This is what happens when you combine:

– too much money
– aviation fuel
– naïve philanthropy
– a mild midlife crisis (served with a side of life fatigue)
– a Super Cub on life support
– and the kind of optimism only found in people with zero survival instinct and unlimited baggage space.

From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey is not a travel hack.
There’s nothing to learn here.
No 10-step plan. No spiritual toolkit. No product to subscribe to.

It’s not wellness.
It’s not fiction.

It’s a high-speed, true-life crash course in delusion, desperation, dismantled ego, and weaponized storytelling — thundering across Kenya’s skies, Nairobi’s alleyways, and the smoking wreckage of whatever once resembled a stable life.

"This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s a mid-air disassembly."

No filters.
No camera crew.
No exit strategy.

Just one idiot in a burning plane, telling the story before the wings fall off completely.

There was no mission briefing. No sponsor deck. No noble sacrifice.
Just a DSLR, an overinflated sense of purpose, and a catastrophically confident walk into Kibera — one of the world’s most notorious slums.

That’s where the fantasy burst like a mosquito on a bug zapper.
Reality didn’t correct course.
It hijacked the plane and aimed it at the tarmac of existential despair.

What followed was not a journey.
It was a series of flaming collisions wrapped in passport stamps.

• Wildlife encounters that made The Hunger Games look like a petting zoo, minus the catering and plus actual predators.
• A one-man war against African bureaucracy armed with nothing but entitlement, expired charts, and delusional optimism.
• A Land Rover so traumatically unreliable it should’ve come with a therapist and a waiver from the Geneva Convention.
• And Kalli — the chain-smoking German mechanic who could fix a crashed aircraft with a bent spoon, a torque wrench, and one long, disappointed stare.

I came to save elephants.
What I ended up doing was renegotiate the terms of my own survival — usually in Swahili I didn’t understand, inside vehicles that smelled like colonial regret and diesel-soaked upholstery.

"Saving elephants is easy. Surviving Nairobi traffic in a ProBox held together by zip ties and goat trauma? That’s the real miracle."

This isn’t chaos for chaos’ sake.
This is what happens when idealism gets altitude sickness.
When good intentions go feral.
When the Western urge to “make a difference” crash‑lands in a place that couldn’t care less about your hashtags, your hope, or your handcrafted morality.

It’s the story of a man who mistook recklessness for courage, charity for purpose, and adrenaline for meaning — then realised too late that all three smell the same when they’re on fire.

He burned every bridge that would have led back to sanity.
Crashed every metaphorical plane — and at least one mechanical one.
And still crawled out of the debris clutching a notebook, a grin, and the faint hope that humiliation might count as wisdom if written down fast enough.

This isn’t a redemption arc. There is no Happy Ending.
It’s an autopsy with jokes.
A black‑box recording from the cockpit of ego and empathy colliding at cruising speed.

We’re not pitching another polished survival tale with drone shots and moral epilogues.
We’re pitching the unfiltered truth — the smoke, the static, and the desperate laughter between impact sounds.

“No scriptwriter could invent this. No algorithm could sanitise it. No producer would dare fund it. Until now.”

We don’t want a pity piece.
We don’t need a “brave” slot on your inspiration shelf next to the survival influencers and sponsored spiritual breakdowns.

We’re not here to sell heroism.
We’re here to detonate illusion.

We want fire.
We want grit.
We want to drag the flaming remains of good intentions across the screen and show what happens when a man with no plan, no backup, and barely a valid pilot’s license tries to outrun meaning with altitude.

We want to tell a story so absurdly true, so violently unfiltered, so grotesquely hilarious that even God shrugs and mutters,

“I warned him. He packed an ego and a GoPro. That’s on him.”

This isn't just a show.
It’s a counterstrike against beige content.
Against the padded documentaries, the influencer safaris, the fly‑in fly‑out NGOs who show up with drone cameras, but not a clue.

This is From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey — and it’s the only story bold enough to tell the truth before the algorithm buries it in sunset B-roll and moral ambiguity.

“When your life explodes mid‑flight, all you can do is keep writing between the flames.”

So here’s the offer:
Be the first platform reckless enough to fund this disaster.
Before someone else slaps a filter on it and calls it healing.

🏕️ Campfire Syndicate LLC | Wyoming, Earth (for now)

📡 Contact us—before we disappear into the savannah. Or get extradited. Again.