, and should, meet seamlessly.
We guide guests to remote conservancies where vehicle numbers are intentionally capped and every visit directly supports local jobs, micro-enterprises, education, empowerment programs, and conservation work. True luxury, to me, is waking to elephant tracks outside your tent, or gathering around a fire with storytellers whose roots in the land run deep.
I also design itineraries with room for serendipity. Instead of rushing from one lodge to the next, I prefer guests to spend three or four nights in each place — enough time to watch elephants from the veranda, have unplanned conversations with hosts, and understand the rhythm of the landscape.
Owner-operated lodges are especially good at this. At Ol Malo in Kenya’s Laikipia, the Francombe family might take you riding along the escarpment before sunset drinks on a rocky outcrop. At Lewa Wilderness, you may spend an afternoon with the Craig family, hearing how a ranch evolved into one of East Africa’s great conservation stories. At Tanda Tula in South Africa’s Timbavati, lingering in camp as elephants drift past the waterhole can lead to fireside conversations about locally led safari and inclusive conservation.
Authenticity cannot be staged. By favoring owner-led lodges where hosts know each guest’s story and invest profits back into their communities, we restore soul to safari travel and ensure each stay benefits local people and landscapes.
After all these years, what continues to move you about the work?
What still moves me is watching travelers experience Africa’s raw beauty for the first time — and knowing their journey is helping fund conservation and support communities.
No amenity can compete with the moment a leopard emerges at dawn and moves silently through golden grass, or when a family realizes the sounds they hear at night are not background noise, but a living chorus of frogs, insects, and distant lions.
I’m also deeply moved by the relationships at the heart of this work. Lodge owners, guides, trackers, and community leaders are not just business partners. They are long-standing friends and conservation allies. Many are second- or third-generation custodians of their land, carrying stories that stretch far beyond any marketing brochure.
Each trip I design is a way to honor those relationships by sending travelers who genuinely care, and by making sure the economic benefits reach the people doing the hard work of protecting these places.
What was your first safari experience like, and how did it shape your life?
My first major expedition was in 1987, through Botswana, South Africa, and Zimbabwe. Nelson Mandela was still imprisoned on Robben Island, apartheid gripped South Africa, and the Cold War was in its final chapters.
Back then, luxury meant a hot water bottle in a canvas tent that sometimes leaked. There were no cell phones. We communicated through crackling radios and the occasional fax. I remember sending my first fax to Africa and being amazed that someone could read something I had written just seconds after I sent it.
That journey changed my life. I discovered vast landscapes where wildlife still moved to ancient rhythms, and communities depended on fragile ecosystems. It made Africa my passion and my livelihood, and cemented my belief that travel, when done well, can be a force for good rather than extraction.
What drives you today — curiosity, conservation, or connection?
All three.
Curiosity keeps me exploring lesser-known corners of the continent, from remote salt pans and seasonal camps in Botswana to quiet valleys in Rwanda and beyond. Conservation is the ethical backbone of every itinerary we design. We only partner with lodges and guides whose work actively supports wildlife protection and community development.
Connection may be the most powerful driver — connecting travelers to nature, to local cultures, and to themselves.
My craft is not only about knowing the bush. It is about understanding people. Each client is a unique puzzle, and my job is to craft the safari that fits them perfectly. Are they wildlife photographers chasing golden-hour light? A multigenerational family hoping to create stories they’ll tell for decades? Wine lovers who want to pair safari with cellar-door discoveries?
I spend time understanding their travel style, family dynamics, hidden passions, and unspoken fears, then design journeys that feel both deeply personal and profoundly rooted in place.
On Safari & Travel
For someone planning their first safari, what is the best time of year to go?
Africa’s seasons vary by region.
In Southern Africa — South Africa, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Zambia — the dry season from May to October offers excellent game viewing. Vegetation is sparse, and animals congregate around waterholes. Night temperatures can be cold, but malaria risk is generally lower. The green season, roughly December to March, brings lush landscapes, dramatic skies, and many newborn animals.
In East Africa, game viewing is exceptional year-round. Kenya and Tanzania are especially rewarding from January to March and June to October. The wildebeest migration moves through Tanzania’s Serengeti from roughly January to September and Kenya’s Masai Mara from June to November. Gorilla trekking in Rwanda and Uganda is possible year-round, though trails are usually easier in the drier months of June to September.
What destinations would you recommend for different kinds of travelers?
For first-time safari travelers, I often recommend the Serengeti/Masai Mara ecosystem or South Africa’s Greater Kruger region. Both offer iconic Big Five sightings, exceptional guiding, and relatively smooth logistics.
For families with young children, malaria-free reserves can offer peace of mind. South Africa has outstanding options, including Madikwe, Tswalu Kalahari, Kwandwe, and Kariega. Kenya’s Laikipia region is also incredibly family-friendly, with experiences like tracking wildlife by bike, sculpting with termite clay, visiting a local school, or quad biking through the bush.
For adventure seekers, Botswana’s Okavango Delta and Zambia’s South Luangwa are extraordinary. Think mokoro safaris, walking safaris, and small remote camps where you fall asleep to frogs and hippos rather than generators and traffic.
For wildlife photographers, I love the predator-rich northern or eastern-central Serengeti outside peak migration season. You can often spend an hour with a single pride without jostling for position.
For culture and community enthusiasts, I recommend pairing game viewing with community-driven conservancies. Kenya’s Laikipia and Namibia’s Damaraland are wonderful examples, where travelers can meet community rangers and learn how wildlife and livestock coexist.
For primate lovers, Rwanda and Uganda offer life-changing encounters with mountain gorillas, chimpanzees, and golden monkeys. We often include behind-the-scenes time with researchers at the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund or visits to the Ellen DeGeneres Campus.
For desert and cultural explorers, Namibia and Malawi offer something completely different — ancient red dunes, desert-adapted wildlife, Lake Malawi, the Skeleton Coast, and time with communities such as the Himba.
For beach and island lovers, safari pairs beautifully with the Indian Ocean. Seychelles, Mozambique, Mauritius, and Madagascar each offer a different kind of post-safari exhale, from diving and tropical forests to lemurs, chameleons, and marine conservation.
For repeat travelers, I love introducing lesser-known regions like South Africa’s Great Karoo or the Republic of the Congo. The Karoo offers fossil beds, rock art, wide-open landscapes, and conservation stories that feel deeply layered. The Republic of the Congo offers rainforest, baïs, gorillas, forest elephants, and a profound sense of ecological interconnectedness.
How can travelers ensure their safari leaves a positive impact?
Start by choosing operators and lodges that are serious about renewable energy, water conservation, waste management, local sourcing, and community employment.
At Artisans of Safari, we go a step further. We steer guests toward off-the-grid sanctuaries whose purpose is rooted in conservation and community uplift.
At Wild Hill in Kenya’s Enonkishu Conservancy, for example, co-founders Tippa and Tarquin Wood have transformed exhausted cattle land into regenerating wild habitat. The lodge runs on solar, harvests rainwater, avoids plastic bottles, and invites guests to engage with the Wild Shamba organic garden or plant indigenous trees that reconnect wildlife corridors.
In Zambia’s Lower Zambezi, camps like Chiawa have long paired extraordinary river safaris with support for anti-poaching patrols and community projects. Across selected African Bush Camps properties in Zimbabwe and Botswana, solar power, careful water use, and waste reduction are matched by investments in guiding careers, schools, and women’s enterprises.
We also follow wildlife-first protocols: give animals space, keep sightings brief, leave paths open, keep noise and light low, avoid flash photography at night, and never geotag sensitive species or locations in real time.
When we move on from a sighting, it is because the animal has asked for space. There will always be more to see, and the goal is to keep these places healthy for the people and wildlife who live there year-round.
What is one misconception travelers often have about safari?
Many people think safari is about ticking off the Big Five or seeing the Great Migration. In reality, Africa’s magic lies in its diversity and its quieter moments.
Predators do not migrate, and some of the most rewarding game viewing happens away from the herds. In the northern or eastern-central Serengeti in February, for example, I’ve had entire days with abundant resident wildlife and not another vehicle in sight.
Another misconception is that safari means roughing it. Today, there is a full spectrum — from beautifully simple mobile camps to architecturally remarkable lodges with heated pools and exceptional cuisine. You might spend one night in a bedroll under the stars in Zambia or Zimbabwe, listening to lions in the distance, and the next in a design-forward camp with an outdoor shower and a wine cellar.
Luxury is not one standard. It is about choosing the level of comfort that allows you to feel most present in the wild.
How do you balance luxury and sustainability in modern safari design?
Luxury and sustainability should not be treated as opposing ideas. The best lodges prove that comfort and responsibility can exist together.
Sustainable lodges integrate solar power, waste reduction, rainwater harvesting, and low-impact architecture. They source local materials, celebrate regional cuisine, and employ people from nearby communities, ensuring that money circulates where it matters most.
We handpick owner-operated lodges and small camps that pair high-end comfort with rigorous environmental practices and strong community partnerships. Dulini in South Africa’s Sabi Sand is a beautiful example: a small number of suites, growing solar power, long-tenured local staff, and deep support for neighboring communities.
We also design itineraries with more time in each place, so guests can do more than consume game drives. They might join a conservation briefing, visit a local school or craft cooperative, or cook with a lodge chef using ingredients sourced from nearby farms.
Whether guests choose a beautifully designed lodge or a simple mobile camp, the experience should leave a lighter footprint while offering real comfort and meaningful immersion.
For repeat travelers who have done the classic safari, what lesser-known experiences do you recommend?
For repeat travelers, I often suggest moving from headline spectacles to depth and nuance.
In Tanzania, explore quieter corners of the Serengeti between January and April, when resident predators and plains game move through the landscape with few vehicles in sight.
In South Africa, pair the Eastern Cape’s private reserves with the cultural landscapes of the Karoo — fossil beds, rock art, restored architecture, and extended walking safaris focused on smaller, lesser-known species.
For community-owned conservancies, Kenya’s Lewa Wildlife Conservancy and Zimbabwe’s Gonarezhou are deeply compelling. At Lewa House, guests can visit the bloodhound anti-poaching unit and see how tourism supports rangers, predator-proof bomas, and education programs. At Chilo Gorge Lodge, on the edge of Gonarezhou National Park, travelers learn how the Mahenye community helped shape the park’s protection plan and revive cultural practices that were at risk of disappearing.
Walking and canoe safaris are also transformative. Zambia’s South Luangwa is the spiritual home of guided walking safaris, while Zimbabwe’s Mana Pools and the Lower Zambezi region offer a completely different perspective from the water.
And for true remoteness, I love tiny seasonal camps in Botswana’s Okavango Delta or along the Linyanti. For a marine conservation finale, Miavana on Madagascar’s private Nosy Ankao archipelago connects inland wildlife, coastal ecosystems, reef restoration, turtle monitoring, and community projects in one powerful arc.
The Philosophy of the Wild
You’ve spoken about the parallels between design and nature. How do you see that relationship?
Design and nature share the same principles: balance, rhythm, and purpose.
In the bush, there is no wasted movement. Every track, call, and pattern has meaning. A well-designed itinerary is the same. It is not a checklist of sights, but a story with arcs, pauses, and breath.
I think of safari design almost like composing music. First, I listen to the traveler’s history, fears, dreams, and energy. Then I weave landscapes, lodges, and encounters into a composition that flows naturally.
Great design, like nature, is adaptive. It respects constraints — seasons, migrations, weather — while leaving room for serendipity. I deliberately avoid over-programming, because the most memorable moments are often unplanned: tea with a guide’s family, time with a basket weaver, or an afternoon in camp while elephants feed below your deck.
When a place is designed around ecosystem health and human connection, everything from the lighting to the layout encourages presence rather than performance.
What lessons can travelers bring home from time spent in the wild?
Patience and presence.
Safari teaches you to slow down. Some of the most profound moments happen when you stop chasing and simply sit — at a waterhole at dusk, after a storm, or under the stars watching a hyena clan move through the night. That kind of immersion changes how you pay attention at home.
Interconnectedness.
When you watch predators, prey, insects, plants, weather, and people all exist within the same system, it becomes impossible to see your life in isolation. A change in rainfall affects grasses, which affects grazers, which affects predators, which affects communities. The same cause and effect exists in our cities and homes; we are simply less tuned in to it.
Humility.
Standing a respectful distance from an elephant or lion reminds you that you are a visitor in a much older world. You are not in control. Weather, wildlife, and landscape do not follow your timetable. That humility can soften the way we move through work, family, and community.
Generosity and community.
Many African cultures embody ubuntu — the belief that “I am because we are.” Time with communities living alongside wildlife can show travelers models of resourcefulness, hospitality, and mutual support. People often return home asking not only what they can receive from a place, but how their choices can uplift others.
If you could distill the spirit of Africa into one word, what would it be?
Ubuntu.
In Nguni languages, it means “I am because we are.” It captures the interconnectedness of people, wildlife, and landscapes, and the understanding that our well-being is tied to the well-being of others.
It is present when a guide shares a story that is not in any manual, when communities have real ownership in conservation, and when travelers recognize that their journey is part of something much larger than themselves.
How do you see safari evolving in the next decade?
Safari will move from sustainability to regeneration.
Travelers are already asking more thoughtful questions: Who owns this land? Who benefits economically? What is the lodge’s footprint? The most compelling answer is no longer, “We use metal straws.” It is, “We are restoring habitat, regenerating soils, and ensuring communities have equity and decision-making power.”
Community-owned conservancies and indigenous-led tourism will become more visible and, I hope, more common. I am already seeing this through people like Jackson Looseyia and Dominic Nchoe, founders of Tangulia Mara, the Mara’s only 100% Maasai-owned lodge, and Rob and Storm Mason at Kalepo Camp in Kenya’s Namunyak Conservancy, where Samburu culture and conservation are inseparable from the guest experience.
Technology will continue to support conservation, from drones and camera traps to AI-assisted wildlife monitoring. Electric safari vehicles, amber-spectrum lighting that is gentler on animal eyes, and better carbon accounting will also push operators to rethink logistics.
Luxury will be measured less by opulence and more by access, authenticity, and positive impact. Travelers will look for clear evidence that their stay funds real conservation outcomes and community benefits. As climate patterns shift, both travelers and operators will need to be more flexible with timing, destination choices, and infrastructure.
If safari teaches us presence, what does it teach us about creativity?
Being in the wild is one of the most powerful creative resets I know.
When you unplug, the noise drops away, and your brain begins making new connections. The dappled camouflage of a leopard can inspire a designer’s palette. The architecture of a termite mound can spark ideas about ventilation and cooling. The rhythm of migration can reshape how a writer thinks about pacing a story.
Safari gives you long stretches of white space — on game drives, in camp between activities, in the quiet before dawn. That is when ideas arrive. Many of my clients return home with unexpected clarity: a business challenge that suddenly feels solvable, a creative project they finally know how to begin, or a life decision that crystallizes after watching a storm roll in across the savanna.
Presence opens the door. Creativity walks through it.
