In a world saturated with images—where beauty is too often divorced from meaning and atrocity reduced to content—Paradise Inc. by Guillaume Bonn offers something far rarer: a work of moral clarity, radical honesty, and necessary discomfort. At once elegy and indictment, memoir and investigation, it is a searing visual and textual reckoning with colonial legacies, environmental collapse, and the politics of representation.
Its importance lies not only in what it exposes—how modern conservation too often replicates the very systems of exclusion it claims to oppose—but in how Bonn chooses to expose it. With uncommon transparency, he turns the lens not just outward, but inward. As a white African born into a colonial lineage, he neither disavows his heritage nor hides behind abstraction. Instead, he faces his own entanglement with history, power, and privilege—and brings us along for the reckoning.
This dual movement—towards truth about the world, and truth about the self—is what makes Paradise Inc. so urgently needed. In liberating his Malagasy great-grandmother from the silence of family shame, Bonn begins to liberate himself—and, by extension, invites us to confront our own blind spots. It is a deeply encomiable act: to speak not as a detached expert, but as a flawed, feeling witness. In this, he echoes James Baldwin’s call for “the interior life” to be part of political consciousness.
Over the course of two decades—self-funded, emotionally taxing, and intellectually rigorous—Bonn constructs a body of work that challenges the myth of “untouched wilderness,” revealing how today’s conservation systems still operate on colonial scaffolding. Fortress conservation, imposed by European empires and maintained by international NGOs, continues to exclude the very communities who once lived in balance with the land. In Tanzania, Maasai people are being displaced in the name of environmental preservation—a tragic irony Bonn exposes with clarity and care.
In doing so, he aligns with the critiques of David Rieff and Dambisa Moyo, who have long argued that international aid and development often serve the interests of power more than those of justice. As Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o reminds us, colonialism begins with the erasure of memory; Paradise Inc. is an act of its restoration.
Bonn’s photographs resist spectacle. They challenge the visual clichés of the "romantic Africa" still prevalent in Western imagination. Whether showing zebras grazing beneath train bridges or rangers camouflaged like ghosts, his lens refuses comfort and insists instead on ethical confrontation. Photography, in this work, is no longer a passive frame—it becomes an alarm, a mirror, a demand.
What follows is a conversation I had with Guillaume Bonn, where he reflects on the emotional, political, and ethical journey behind Paradise Inc.—a work that doesn’t just document the urgency of ecological and historical truth, but dares to embody it.
AG: You describe yourself as an observer, yet Paradise Inc. is full of urgent, critical, and emotional commentary. How do you reconcile the role of the documentarian with that of the advocate — especially given your complex positionality as a white African with a colonial family history?
GB: The reality of being a documentary photographer, especially from my generation, I think is to begin by observing. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion; in fact, quite the opposite, especially in the case of my book Paradise Inc. But for me, the process of photographing only starts once I’ve fully thought through the subject I want to explore.
Sometimes, that means years pass before I even pick up the camera. My personal projects have always been guided by the intention to serve the subject first. Only then can I begin the process of taking pictures, each image becoming part of my visual research notebook. By the time I start photographing, I’ve lived with the subject so long that I already know what I want to say. That’s when the visual search begins.
As for my background as a “White African,” as you noted, it’s something I’ve grappled with all my life. My family history starts with my great-grandfather, a colonial military officer working for the French colonial administration and his job was to impose the will of one country on another. I was born in Madagascar, like my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. But unlike them, I grew up in five different countries. I arrived in Kenya at the age of 15, and that’s when I began to question why we were considered French, even though I had never lived in France.
This personal history, intertwined with colonialism, has made me deeply conflicted. As an observer of African stories, I often ask myself: What right do I have to comment on the continent’s future, given my family’s past?
Most of my life has been spent roaming the African continent as a documentary photographer. And I’m fully aware that being white has given me access and privileges that were not extended to many of my equally talented non-Caucasian peers. Working for Western media organizations also means my photographs may have unintentionally carried a certain bias.
It’s a constant conundrum for me: Africa is my birthplace, and it has been my home for most of my life, but I know I will always be, in some way, an outsider.
AG: There’s a moment in the book where you speak about the photograph of your grandfather sitting on a crocodile, juxtaposing it with the revelation of your Malagasy great-grandmother. Has this personal discovery reshaped the way you frame Africa — visually or philosophically?
GB: When I reflect on your question, I realize that throughout the years I worked as a photographer for hire, or a “hired gun,” as Helmut Newton used to call freelance photographers, I was often paired with writers flown in from the US or the UK. It was always a shock to me how narrow their views of Africa were. Time and again, I found myself at odds with the intent of the articles we were producing and the narratives they sought to impose.
I took it upon myself to challenge their preconceived ideas of the continent, trying to reason with them, urging a broader and more nuanced understanding. On one occasion, while traveling at night, a remote road in the Central African Republic, a drunk soldier stopped our car. The writer’s lack of understanding, and his careless reaction, nearly got us killed. He was completely unaware of how serious the situation had become. If I hadn’t gotten out and calmly spoken to the soldier to defuse the tension, we might not have made it out alive.. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, on some level, I’ve always felt uneasy with the idea of being paired with reporters who brought an outsider s perspective, especially those with little firsthand knowledge or experience of Africa.
As for my great-grandmother, I discovered only after my father’s passing that my great-grandfather, a French colonial army officer in the late 19th century, had married a Malagasy woman named Razafindrafara. Together, they had two children, including my grandfather, who was born in 1901.
Looking at a photograph of him, sitting on a crocodile he had just shot, wearing a pith helmet, embodying the image of the stereotypical white colonial male in Africa, gives me some sense of the social consequences of a mixed marriage at that time. I can only imagine the judgment, the ostracism, and the shame that must have been imposed upon them by a deeply racialized and divided society.
Learning about her, and liberating her from the silence of a family secret—has also liberated me. I feel deeply grateful to my Malagasy great-grandmother. Because of her, I feel I can inhabit my African heritage a little more fully, a little more freely.
AG: You often point to the hypocrisy of conservation systems that exclude indigenous voices while commodifying “the wild.” What do you believe are the key ideological shifts necessary to move away from colonial-era conservation models still embedded in modern practice?
GB: Your question reminds me of something Susan Sontag wrote: “A photograph that brings news of some unsuspected zone of misery cannot make a dent in public opinion unless there is an appropriate context of feeling and attitude.” I believe the same principle applies to the West’s limited understanding of wildlife conservation issues in Africa.
Too often, African governments remain trapped in the lingering mindset of imperialism, the idea that the West knows best when it comes to managing wildlife. They ve effectively handed over responsibility to international NGOs, who arrive with money and so-called expertise and say, “We’ve got this. Let us handle it for you.”
But why aren’t we listening to the people who actually know better like the Maasai? Where are the lessons, the voices, and the knowledge of the Indigenous guardians of these ecosystems?
Why do we continue to defer to outsiders, people who claim to be experts simply because they come from London, Washington, or elsewhere? One of the first illusions we need to let go of is the belief that money alone can fix these problems. Too often, well-meaning donations end up propping up corrupt systems or funding massive aid bureaucracies, rather than making any meaningful difference on the ground.
In far too many cases, the people controlling the flow of money are thousands of miles away from the reality, whether in London, Washington, or even Nairobi, disconnected from the communities and landscapes they claim to be helping.
AG: In what ways does photography, especially Western-funded documentary photography, risk participating in the same extractive gaze as exploitative tourism or conservation propaganda? How do you attempt to resist this in your work — or make it visible?
GB: Western-funded documentary work is often filled with good intentions. But this genre of wildlife photography and filmmaking, one that has dominated for decades, continues to exclude the complexities of the landscapes it seeks to portray. It edits out the human presence: both those encroaching on these habitats and those striving to protect them. The result is a simplified, romanticized view, allowing distant audiences to believe that such scenes are somehow ‘natural,’ and that fortress conservation is solving problems rather than creating new ones.
I still wonder why this type of ‘wilderness story,’ popularized by the gently authoritative tones of David Attenborough (among others), remains so dominant. I suspect I’m not alone in my frustration with this narrow view, or at least, I hope not. I worry that we are still stuck in paradigms of leftover colonialism and white savior narratives from the last century.
Let’s not forget: it was European colonizers who decimated populations of large mammals as routine, who viewed certain species as ‘monsters,’ and who glorified trophy hunting. It was also Europeans who established the conservation models still in use today, models that continue to shape how funding is allocated, who gets to make decisions, and what kinds of stories are told.
In truth, the most consistent achievement of Western-funded wildlife photography today may be its ability to perpetuate the illusion that conservation is under control, that as long as the money keeps flowing, organizations must be doing their jobs well.
But over my lifetime, I’ve seen vast sums of money spent to “save” Africa’s vanishing landscapes, with painfully disappointing results. Elephants and humans are now in direct conflict over the same dwindling resources. That’s the reality. And that’s what my book, Paradise Inc., seeks to confront: to start a conversation and imagine new, more inclusive approaches to protecting what remains.
AG: Your photographs often act as visual counter-narratives — Zebras grazing under a train bridge, a warthog in a five-star lodge’s trash — that resist the romanticized ‘National Geographic’ view of Africa. How do you approach composing images that subvert spectacle without dehumanizing or moralizing?
GB: I wanted to move away from the romanticized, exotic fantasy version of Africa so often seen through a Western lens. The West still clings to preconceived ideas about the continent limiting it to sweeping landscapes, iconic wildlife, and Maasais jumping in the air. But Kenya, for example, is a highly sophisticated place. Mobile money, now used around the world, was first developed there.
Across the continent, people are constantly navigating the balance between tradition and modernity. In my book, I aim to show that Africa is not a postcard or a cliché. There’s so much more depth, complexity, and innovation than those outdated images suggest.
AG: One of the most haunting aspects of Paradise Inc. is its ability to hold both beauty and horror within the same body of work. It’s a visual testimony that reminds us, perhaps more than anything, that photography is always a point of view — shaped by what is included in the frame and what is left out. As Susan Sontag once wrote, “To photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude.” Do you feel that in revealing these contradictions, you’re getting closer to a kind of truth — not objective, perhaps, but morally urgent?
I must confess, it was a real struggle to figure out how to approach this book visually. I strongly feel that in today’s media landscape, no matter how you try to communicate through imagery, whether through beauty and horror, or the shock of raw graphic reality, neither works, because we’ve been bombarded by so many images that even the beauty of the beautiful and the shock of the shocking doesn’t have the same impact it used to have during the analogue years of photography.
We could debate this endlessly, but I sense that photography today has become more about follower counts, monetization, and feeding the algorithm, selling a product rather than conveying an idea or emotion. The intention behind the image is increasingly lost in a stream of content.
At the same time, traditional media has always had a tendency to sanitize difficult images, to protect viewers from discomfort. Now, new platforms do something similar, but more insidiously, through algorithms and curated feeds. People see only what they want to see, filtered through likes and personalization.
So here I am, trying to make a book about something that feels distant from most people’s everyday reality. And yet, if these landscapes vanish, along with the wildlife that depends on them, what oxygen will we have left to breathe?
As an author, I ask myself: what can I do to break through? Create another wildlife book that simplifies nature by focusing only on its beauty? Or take a different path, one that embraces complexity and contradiction, one that holds both horror and beauty together, just as they coexist in real life?
Because the truth is, time is running out. East Africa’s ancient landscapes and wildlife habitats are disappearing. And we can no longer afford to frame our perceptions, as photographers often do, by selectively choosing which realities to show, and which to leave out, just to preserve comforting illusions.
AG: In the chapter “Warriors,” you photograph rangers in studio-style portraits, against a neutral backdrop. What were you aiming to reveal by stripping away the context of the landscape — was it a way of restoring dignity, or of focusing attention on their invisibilized labor?
GB: We usually only hear about rangers in Africa when headlines report that some have been killed in ambushes while doing their job. Then the news fades away, it becomes background noise that people may barely notice, quickly forgotten. I wanted to humanize these rangers, to make them real, to have them look back at us. That’s why I chose to photograph them frontally, in a studio-style portrait. This approach allowed me to highlight how they dress themselves, whether in camouflage gear or even with tree branches, in their efforts to become invisible for self-preservation. The result ended up looking more like a fashion shoot than I had anticipated, but I felt this could be a compelling way to revive interest in the issue of human-wildlife conflict in Africa, making the topic more accessible and immediate.
AG: Throughout the book, you reflect on how “progress” and “modernity” have been sold as universal goods — often at the cost of traditional knowledge and ecological balance. Do you believe a post-capitalist framework is possible — or even imaginable — in the African conservation space?
GB: The clash between large-scale infrastructure projects and the preservation of Africa’s ancient pasturelands is a dilemma that persists. The idea of “progress” has become synonymous with the 20th century, and with environmental destruction. Yet, I believe there is another path to development, one that benefits all. Too often, we overlook the wisdom embedded in the traditions and cultures that have long maintained harmony between people and the natural world. Now, more than ever, we must awaken our consciousness and cultivate empathy. We need to listen with open hearts, approach with humility, and honor the deep connection between humans and the land.
AG: There’s a sense that Paradise Inc. is both elegy and indictment, but also atlas and hope. What examples — even if small or local — have given you genuine optimism about coexistence between people and wildlife?
GB: Over the past twenty years, in trying to better understand the challenges of conservation, I’ve met dedicated individuals working tirelessly to address the rising tide of human-wildlife conflict. None of them claim to have the answer, but many have found local solutions that are working—small-scale efforts that are bringing real change. Each one represents an essential part of a larger picture, pointing toward new possibilities.
But these scattered successes, as promising as they are, won’t be enough on their own. To create lasting impact, they must be connected, brought together into a unified movement. That won’t happen without strong political commitment and a serious rethink of both our conservation approaches and the economic systems that shape them. Without that shift, even the best efforts risk being lost, and everything will continue unchecked.
AG: You describe standing by as elephants are tranquilized, as rhinos are mutilated to discourage poaching, as wilderness turns to concrete. How do you manage the psychological burden of documenting collapse without becoming desensitized — or complicit in voyeurism?
GB: I don’t see myself as a voyeur when I document the gradual destruction of the place where I was born and raised. Why would I dedicate twenty years of my life to this book if it weren’t out of love for that land? Every part of this project; the research, travel, photography, was self-funded. That’s partly why it took so long to complete, and it’s also why I understand these issues not just intellectually, but emotionally and intimately.
Far from becoming desensitized, I’m profoundly affected by what I witness. At times, the pain is overwhelming, it makes me want to scream. What’s unfolding before us isn’t just environmental loss; it’s the erasure of generations of hard-earned human knowledge and wisdom. I document this not out of detachment, but because I believe we need to look directly at what’s being lost if we have any hope of changing course.
AG: If photography is a form of memory, what do you hope your images will remember — or make us remember — that might otherwise be forgotten in the rush toward progress,
GB: The celebrated Kenyan author Ngũgĩ wa Thiong o, who just passed away said: “I think that the colonial process or any process of domination is the erasure of the memory. You literally erase the memory of who they are, their memories of their past, their memory of their being, as a people. So by erasing that memory, you plant another memory, the memory of the coloniser or the memory of the dominating.” I think that’s exactly what’s happening to Africa’s wilderness and wildlife—it’s being destroyed by a version of progress driven by dominant capitalism and the pursuit of profit. So, to answer your question more directly: I’m not photographing for memory, I’m photographing to sound the alarm—now.
AG: In Paradise Inc., indigenous cultures appear most vividly through their systemic exclusion — from land rights, from conservation planning, from the visual frame itself. Was this absence a deliberate narrative device to expose how structurally embedded that erasure has become?
GB: What’s often overlooked is that the exclusion of Indigenous communities from conservation began the moment colonial powers arrived and claimed Africa as their playground. Before that, people and wildlife lived in a state of balanced coexistence. Ecosystems were maintained naturally, with animal populations in harmony with the land, and human activity integrated rather than imposed.
Then came the wave of colonial hunting-rhinos, elephants, and other animals were shot in staggering numbers. It wasn’t long before the hunters realized they had gone too far. In response, they created national parks, not to restore balance, but to preserve what was left for themselves.
This marked the birth of fortress conservation, a system that declared local people, especially hunter-gatherers who had lived on the land for generations, as threats. They were told that if they entered these newly fenced-off parks, they would be treated as poachers and arrested, or worse, shot on sight. That ‘s when the connection between Africans and their natural heritage was fundamentally altered. Shockingly, this system is still largely in place today.
We may tell ourselves we ve become more humane, but the reality tells a different story.
Elephants today face the same pressures as humans: both are running out of space and resources. Inside fenced parks, elephants consume everything in reach. Outside, people cut down trees for fuel, shelter, and survival—stripping the land bare. From the air, the contrast is stark: lush green within the fences, desolate terrain beyond.
It’s no surprise that people living in harsh, degraded conditions want access to the greener spaces within. But without managing elephant populations and addressing human poverty and land scarcity, even the parks will become wastelands. What we’re seeing isn’t just a conservation crisis, it’s a systemic failure, driven by outdated models and a refusal to see the big picture.
Until we reimagine conservation as inclusive, rooted in justice, and connected to both people and planet, we’re only postponing collapse.
AG: One of the most forceful critiques in your book is of the myth of the “untouched wilderness,” which depends on the removal of people to preserve the illusion of nature. What do you think a truly decolonized model of conservation might look like — and whose voices would need to lead it?
GB: In Tanzania today, the government is forcing the Maasai people out of the Serengeti ecosystem, where they have lived for generations. Officials argue that their removal is necessary to preserve the park for conservation, claiming that if they stay, they will destroy it. But this reasoning is flawed, if the Serengeti’s ecosystem still thrives today, it’s partly because the Maasai have coexisted with its wildlife for centuries, integrating it into their traditional way of life. We are displacing the very people who have helped maintain these landscapes. It’s baffling that African governments continue to follow outdated conservation models imposed when national parks were first established by colonial rulers.
The Maasais, unlike many other tribes who have lost their ancestral tribal traditions entirely replaced by western way of lives, are an example of adaptation. They have maintained a deep connection with nature, serving as custodians of the land they’ve used for cattle.Their enduring traditions have played a crucial role in preserving certain enclaves as pristine wilderness. One of these places, Kenya’s Loita Forest, overlooks the Masai Mara, and under the guidance of Oloiboni Mo-kompo ole Simel, the spiritual leader of more than a million Maasai who live in Kenya and Tanzania, has managed, at least for now, to keep eager developers and shady government officials at bay.
AG: Reading Paradise Inc., I was reminded of David Rieff’s critique of humanitarian aid — the idea that well-meaning interventions can become tools of self-deception, or worse, instruments of corruption. Your book confronts similar realities in the realm of conservation and development. How do you personally navigate the line between cynicism and hope in this landscape?
GB: Since 1960, when African countries began to gain independence from European empires, the continent has received billions of dollars in aid. The Zambian author Dambisa Moyo in her book ‘Dead Aid’ estimates that number at 1 trillion.
It is rather disturbing to me to witness these funds being continually directed to inefficient schemes. Too often the money seems only to sustain a conservation ‘industry’ and perpetuate influence peddling.
Richer governments have used the financial incentives of aid programs as levers of international diplomacy. African governments have become dependent on international aid packages, and in the process, have abdicated their responsibilities to foreign ‘experts’ and leaving it to NGOs to run projects, further disconnecting conservation from government policy and government responsibility.
There is the classic example, unfortunately often repeated, of a water well being drilled in a dry region to make clean water more accessible to local people, that ends up seeding disputes over which groups control, rights and access to the water. Another one is why does Africa need Ukrainian cereals to feed itself? Why is it not self-sufficient?
For years, international organizations have claimed to be working towards this objective. I think we have to acknowledge that it will take years, possibly decades, to decouple the aid culture from political agendas. But more immediate remedies for conservation can and should be implemented. First, we need the transparency and accountability brought by financial audits. Greater transparency will increase the impact money can have.
It is important to widen the discourse and create more awareness. To understand that the failure of creating better aid is a political failure, not an economic one and the only way to make things change, is to ask difficult questions so that governments understand they have to respond to public pressure. It is time to push back against the systems that have not served us, our environment, or our wildlife. It is no longer enough for international aid to be generous; it has to understand the root causes, it must become intelligent.
AG: Given the structural failures and hypocrisies you expose — from elite capture to exclusion of local voices — what do you believe we should be doing? Are there specific models, gestures, or frameworks that offer genuine alternatives to the broken mechanisms you document?
GB: We must move beyond the romantic myths of Africa and the old ways of doing conservation. The reality is stark and wildlife no longer moves freely across open landscapes, and financial aid alone has not reversed the decline. True progress demands that we face the changes on the ground, bring local communities into the heart of decision-making, and rethink our relationship with the natural world. Conservation must adapt to survive, because without inclusivity and a clear-eyed approach, even the most well-meaning efforts will fail.
