Theodore Roosevelt’s African Expedition: What He Wore and Why It Matters
The President Departs: March 1909
There is something almost comically American about the scale of Theodore Roosevelt’s African ambitions. A European aristocrat planning a safari might have consulted his tailor, engaged a white hunter, and slipped away with minimal fuss. Roosevelt, characteristically, turned the enterprise into a national event.
When the Hamburg departed New York on March 23, 1909, crowds thronged the pier. The press had been covering preparations for months. Andrew Carnegie had helped finance the scientific component. The Smithsonian Institution had dispatched three of its finest naturalists. Roosevelt’s nineteen-year-old son Kermit would serve as expedition photographer, documenting everything—the landscapes, the fauna, the kills, and, crucially for our purposes, the clothing.
The expedition would last a full year. It would traverse British East Africa (the territory we now call Kenya), push into Uganda, and eventually reach the Belgian Congo before following the Nile to Khartoum. The party would collect over eleven thousand specimens for the Smithsonian’s new natural history museum. They would shoot—and this is where modern sensibilities require a steadying breath—over five hundred large animals, including eleven elephants, nine rhinoceros, and seventeen lions.
But numbers, however impressive or distressing, tell us nothing about what matters here: the careful construction of an image that would define American expedition style for generations.
Outfitting a President: Abercrombie & Fitch in Its Glory
To understand what Roosevelt wore, one must first understand where he acquired it. And to understand that, one must attempt the considerable imaginative leap of conceiving Abercrombie & Fitch as something other than a purveyor of cologne-drenched casual wear to American teenagers.
In 1909, Abercrombie & Fitch was the pre-eminent outfitter of American adventure. Founded in 1892 by David T. Abercrombie, a former surveyor and railroad engineer, the company had been transformed by Ezra Fitch into an emporium of expedition equipment. The Madison Avenue store was a temple to the strenuous life—tents, firearms, fishing tackle, and, crucially, the clothing required to pursue game across difficult terrain.
Roosevelt was a natural customer. His relationship with Abercrombie & Fitch predated his presidency; he had purchased equipment for his ranching years in the Dakota Badlands and for various hunting expeditions thereafter. For the African safari, he turned once again to the store—and to a designer named Ben Willis, whose name deserves far greater recognition than it currently enjoys.
Willis understood that expedition clothing required a specific alchemy: durability sufficient for thorns, heat, and hard use; weight light enough for tropical conditions; construction precise enough to maintain its shape through months of wear. He designed safari jackets that adapted the British military template—four bellows pockets, belted waist, substantial collar—but refined it for the needs of a civilian adventurer rather than a soldier.
The relationship between Roosevelt and Willis would have consequences beyond the expedition itself. Willis would later co-found Willis & Geiger Outfitters, the company that would dress Hemingway, Lindbergh, Earhart, and Hillary. The line of descent from Roosevelt’s safari wardrobe to the golden age of American expedition runs directly through Ben Willis’s pattern-cutting.
The Wardrobe Itself: What Roosevelt Actually Wore
Photographs from the expedition—and there are over a thousand of them, many taken by Kermit with a careful eye for composition—reveal Roosevelt’s safari wardrobe in considerable detail. What emerges is not the romantic image of the pith-helmeted adventurer one might expect, but something more practical and, in its way, more interesting.
The jackets are unmistakably safari: four large pockets arranged symmetrically on chest and hips, buttons rather than zip closures (the zip fastener, though patented, had not yet achieved widespread use), belted waists that allowed adjustment for the varying demands of stalking, riding, and camp life. The fabric appears to be a sturdy cotton drill in the characteristic khaki that British forces had adopted during the Indian campaigns and refined during the Boer War.
But Roosevelt’s interpretation retained a formality that later safari style would abandon. He wore proper trousers rather than shorts—a concession, perhaps, to presidential dignity, or simply a reflection of Edwardian standards that would seem overdressed to modern eyes. His boots were substantial leather affairs, suitable for walking considerable distances over rough ground. And the pith helmet, that most iconic piece of expedition headwear, appears in photograph after photograph—its sola pith construction providing genuine protection against the equatorial sun.
What one does not see is any concession to the romantic or the theatrical. Roosevelt dressed for function. The aesthetics, such as they were, emerged from the practical requirements of the endeavour. This, perhaps, is why the resulting images feel so authentic—and why they established a template that persists today.
The Pith Helmet: A Brief Digression
One cannot discuss Roosevelt’s expedition wardrobe without pausing at the pith helmet, that curious piece of headwear that has become synonymous with the colonial era and, by extension, with safari style itself.
The helmet’s construction is rather ingenious. The pith of the sola plant—a species native to India—is remarkably lightweight and possesses excellent insulating properties. Shaped into a helmet and covered with cloth, usually white or khaki, it creates a barrier against solar radiation that no conventional hat can match. The wide brim shades the face and neck; the ventilated crown allows heat to escape.
By 1909, the pith helmet had been standard tropical headwear for European administrators, soldiers, and adventurers for half a century. Roosevelt wore his without apparent self-consciousness, as did every other member of the expedition. The helmet was simply what one wore in Africa—a piece of equipment as essential as a rifle or a water bottle.
Its subsequent decline into costume-party cliché has obscured its genuine utility. Those who have experienced the equatorial sun’s intensity understand that the pith helmet was not an affectation but a necessity. Roosevelt, whatever his faults, was not a man given to unnecessary affectation.
The Expedition’s Visual Legacy
What makes the Smithsonian-Roosevelt expedition significant for the history of safari style is not merely what Roosevelt wore, but how thoroughly it was documented and how widely those documents circulated.
Roosevelt was, in modern parlance, a master of personal branding. He understood that images mattered—that the photograph of a former president in safari kit, rifle in hand, elephant at his feet, would communicate something powerful about American vitality, American ambition, American willingness to engage with the wider world. The expedition was scientific in purpose but theatrical in execution.
Upon his return, Roosevelt published African Game Trails, a book that combined hunting narrative with natural history observation and, not incidentally, established the safari as the ultimate expression of the strenuous life he had long advocated. The book was illustrated with expedition photographs. Readers could see exactly what Roosevelt had worn, how he had equipped himself, what the successful safari required.
The influence was immediate and lasting. American men of means began planning their own African expeditions. They turned to Abercrombie & Fitch for their equipment, requesting the same jackets, the same boots, the same kit that had served the President. The complete gentleman’s safari wardrobe as we understand it today—the four-pocket jacket, the sturdy boots, the considered palette of khaki and tan—traces its American lineage directly to Roosevelt’s Smithsonian expedition.
The Complicated Legacy
Any honest assessment of Roosevelt’s expedition must acknowledge what the photographs do not show, or show only peripherally: the African porters and guides who made the expedition possible. Over five hundred men carried equipment, established camps, tracked game, and skinned specimens. They appear in the margins of photographs, usually unnamed, their contributions essential but unsung.
This is the uncomfortable truth at the heart of safari style’s heritage. The aesthetic we celebrate was created by Westerners visiting Africa, not by Africans themselves. The clothing was designed in New York and London for European and American bodies. The entire enterprise rested on colonial structures that enabled wealthy foreigners to traverse the continent in pursuit of sport and specimens.
Acknowledging this history does not require abandoning safari style—the garments themselves are innocent of their context—but it does suggest that the next chapter might look different. The synthesis of African and Italian design traditions represents one possible direction: luxury safari wear that incorporates African heritage textiles and craft traditions rather than merely drawing inspiration from African landscapes while ignoring African creativity.
Roosevelt himself, for all his Edwardian attitudes, demonstrated genuine respect for African wildlife and environments. His expedition was scientific as well as sporting; the specimens collected continue to support research over a century later. Perhaps the safari wardrobe can evolve similarly—retaining what was valuable in the tradition while growing beyond its limitations.
The Silhouette That Endured
Stand in any upmarket menswear store today and you will find safari jackets that would be recognisable to Roosevelt. The four pockets remain. The belted waist persists. The fabric—cotton drill, linen, tropical wool—continues to prioritise breathability and durability over fashion-forward novelty.
This is the remarkable thing about the silhouette Roosevelt helped establish: it has proven essentially unchangeable. Designers have experimented with details—removing epaulettes, adding action backs, substituting different closures—but the fundamental architecture remains what Ben Willis designed for Abercrombie & Fitch over a century ago.
The reason, one suspects, is that Willis got it right. He solved the practical problems of expedition clothing so elegantly that no subsequent designer has found a better solution. The defining features of the safari jacket are not arbitrary style choices but functional elements that have proven their worth across decades of actual use.
Roosevelt would probably be bemused to learn that his expedition wardrobe had become a subject of study and emulation. He was a practical man who dressed practically for a practical purpose. But practicality, honestly pursued, often produces beauty—and the safari jacket, in its clean lines and purposeful construction, possesses a beauty that transcends its origins.
What Remains
The Smithsonian still holds specimens from the Roosevelt expedition. Researchers still consult the collection. The scientific legacy endures.
The stylistic legacy endures as well, though more diffusely. Every safari jacket sold today carries some trace of what Roosevelt wore in 1909. The aesthetic vocabulary he helped establish—the colours, the silhouettes, the attitude of practical elegance—remains the foundation upon which contemporary safari fashion builds.
For those planning their own safari, the lesson of Roosevelt’s wardrobe is worth remembering: function first, always. The garments that serve you best will be those designed to meet the actual demands of the environment, not those chosen for their appearance alone. Roosevelt looked magnificent in his safari kit precisely because he was not trying to look magnificent. He was trying to hunt elephant in comfort and efficiency. The magnificence was incidental.
This, perhaps, is the enduring wisdom of his expedition wardrobe. Dress for the task. Choose quality over fashion. Trust the silhouettes that have proven themselves across generations. The safari jacket that served Roosevelt will serve you—not because style is eternal, but because the African sun and the African bush have not changed, and the clothing that works there has no reason to change either.
Frequently Asked Questions
What did Theodore Roosevelt wear on his African safari? Roosevelt wore safari jackets designed by Ben Willis and purchased from Abercrombie & Fitch, featuring four bellows pockets, belted waists, and sturdy cotton drill fabric in khaki. He paired these with proper trousers, leather boots, and pith helmets for sun protection. His wardrobe prioritised function over fashion, establishing the template for American expedition style.
Where did Roosevelt buy his safari clothes? Roosevelt outfitted his expedition at Abercrombie & Fitch in New York, which in 1909 was the premier American outfitter of sporting and expedition equipment. The company bore no resemblance to its modern incarnation—it equipped serious adventurers, hunters, and explorers with high-quality gear designed for genuine field use.
Who designed Roosevelt’s safari jackets? Ben Willis, a designer working with Abercrombie & Fitch, created Roosevelt’s safari jackets. Willis would later co-found Willis & Geiger Outfitters, which became the most significant American expedition clothing company of the twentieth century, dressing Hemingway, Lindbergh, Earhart, and Hillary.
How long was Roosevelt’s African expedition? The Smithsonian-Roosevelt African Expedition lasted from March 1909 to March 1910—a full year. The party travelled through British East Africa (now Kenya), Uganda, and the Belgian Congo before following the Nile to Khartoum. They collected over 11,400 specimens for the Smithsonian Institution.
What was the purpose of Roosevelt’s safari? While hunting was central, the expedition was primarily scientific. Funded partly by Andrew Carnegie and staffed by Smithsonian naturalists, it collected specimens for the new National Museum of Natural History. Roosevelt chronicled the journey in his book African Game Trails, which combined hunting narrative with natural history observation.
Why did Roosevelt wear a pith helmet? The pith helmet was standard tropical headwear in 1909, valued for its genuine protective properties rather than mere style. Made from the lightweight, insulating pith of the sola plant, it provided effective protection against the equatorial sun. Roosevelt wore his as essential equipment, not as costume.
How did Roosevelt’s safari influence American style? Roosevelt’s expedition established the American safari aesthetic. The extensive photographic documentation, his celebrity status, and his subsequent book created widespread awareness of safari style among American men of means. They turned to Abercrombie & Fitch requesting identical equipment, launching a tradition of American expedition dressing.
What happened to Abercrombie & Fitch after Roosevelt? Abercrombie & Fitch continued as a premier outdoor and expedition outfitter for decades, dressing subsequent generations of adventurers. The company’s transformation into a youth-focused casual wear brand occurred much later, in the 1990s, representing a complete departure from its original identity as an elite sporting goods retailer.
