From Riches to Rags: An African Odyssey, Part XII / Containerised Glory: From Hangar Dreams to Borderline Psychosis—The Idiot Has Landed

“No Marcel, I’ll bring my expertise to the table, and you foot the bill,” Enrico said flatly, his eyes locking onto mine with the detached precision of a surgeon about to amputate your financial future. “After all,” he continued, like someone about to sell you your own kidneys, “you’ll get 50 hours of quality flight training under all sorts of arduous conditions. Most people would sell an organ—or at least a moderately beloved family member—for that.”

I shifted uneasily in my seat like a man realising too late that the toilet paper was decorative. Enrico had a point—unfortunately, he always did. His expertise was real. Even though he had never actually flown a cross-continental route from Germany to Kenya in a glorified tent with wings, Enrico was a savant when it came to everything I instinctively avoided like contagious diseases: flight planning, METARs, NOTAMs, avoiding surface-to-air missile zones, and, of course, that aviation radio—where every transmission I blurted out resembled a rabid goose screaming its pizza order into the void, leaving air traffic control wondering if they’d accidentally tuned into a poultry-themed hostage situation.

Still, my internal calculator immediately did a quick panic sprint through the mounting expenses—border crossings, shady hotels, fuel, bribes, landing fees, smuggling barrels of avgas to remote strips in Sudan and Eritrea—and revealed that this airborne vanity project had already gone full Titanic. The tab would easily soar past $20,000, and that wasn’t even factoring in the golden rule of all my plans: add 25% more cost for unforeseen disaster and double the timeline, or die trying. That kind of money could actually build something in Kenya. A base. A workshop. A life. You know, small things. Like not dying broke and delirious in a makeshift aircraft graveyard.

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered, while mentally checking every fire exit off this financial Hindenburg.

In hindsight, if I’d had that kind of money casually lying around in my sock drawer, I might have taken him up on the offer. Hell, flying across continents with my former instructor sounded like a hell of a story. But the mistake—my mistake—was thinking we’d forged some kind of bond. Not real friendship, sure, but at least the kind of camaraderie forged in the burning wreckage of misadventure. You know, two idiots laughing their way across the Sahara while dodging sandstorms and armed checkpoints.

But no. I was, of course, entirely and catastrophically wrong. So wrong, it echoed.

Schaeferhaus Airport, Flensburg, Germany, November 2011

Kalli had warned me: “Pilots always have an angle.” I, in contrast, had grown up in martial arts. I’d been raised on notions like honour, integrity, fairness—and a deep, cellular-level loathing of injustice. These values weren’t just part of my worldview; they were encoded in my DNA alongside an allergy to spreadsheet math and a flair for poor decisions. That’s why I rejected Enrico’s offer. Not because he was wrong. Not even because it was expensive. But because it wasn’t right. It felt transactional. Dishonest. Like paying someone to come on your honeymoon.

Naturally, I did what any wide-eyed moron halfway through a self-funded breakdown would do: I sprinted directly to the only place that ever made sense—Kalli’s workshop. By now, I’d spent so much time there I had squatters’ rights and the coffee machine addressed me by name. I needed guidance. Or possibly a slap. Or both.

I charged in like a man who had just microwaved his passport, …arms flailing like an airport parking marshal trying to guide a Turkish Airlines 737 crewed by men who believed VOR was a type of yoghurt and had just mistaken the tower for a kebab stand.

“KALLI!” I howled, breathless and borderline feral.

“You will not believe what just happened! I talked to Enrico and he—”

“Let me guess,” Kalli said, without even looking up—his voice the emotional equivalent of an empty beer can rolling across a hangar floor.

“He’s not paying a cent. Just bringing his airborne encyclopaedia and expecting you to cover the rest?”

“YES! Exactly! How the hell did you know? Can you believe this?!”

Kalli slowly turned to me with the same expression you'd give a man who just tried to install a spark plug with a butter knife. There was no surprise on his face. No pity. Just the vague irritation of someone realising they’re going to have to sit through yet another re-run of “Marcel Makes a Life Decision.”

An opening excerpt from this chapter remains available here.
The full manuscript is currently reserved for submission and publication.

Marcel Romdane
Sleeping like a newborn on NyQuil, armed with blind optimism, a camera, and a mental roadmap scribbled in crayon.
Ready to fix Africa before brunch.