From Roosevelt to Rakish: The Complete History of Safari Fashion
Why Safari Fashion History Matters for the Modern Gentleman
The safari jacket is a garment with blood in its seams. Not metaphorically—literally. Its origins lie in warfare, its refinement in the pursuit of game, and its elevation in the hands of designers who understood that few garments carry such potent mythology. To wear a safari jacket today is to participate in a century of adventure, colonialism, Hollywood glamour, and eventually, reinvention.
This is not merely a history of a garment. It is the story of how the West dressed to encounter Africa, how that encounter shaped menswear permanently, and how the next chapter of safari style may finally reverse the cultural current—with African heritage informing Italian craft, rather than the other way around.
Understanding this history matters for anyone who wishes to dress thoughtfully for the contemporary safari, or who simply appreciates the weight of heritage in their wardrobe. The four-pocket jacket you might wear to a Serengeti lodge dinner carries the DNA of Boer War battlefields, Teddy Roosevelt’s East African expedition, Ernest Hemingway’s Kenyan hunts, Clark Gable’s Hollywood portrayal, and Yves Saint Laurent’s radical reimagining. Each layer adds meaning. Each reference enriches the wearing.
The Military Origins of Safari Dress: Khaki Drill and the Second Boer War
Before the safari jacket existed as a civilian garment, it was a solution to a military problem. Between 1899 and 1902, British troops stationed in South Africa during the Second Boer War faced conditions their traditional uniforms could not accommodate. The heat was relentless. The terrain was unforgiving. The bright red coats that had served the Empire for centuries made soldiers conspicuous targets against the ochre landscape.
The War Office in Whitehall commissioned a new uniform: the Khaki Drill. The fabric itself—a tightly woven cotton twill in a dusty brown-yellow hue—would become synonymous with expedition wear for the next century. The word ‘khaki’ derives from the Hindi-Urdu word for ‘dust-coloured,’ and the fabric had been used by British forces in India since the mid-nineteenth century. But the Boer War iteration refined it into something approaching modern military wear.
The uniform featured design elements that would define the safari jacket’s DNA: four large bellows pockets positioned on the chest and hips for ammunition and supplies, a substantial shirt collar that could be raised against sun or dust, shoulder epaulettes for rank insignia, and a belted waist that allowed adjustment for varying conditions. Every element served function. Aesthetics were incidental—though the resulting silhouette proved remarkably elegant.
Fox Brothers & Co., still operating today in Somerset, was among the first British mills to weave Khaki Drill for military contracts. The fabric needed to be lightweight yet durable, breathable yet resistant to tearing on thorns and brush. These same requirements would later define what made a safari garment successful in civilian contexts.
When the war ended, the uniform remained. Soldiers returned home, but the practical lessons of dressing for harsh conditions under an African sun had been learned. The garments that would clothe the next generation of explorers, hunters, and adventurers were already designed. They simply awaited a different context.
Theodore Roosevelt and the Smithsonian Expedition: Presidential Safari Style
On March 23, 1909, Theodore Roosevelt—having just completed his presidency—boarded the steamer Hamburg in New York harbour, bound for Africa. He was fifty years old, restless after seven years in the White House, and determined to pursue what he called his ‘pigskin library’ of adventure. The expedition he led would last a full year, traverse British East Africa (now Kenya), Uganda, and the Belgian Congo, and collect over 11,400 specimens for the Smithsonian Institution’s new natural history museum.
Roosevelt’s expedition was not merely a hunting trip, though substantial hunting occurred. It was a scientific endeavour of genuine significance, staffed by Smithsonian naturalists who catalogued, preserved, and documented specimens that researchers still study today. But for the purposes of safari fashion history, what matters is what Roosevelt wore—and where he purchased it.
The former president outfitted himself at Abercrombie & Fitch, which in 1909 bore no resemblance to its current incarnation. Founded in 1892 as an elite sporting goods retailer, A&F equipped expeditions, outfitted hunters, and supplied the gear that serious adventurers required. Roosevelt’s kit included safari jackets designed by Ben Willis, who would later co-found Willis & Geiger Outfitters—the most significant name in expedition clothing for the next half-century.
Photographs from the expedition, many taken by Roosevelt’s son Kermit who served as official expedition photographer, document the clothing in detail. The jackets are recognisably safari: four pockets, belted waist, substantial collars. But they retain a formality that would soften in subsequent decades. Roosevelt wore his with proper trousers, leather boots, and frequently a pith helmet—the standard sun protection of the era, made from the lightweight pith of the sola plant.
The expedition’s visual record—over 1,000 photographs survive—established an iconography of safari dress that persists today. A former president, America’s most famous advocate for the ‘strenuous life,’ dressed in practical elegance against the backdrop of the African savanna. The images circulated widely. Roosevelt chronicled the journey in his book African Game Trails, which became a bestseller. The safari as aspirational adventure—and the wardrobe required to pursue it—entered American consciousness permanently.
For those seeking to understand the full context of Roosevelt’s expedition and its cultural impact, the Library of Congress and Smithsonian Institution Archives maintain extensive collections of primary materials. The expedition represents the first major American safari, and its influence on subsequent adventure tourism cannot be overstated.
Ernest Hemingway’s Safari Style: The Writer Who Defined Bush Elegance
If Roosevelt established the safari as presidential adventure, Ernest Hemingway transformed it into literary mythology. The novelist first travelled to Africa in 1933, embarking on a three-month safari through Kenya and Tanzania that would provide material for some of his most celebrated work. His experiences informed Green Hills of Africa, published in 1935, and two short stories that rank among the finest in the English language: The Snows of Kilimanjaro and The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.
Hemingway returned to Africa in 1953-54, a trip that produced the posthumously published True at First Light. But his influence on safari style stems primarily from the earlier expedition—and the carefully cultivated image he constructed around it.
The writer understood, perhaps better than anyone of his era, that personal mythology required costume. His safari wardrobe was not accidental. Hemingway commissioned custom ‘bush jackets’ from Willis & Geiger Outfitters, the company founded by Ben Willis (who had previously designed Roosevelt’s expedition wear) and his partner Philip Geiger. Willis & Geiger would dress Charles Lindbergh, Amelia Earhart, and Sir Edmund Hillary. The company represented the apex of expedition outfitting, and Hemingway’s patronage cemented their reputation.
The Hemingway safari aesthetic differed from Roosevelt’s in key respects. Where the former president maintained formality, Hemingway embraced a studied roughness. His jackets frequently lacked belts—he preferred an elasticated back that wouldn’t interfere during long treks. He wore his clothes rumpled, often photographed with sleeves rolled, shirt partially unbuttoned, a working writer’s disregard for polish. The effect was paradoxically more influential: it made safari style seem attainable, wearable, lived-in.
A 1939 Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement, published during Hemingway’s tenure as customer, describes their safari jacket as ‘made from an imported English cotton drill material that has been “Cravenetted” to shed rain. Of very tough substance, practically untearable, yet soft and pliable. Has a smooth, suede-like finish. Excellent for lightweight summer wear. Colour is sand khaki.’ The language emphasises practicality, durability, and subtle luxury—precisely the values that would define high-end safari wear for the next century.
Hemingway’s photographs from Africa—whether crouching over prey, seated at camp, or striding through bush—established an image of masculine adventure that transcended the safari context. The writer in khaki became an archetype. Safari jackets, Viyella shirts, high boots, thick wool sweaters for cool evenings: these formed a vocabulary of understated capability that continues to influence menswear today.
Willis & Geiger: The Lost Outfitters of American Adventure
No discussion of safari fashion history is complete without acknowledging Willis & Geiger Outfitters, the company that dressed more notable expeditions than any other—and which no longer exists. Founded in 1928, the company emerged from Ben Willis’s experience outfitting Roosevelt and other early safari clients. The partnership with Philip Geiger formalised what had been an informal practice into a dedicated expedition clothing business.
Willis & Geiger’s client list reads like a roll call of twentieth-century adventure: Hemingway, of course, but also Lindbergh for his transatlantic flights, Earhart for her Pacific crossings, Hillary for Everest. The company understood that expedition clothing required a specific combination of qualities: durability sufficient for harsh conditions, weight light enough for practical transport, design thoughtful enough to anticipate the specific demands of each endeavour.
Their safari jackets refined the military template into something approaching art. The four-pocket configuration remained, but pocket placement and sizing were optimised for civilian use—binoculars, notebooks, camera film rather than ammunition. The belted waist became optional, with some designs featuring the elasticated back that Hemingway preferred. Collar designs evolved to provide sun protection without military stiffness. Fabrics included cotton drill, gabardine, and later tropical wool blends that offered warmth without weight.
Willis & Geiger closed its doors in 1999, a casualty of changing retail dynamics and corporate consolidation. The brand was briefly revived by Orvis, then discontinued again. Today, vintage Willis & Geiger pieces command premium prices among collectors who understand what the label represented: the golden age of expedition outfitting, when explorers trusted their lives to the quality of their gear.
The void left by Willis & Geiger has never been fully filled. Modern safari clothing brands tend toward technical performance wear—UV protection, insect repellent treatments, moisture-wicking synthetics. These are valuable innovations, but they lack the heritage dimension that Willis & Geiger embodied. Understanding the evolution of safari fabrics helps contextualise what made their material choices so significant.
Safari Style in Cinema: From Mogambo to Out of Africa
Hollywood discovered Africa’s cinematic potential in the 1950s, and the safari jacket discovered Hollywood. The mutual benefit proved transformative: films gained exotic settings and rugged aesthetic appeal, while safari style gained exposure to audiences who would never set foot on the continent but might well purchase the wardrobe.
The key films arrived in quick succession. Safari (1940) featured Douglas Fairbanks Jr. in safari jacket and cravat, bringing matinee idol glamour to expedition wear. The Macomber Affair (1947), adapted from Hemingway’s short story, dressed its characters in authentic-looking bush wear that referenced the author’s own wardrobe. King Solomon’s Mines (1950) sent Stewart Granger through African landscapes in what became an iconic safari silhouette.
But Mogambo (1953) proved the watershed. Director John Ford cast Clark Gable—the definitive leading man of his era—as a big game hunter in Africa, with Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly as romantic interests. Gable wore safari jackets throughout, and his natural authority gave the garments a masculine credibility that transcended the specific context. Men watching the film didn’t necessarily want to hunt lions; they wanted to look like men who could.
Gregory Peck’s appearance in The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1952) reinforced the literary connection, linking Hemingway’s written mythology to visual representation. These films established safari style as a genre of its own within menswear—a way of dressing that signified adventure, capability, and worldly experience regardless of whether the wearer had ever left his home country.
Later films continued the tradition with varying degrees of fidelity. Out of Africa (1985), starring Robert Redford and Meryl Streep, won seven Academy Awards and brought safari romanticism to a new generation. The costumes by Milena Canonero balanced historical accuracy with accessible elegance, creating looks that viewers could imagine adapting for their own wardrobes.
Cinema’s treatment of safari dress accomplished something that pure expedition wear never could: it made the garments desirable for their own sake, independent of functional necessity. You didn’t need to track game to want a safari jacket after watching Gable wear one. You simply needed to appreciate how it looked and what it represented. This shift from function to aspiration would prove essential to the safari jacket’s survival and eventual transformation into high fashion. The safari jacket’s defining features were established through these cinematic portrayals.
Yves Saint Laurent 1968: When Safari Became Seduction
Everything changed in 1968. Yves Saint Laurent, already established as the most influential designer of his generation, presented an African-themed collection that included safari jackets reimagined for the runway. The garments that emerged bore the DNA of their military and expedition predecessors—the four pockets, the substantial collar, the belted waist—but deployed those elements in service of an entirely different purpose: desire.
Saint Laurent’s genius was recognising that the safari jacket’s codes—adventure, capability, physical confidence—translated seamlessly to sexual appeal. He dressed women in safari jackets, demonstrating the garment’s versatility while simultaneously charging it with new energy. His muses Betty Catroux and Loulou de la Falaise wore his safari creations regularly, photographed in contexts that had nothing to do with Africa and everything to do with Parisian sophistication.
The 1968 collection marked a turning point in safari fashion history. Before YSL, the safari jacket belonged to adventurers, hunters, and the men who admired them. After YSL, it belonged to anyone who understood its visual power. The garment transitioned from expedition essential to wardrobe staple, from function-first to fashion-forward.
Saint Laurent himself frequently wore safari jackets, often as an alternative to conventional suiting. His personal adoption of the style lent it intellectual credibility. Here was the most important fashion designer of the era choosing expedition wear for his daily life—not because he was heading to the savanna, but because he appreciated what the garments communicated.
The YSL transformation also introduced luxury to the safari wardrobe. Where Willis & Geiger had focused on durability and practical performance, Saint Laurent emphasised fine fabrics, precise tailoring, and the details that distinguished haute couture from outdoor gear. Safari jackets in silk, in fine tropical wool, in linen of the highest quality: these were garments for wearing in restaurants and galleries, not game reserves. The tension between rugged origin and refined execution became the defining characteristic of luxury safari wear—a tension that persists today.
The Contemporary Safari Wardrobe: Performance, Heritage, and the Italian Connection
The safari jacket’s journey from Boer War battlefield to fashion week runway created a garment with dual identity. Today, safari clothing bifurcates into two distinct streams: technical performance wear designed for actual expedition use, and heritage-inspired pieces that reference the aesthetic without prioritising function.
Technical safari brands—Rufiji, Tag Safari, ExOfficio, Columbia—solve genuine problems. UV protection, insect repellent treatments, moisture-wicking fabrics, quick-dry capabilities: these innovations matter for travellers who will actually encounter harsh conditions. The contemporary gentleman’s safari wardrobe often includes such technical pieces, particularly for game drives and bush walks.
The heritage tier occupies different territory. Brands like Private White V.C., The Armoury, and various Italian manufacturers produce safari jackets in traditional fabrics—Irish linen, cotton drill, wool herringbone—with emphasis on craft and provenance. These garments nod to Roosevelt and Hemingway, to the golden age of expedition outfitting, to an era when the wardrobe mattered as much as the destination.
Italian manufacture has emerged as particularly significant in the luxury safari segment. The ‘Sahariana’—Italy’s indigenous safari jacket tradition, rooted in colonial North African campaigns—provides a distinct lineage that parallels and complements the British-American history. Italian tailors bring different sensibilities to the form: softer construction, more refined silhouettes, a sense of sprezzatura that British expedition wear typically lacks.
Yet neither stream—technical performance nor European heritage—adequately addresses a fundamental asymmetry in safari fashion history. For over a century, safari style has meant Western garments for encountering Africa. African aesthetics, African textiles, African craft traditions have remained peripheral—sources of ‘inspiration’ at best, afterthoughts at worst. The synthesis of African and Italian design traditions represents an emerging correction to this imbalance.
Safari Fashion’s Next Chapter: African Heritage Meets Italian Craft
The history surveyed here—from Boer War uniforms through Roosevelt’s expedition, Hemingway’s mythology, Hollywood glamour, and Saint Laurent’s transformation—describes safari fashion as something done to Africa, not with or by Africa. The garments were designed in London and New York, manufactured in Europe and America, and worn by visitors from the West. African porters, guides, and communities appear in expedition photographs as backdrop, not as contributors to the aesthetic.
This history cannot be undone, but it can be acknowledged and rebalanced. The next evolution of safari fashion may involve genuine synthesis: European craft excellence applied to African design traditions, African textiles incorporated into luxury garments, African cultural knowledge informing not just inspiration but execution.
Consider the possibilities: A safari jacket constructed in Italy to the highest standards of tailoring, but lined with kikoi—the traditional East African cotton cloth with its distinctive striped patterns. A dressing gown cut from Vlisco wax-print fabric, the African heritage textile now manufactured in the Netherlands but culturally embedded in West and Central African identity for over a century. These are not merely design choices; they are statements about where cultural influence flows. The history and significance of Vlisco fabric illuminates why such materials carry meaning beyond their visual appeal.
Certain fabrics seem destined for this synthesis. Solaro, the Anglo-Indian tropical cloth with its golden shimmer when light strikes, has historical safari associations and photographs beautifully against African landscapes. Solaro cloth’s unique properties make it particularly suitable for contemporary safari wear—lightweight, sun-reflective, and possessed of a subtle luxury that reads as refined rather than ostentatious.
The future of safari fashion, then, may look less like the imperial past and more like genuine partnership. Not Westerners dressing for Africa, but a true fusion that honours both lineages. Roosevelt’s four-pocket silhouette, refined through a century of evolution, now incorporating African heritage textiles and made by artisans who respect both traditions.
This is not merely a commercial opportunity, though it is certainly that. It is an ethical corrective. The safari jacket’s story has been one-directional for too long. The next chapter can be different.
| Feature | Safari Jacket | Field Jacket |
|---|---|---|
| Origin | British Boer War (1899–1902) | US Army M-1943 |
| Closure | Button front | Zip front |
| Waist | Structured belt | Drawstring |
| Pockets | Four bellows pockets | Four flap pockets |
| Typical Colour | Khaki, tan, stone | Olive drab |
| Silhouette | Refined, tailored | Utilitarian, boxy |
| Character | Elegance | Rugged utility |
Dressing for History
The safari jacket is more than a garment. It is a repository of history, a visual language that communicates adventure, capability, and worldly sophistication. To wear one thoughtfully is to participate in a lineage that spans warfare and peace, necessity and desire, function and fashion.
Understanding this history enriches the wearing. The four pockets that held a Boer War soldier’s ammunition later held Roosevelt’s field notes, Hemingway’s camera film, and eventually nothing at all—becoming decorative elements that signify the garment’s origins even when they serve no practical purpose. The belted waist that allowed soldiers to adjust for varying conditions became a design choice that defined a silhouette. The khaki colour that provided camouflage in the South African bush became an aesthetic in its own right.
Each generation has added to the safari jacket’s meaning. Military necessity gave way to expedition adventure. Adventure gave way to literary mythology. Mythology gave way to cinematic glamour. Glamour gave way to high fashion. And now, perhaps, high fashion is giving way to something new: a genuine synthesis that honours both European craft and African heritage.
For anyone dressing for safari today—whether actually bound for the Serengeti or simply seeking the resonance of expedition elegance—the garments carry this accumulated meaning. Wear them with awareness. Understand what you’re participating in. And consider what the next chapter of this history might look like.
The safari jacket has been telling its story for over a century. It’s time for new voices to contribute.
Frequently Asked Questions About Safari Fashion History
What is a safari jacket called? A safari jacket is also known as a bush jacket, field jacket, or in Italian tradition, a Sahariana. The term ‘safari jacket’ emerged in the 1930s when wealthy Western tourists adapted British military Khaki Drill uniforms for hunting expeditions in East Africa. The garment features four bellows pockets, a belted waist, shoulder epaulettes, and a substantial collar.
What are safari jackets for? Safari jackets were originally designed for practical expedition use: the four large pockets held ammunition, binoculars, and field supplies; the belted waist allowed adjustment for varying conditions; the substantial collar protected against sun and dust. Today, safari jackets serve both functional purposes on actual safaris and as fashion statements that signal adventure, capability, and worldly sophistication.
What jacket to take on safari? For an actual safari, choose a lightweight jacket in natural fabrics like cotton drill, linen, or tropical wool in khaki, stone, or olive colours. Look for functional pockets, sun protection, and breathability. For luxury lodges, a well-tailored safari jacket in fine fabrics like solaro cloth or Irish linen bridges game drives and dinner elegantly. Avoid synthetic materials that trap heat and dark colours that attract tsetse flies.
What is the difference between a field jacket and a safari jacket? Field jackets derive from the US Army M-1943 military jacket, featuring a more utilitarian design with a zip front, drawstring waist, and olive drab colour. Safari jackets trace to British Boer War uniforms and emphasise a more refined silhouette with button front, structured belt, four bellows pockets, and typically khaki or tan colours. Safari jackets tend toward elegance; field jackets toward rugged utility.
Why can’t you wear black on a safari? Black and dark blue colours attract tsetse flies, which are common in many African safari regions and deliver painful bites. Additionally, dark colours absorb heat, making them uncomfortable in the African sun. Black also creates high contrast against natural landscapes, potentially disturbing wildlife. Khaki, tan, olive, and stone colours are preferred for blending with the environment and staying cool.
Are safari jackets in style in 2025? Yes, safari jackets remain a menswear staple in 2025. Luxury brands continue producing refined versions in premium fabrics, while the garment’s classic silhouette transcends seasonal trends. The safari jacket’s enduring appeal lies in its versatility—equally appropriate for travel, smart-casual occasions, and as a blazer alternative. Contemporary interpretations often incorporate lighter constructions and luxury fabrics like solaro cloth and Irish linen.
Which colors are not to wear on safari? Avoid black, navy blue, and dark colours that attract tsetse flies and absorb heat. Bright whites get dirty quickly on dusty game drives. Camouflage patterns should be avoided as they’re associated with military or poaching activities in some regions. Neon or bright colours can startle wildlife and disrupt photography. Stick to khaki, tan, stone, olive, and earth tones that blend with African landscapes.
When was the safari jacket invented? The safari jacket evolved from British Army Khaki Drill uniforms introduced during the Second Boer War (1899-1902). The term ‘safari jacket’ itself wasn’t coined until the 1930s. Theodore Roosevelt wore early versions on his 1909 Smithsonian expedition, and Ernest Hemingway popularised the style through his 1930s African safaris. Yves Saint Laurent elevated the garment to high fashion in 1968.
