How One Camera, One Ghetto, and a Herd of Ungrateful Elephants Bankrupted My Wallet, My Sanity, and Any Hope of a Quiet Life. Let me take you on a rollercoaster ride so violently absurd that even the most masochistic thrill-seeker would rather take a cheese grater to their own kneecaps than buckle in. We love stories of meteoric ascension, don’t we? The kind where some dirt-poor underdog claws their way to fortune, clutching designer sneakers, overpriced watches, and a crippling cocaine habit along the way. We worship the Silicon Valley demigods, the rags-to-riches pop stars, the socialites who manage to monetise their own existence with the sheer force of vapid entitlement.
But what about the ones who take the scenic route straight to hell? The poor bastards who, through a series of spectacularly bad decisions, manage to torpedo their own financial empires in the name of something as recklessly naïve as "trying to make the world a better place"? Surely, the universe rewards such noble aspirations with open arms, golden opportunities, and perhaps a well-deserved standing ovation—right?
It doesn’t.
Providence, as it turns out, is about as merciful as a loan shark with a toothache and a gambling problem. Instead of handing out opportunities, it hurled flaming anvils at me with the manic enthusiasm of a coked-up rodeo clown. And, like the idiot I was, I just kept dodging, stumbling, and collecting concussions—fully convinced that at some point, fate would run out of ammo.
So, if given the chance to do it all over again, would I?
Well, let’s put it this way: if the alternative was being stranded on a mosquito-infested sandbar the size of a yoga mat, surviving solely on gas station sushi, while being force-fed a never-ending podcast about 'the power of positive thinking'—I might just take my chances with the island.
Did I learn anything? Oh, undoubtedly.
Was it worth it? Depends. Are you asking my bank account, my dignity, or my life expectancy?
Would I sign up for this twisted little odyssey a second time? Not even if the universe threw in an all-you-can-eat buffet of consequence-free revenge, whiskey aged in barrels of pure schadenfreude, and a personal assistant who could erase my mistakes before I even made them.
Ignorance, as it turns out, is not just bliss—it’s survival.
How It All Began…
This particularly ill-advised escapade—a grand exploit spanning nearly six years—began innocently enough, as most imminent train wrecks do.
It all started with a Kenyan safari, the kind beloved by overpaid executives who wanted to slap a little bit of “authentic nature” onto their otherwise sterile, air-conditioned existences. The kind of “adventure” where ‘roughing it’ meant enduring the psychological torment of a slightly wilted mint garnish on their sundowner cocktails. Where the most ‘wild’ thing in camp wasn’t the wildlife, but the feral panic that set in when the Wi-Fi flickered.
An opening excerpt from this chapter remains available here.
The full manuscript is currently reserved for submission and publication.
Marcel Romdane:
Casually Handing in My Resignation from Wealth, No Backup Plan in Sight.
Before the crash came the click.
Here I am — Marcel Romdane, narrator of absurd disasters — balancing a telephoto bazooka worth more than a rural clinic, trying to “capture suffering” like it was a safari souvenir.
From Riches to Rags, Part 1: The Philanthropy Trap.
Powered by delusion, blind optimism, and a camera so pretentious it should’ve come with its own moral compass — and so monstrously oversized it generated its own gravitational field.
Image on the left:
Shlomi: Exhibit A in “How Did We Get Here?”
He once photographed flower girls and champagne breakdowns. Now he poses like a misplaced motocross warlord in the Kenyan highlands, flipping off Canon's entire marketing department.
No one knows how a wedding photographer made it this deep into the bush without a bridal party or soft-focus lens flare, but here he was: sweating, mud-caked, and halfway to becoming my best friend slash reluctant enabler.
From Riches to Rags, Part I – The Philanthropy Trap.
Featuring Shlomi, survivor of matrimonial photography trauma, and a KTM so dirty it should probably confess something.
Image below:
Welcome to the real Africa — no filter, no orchestral swell.
This is where my neatly packaged documentary dream unraveled into a conveyor belt of human suffering. The Frances Jones Community Centre, Kenya: a doorway not into heroism, but into the brutal lesson that poverty isn’t a prop for your camera or your conscience.
From Riches to Rags, Part I – The Philanthropy Trap.
A warning flare to every would-be saviour with a DSLR and a guilt complex: what waits beyond this door doesn’t need you — and it certainly won’t make you look noble.
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