As a safari guide, you spend more time with clients than you would working in a hotel. It teaches you not to judge someone because of where they are from. On occasion, though, an individual appears who seems determined not to break the mould.

Such a man was Spiirubaagu, as he came to be known on his brief safari in Northern Botswana. He epitomised the Japanese tourist who always has a camera in his hand. He snapped away at the bed in his tent, the zip on his tent, the luggage in his tent. He took painstaking care in setting up each shot, ensuring his focus and subject were right.

The first sign something was wrong was the way his plane landed. The pilots in the Okavango Delta land on dirt strips with unusual crosswinds, in dust storms, and occasionally with animals wandering onto the field. So it struck me as odd the way the twin-engine whumped down, hitting hard and not bouncing back up like a light aircraft should. Then came the second sign.

Out of the plane came two girls in a clash of canary yellow and a shade of pink so lurid it would make Barbie vomit. Most animals are colour-blind, so it wasn’t really a problem, but I was nervous about people who were defiant in a place where the wrong behaviour could get you eaten.

As the seventh person exited the aircraft and started hauling out his gear, my foreboding increased. Luggage weight is a strict 12kg. But looking at the camera bags and tripods, I could tell this guy had gone well over.

“We almost died,” said the pilot. “We were overweight because every time I tried to take a bag out, he just said ‘Hai’ and shoved it back. Then, in mid-flight, he started taking photos, but when I pointed out some hippos, he leant over the top of me and shoved me into the controls. Not one of them screamed when we went into a dive. What sort of people are they?!”

The pilot wasn’t looking for an answer, so I didn’t give him one. We both knew. These people could be from any country. They thought Africa was a theme-park ride and didn’t take its dangers seriously.

I looked at the vehicle, with the group in their seats. It bristled with tripods and lenses. They looked back at me, smiling. “Ikimashoo ka?” I asked. “Shall we go?”

There was a flurry as it dawned on them that I had spoken in their language, which rose to a hubbub before settling down to polite introductions. “And you must be Spielberg,” I said to the one with the camera gear. “Su-pee-rapbar-gu” is how it is pronounced in Japanese, and they all laughed. It’s the sort of inoffensive joke you make when people are paying you to be nice. Spiirubaagu smiled and said, “I would like to film a lion killing something.”

“We’ll see,” I said, and we started making our way to the camp. Along the rough track that led back to camp, we saw our first animals, and after their reaction I explained the fundamental thing guides hate most to have to explain.

“How’s your group?” my friend Lloyd, the manager, asked once we were in the camp.

“I had to tell them the basics,” I told him.

Lloyd pondered this: “Are you sure they understood?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“One of them is on the deck throwing bread to a warthog.”

I went off to repeat the speech I’d just made. These were not zoo animals, I explained. They were wild. We didn’t feed them, stroke them, or stand next to them for photographs. All we did was watch them live and die.

The game drives went well during their stay, though Spiirubaagu insisted on giving stage directions to every animal and grew frustrated at their inability to understand him.

A giraffe had been feeding on an acacia tree, his head buried deep in the thorny branches. When he was done, it seemed most likely he’d head deeper into the thicket of trees for some more, rather than the more aesthetically pleasing option of crossing the open plain behind him.