With his latest book
Paradise, Inc., celebrated documentary photographer
Guillaume Bonn takes us deep into the heart of East Africa, where the promises and failures of wildlife conservation collide. Far from offering a romanticized vision of nature, Bonn’s work confronts us with urgent realities: the tensions between local communities and conservation policies, the sacrifices of rangers on the frontlines, and the long-lasting impact of human activity on fragile ecosystems.
Spanning more than two decades of fieldwork, the project blends powerful imagery with investigative depth, raising difficult but necessary questions about transparency, accountability, and the Western-led models that dominate conservation. Enriched by the voices of those too often left out of the conversation—including a preface by Maasai leader Ezekiel Ole Katato and an introduction by journalist Jon Lee Anderson—
Paradise, Inc. is both a stunning visual journey and a call to action.
In the following interview, Guillaume Bonn reflects on the making of Paradise, Inc., the ethical dilemmas at the heart of his work, and the urgent need to rethink our approach to conservation in East Africa and beyond.
All About Photo: Tell us about your first introduction to photography. What drew you into this world?
You were born in Madagascar and raised in Kenya—how have these roots influenced your perspective as a documentary photographer?
Guillaume Bonn: I came from a generation that learned about the world from photography. In my case, the most important influences I had growing up were the amazing pictorial books and magazines collected by my father.
They relayed vivid adventures and tales from the furthest reaches of the globe. The photographs were taken by explorers, anthropologists, adventurers and intrepid photographers, and they captured my imagination.
Like my father and grandfather before me, I was born in Africa, and all the books I read about that continent had a special resonance. They triggered my curiosity and my desire to start taking pictures myself.
In time, I became a documentary magazine & newspaper photographer. I lived in Nairobi and travelled to every corner of the continent, witnessing and recording the region’s changes as they took place. Along the way, my own particular sense of Africa emerged, a mix of the familiar — it’s fading European colonial heritage, architecture, and enduring lifestyles — together with what I found unfolding in front of me: the continent’s devastating wars, its political dysfunction and the epic destruction of its natural environment.
I wanted to capture all of it, and I did just that for twenty-five years.
The Masai Mara Reserve, in southwestern Kenya, which alone is home to 25% of the country’s wildlife, faces alarming over-tourism, posing a significant threat to the fragile balance of its ecosystem.
Paradise, Inc. spans over two decades of work. When did the idea for this project first take shape, and what kept you committed for so long?
My first introduction to the world of conservation happened in 1989, when the Kenyan government made a bold and historic decision: to burn its stockpile of ivory. It was the first time any government had done something like this. I was in my final year of school, and the event was led by Richard Leakey, the well-known paleoanthropologist who was then head of the Kenya Wildlife Service, the agency responsible for managing wildlife in the country. He had convinced the president at the time to go ahead with the ivory burn.
I skipped a Spanish class that day, pretending to be sick, so I could attend the event at Nairobi National Park. That day, I met the American artist and photographer
Peter Beard, who wrote the iconic book
'The End of the Game'. Over the years, I spent a lot of time with him at his camp, Hog Ranch, just outside Nairobi. I listened to his stories about how he had documented wildlife and landscapes in the 1950s and 60s. He had witnessed—and predicted—the dramatic decline of the elephant population in East Africa. He saw the collapse of ancient migration routes and natural habitats that had allowed elephants and other wildlife to coexist with humans for thousands of years.
Listening to Beard changed how I saw the world around me. I started to notice the destruction of wild landscapes, especially as rapid development swept through the region, leaving damage behind. Over time, I also became aware of how most Western-funded documentaries and wildlife books, despite their good intentions, often left out important parts of the story. They usually ignored the complex realities of the land, especially the presence of people—both those contributing to habitat loss and those working hard to protect it. Unlike Beard’s honest approach, many of these works offered a simplified, romantic view of nature, making it seem untouched or natural to distant audiences.
That’s when I realized a new book was needed, one that would offer a fresh and more realistic perspective on wildlife conservation in Africa.
A young eland near the ololoo gate, the entrance of the western part of the Masai Mara game reserve, known as the Mara Triangle.
A study by the World Wildlife Fund for Nature (WWF) between 1989 and 2003 found that losses were as high as 95 percent for giraffes, 80 percent for warthogs, 76 percent for hartebeest, and 67 percent for impala. The study blames the loss of animals on increased human settlement in and around the reserve. The study provides the most detailed evidence to date on the declines in the ungulate (hoofed animals) populations in the Mara and how this phenomenon is linked to the rapid expansion of human populations near the boundaries of the reserve.
In this book I am trying to show that good intentions are not good enough; that the limited and piecemeal efforts I have seen, have only a limited and piecemeal effect. One of the first things to let go of is the idea that money alone is a solution. Often donating money to what seems like a worthy cause ends up paying corrupt officials or underwriting large corporate charitable infrastructures, rather than helping. In too many cases the people who control the funds live in London, Washington or Nairobi, removed from any of the realities on the ground. It is important to widen the discourse and create more awareness.
Of course, the wider public often doesn’t fully understand these extremely complex issues. I see this book as a guide to help better understand poaching, the decline in wildlife, and the various methods of conservation.
My hope is that this book will inspire more people to ask difficult questions and challenge the systems that have failed us—systems that continue to neglect both our environment and our wildlife. The failure to improve international aid is not rooted in a lack of resources, but in political choices. Real change will only come when enough voices demand accountability and pressure governments to act.
A young eland near the ololoo gate, the entrance of the western part of the Masai Mara game reserve, known as the Mara Triangle.
A study by the World Wildlife Fund for Nature (Turkana is an arid, economically disadvantaged, and isolated region that has long been neglected by successive administrations. It is a place where pastoralist communities continue to adhere to traditional ways of life, as shown in this photograph. However, recent oil discoveries in the area have sparked a wave of development, illustrated by the installation of this new gas station in the next picture—an eminent symbol of progress.
A rhino is being translocated to a new area to avoid deadly territorial fights as its habitat shrinks. Once, these animals roamed freely across vast, unfenced lands. Today, they are darted to sleep and transported by truck. During this process, their horns are removed to deter poachers—a short-term solution that works sometimes as we now understand that this isn't a sustainable solution, as rhinos were still killed, and whatever remained of the horn was still extracted by poachers after killing the rhino. Without real political action to address poaching and habitat loss, these temporary fixes won't ensure long-term survival for rhinos or other wildlife.
In the book, you mention that conservation can sometimes do more harm than good. Can you elaborate on this contradiction?
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. The pouring of billions of dollars into the budgets of developing countries has tended to result in increasing poverty and inequality, while propping up incompetent, corrupt ‘friendly’ dictatorial regimes.
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.
An unmonitored settlement located just outside one of the main entrances to the Masai Mara National Reserve. The majority of wildlife species—83.7%, according to the WWF's 2021 annual report—live in the Masai Mara ecosystem outside the reserve, with only 16.2% found in the protected areas of the reserve.
Illegally dumped garbage, one hour's drive from the town of Lodwar, in the Turkana region of Kenya, Developing countries have long demanded compensation to offset the impact of climate change, yet they often fail to address the degradation of their own habitats, ecosystems, and wildlife, or to reduce pollution in their environment.
Having Ezekiel Ole Katato, the founder and Executive Director of
Across Maasai Land Initiative (AMLI), who advocates for peaceful coexistence between humans and wildlife, was a key element in bringing an authentic voice from within. His sharing of daily life among wildlife and the impact this has on his community in the 21st century was essential in creating a genuine, insider perspective.
African governments frequently find themselves stuck in an old colonial mindset, believing that Western approaches are superior for wildlife management. As a result, they often delegate responsibility to international NGOs, which come in with funding and claimed expertise, saying, We’ll take care of it for you.
What everyone fails to see, even the conservation organization that have been working on these issues for decades, is that the exclusion of Indigenous communities from conservation efforts started when colonial powers arrived in Africa. Before colonization, people and wildlife coexisted in balance. Ecosystems were maintained naturally, and human presence was part of the environment—not separate from it.
With colonization came large-scale hunting. Rhinos, elephants, and other animals were killed in massive numbers. When it became clear that wildlife populations were collapsing, colonial powers created national parks, not to repair the damage, but to keep what was left for themselves.
This was the beginning of “fortress conservation,” a system that treated local people—especially those who had lived on the land for generations—as threats. These communities were pushed out and punished for entering areas they had once called home. This severed their connection to nature. Shockingly, this approach is still used today.
Today, elephants and people face the same challenges: lack of space and resources. Inside fenced parks, elephants overgraze. Outside, people clear land for fuel and survival. From above, the contrast is clear, green inside the parks, bare and dry outside.
It’s understandable that people living in poor conditions want access to greener areas. But without managing wildlife numbers and addressing poverty and land shortages, even these parks won’t last. This is not just a conservation issue, it’s a sign of deeper, system-wide failure.
If conservation is to succeed, it needs to be inclusive, fair, and tied to both people and the environment. Otherwise, we’re just delaying the inevitable.
You chose to photograph the rangers against a white backdrop—can you explain the thinking behind that decision?
We generally only hear about African rangers when tragic news breaks of them being killed in ambushes while on duty. After those headlines pass, the stories fade into the background, quickly forgotten by many. My goal was to bring these rangers to life as individuals, to make them face us directly and be seen as real people. To do this, I photographed them head-on, using a studio-style portrait setup.
How did you balance aesthetics with ethics while documenting such sensitive and complex topics?
Creating this book was far from easy, especially when it came to deciding how to approach it visually. In today’s saturated media world, images—whether stunningly beautiful or painfully raw—no longer resonate the way they once did. We’ve grown numb. The digital age has flooded us with visuals, stripping even the most powerful photographs of their impact. What once stirred emotion now often fades into the scroll.
Photography today feels increasingly disconnected from purpose. It has become a tool for visibility, algorithms, and monetization—a way to build audiences or sell ideas, rather than provoke thought or emotion.
And while traditional media once filtered out difficult content in the name of viewer comfort, today’s platforms do something similar, but more insidiously. Algorithms shape what we see, reinforcing our preferences and shielding us from discomfort. We are constantly shown what we already like, rarely what we need to confront.
This left me with a question: how do I make a book about something most people rarely see or think about—landscapes and ecosystems that, if lost, take with them the wildlife they support and even the air we breathe?
Do I produce another wildlife book that focuses only on nature’s beauty, offering a simplified and sanitized view of the wild? Or do I take a more honest path, one that doesn’t flinch from contradiction, that holds both the beauty and the brutality of reality side by side like in real life?
Because the truth is urgent: East Africa’s ancient landscapes and wildlife habitats are vanishing. And we can no longer afford to keep framing reality in selective ways. Photographers, like all storytellers, have a responsibility, not just to inspire, but to disrupt, to challenge, and to tell the whole story, even when it’s uncomfortable.
A chef employed by a neighboring lodge is preparing breakfast for clients who are soon to return from their early morning hot air balloon ride. The Masai Mara's ecosystem is facing an imminent collapse under the weight of heavy investments by hoteliers and camp operators. In addition, the reserve, home to 25 percent of wildlife in Kenya also faces challenges of large visitor numbers that threatens the quality of the ecosystem.
Population encroachment and poverty around the reserve is also creating pressure on the game reserve and its wildlife where both men and animals are competing for the same space and resources.
A warthog rummages through the trash of a prestigious five-star eco-lodge located on the outskirts of the Masai Mara wildlife reserve.
The reserve's ecosystem is under severe strain due to substantial, often illegal, investments by hotel owners and accommodation operators. Unfortunately, these activities continue unchecked due to widespread corruption.
With so much at stake, how do you personally stay hopeful or energized in the face of ongoing
environmental destruction?
Photography has evolved significantly since I began working as a documentary photographer in the 1990s. Today, the
potential impact of documentary photography may be greater than ever, but it faces a serious challenge: a widespread lack of
trust in journalism itself.
Journalism, once a trusted pillar of democracy, no longer holds the same authority, largely because many people can no
longer distinguish between opinion, propaganda, and investigative reporting, the kind that involves being on the ground,
witnessing events firsthand, and gathering facts.
The industry is in urgent need of a reset — a complete rethinking of its purpose and funding structures. We need to find
ways to invest once again in meaningful journalism by empowering writers and photographers to return to the field, to
observe, document, and report with integrity.
What I photograph is what I have seen. That simple truth, rooted in direct experience, is what journalism must reclaim if it is
to rebuild trust and relevance.
A quarry where stones and other materials are extracted for the construction of new accommodation facilities, located just beyond the boundaries of the Masai Mara Reserve. This area, situated outside the reserve's unfenced borders, is normally a space where wildlife finds new grazing grounds and has access to its various hunting territories.
The reserve is no longer large enough to accommodate all the wildlife populations, leading to frequent conflicts between humans and animals.
It is becoming increasingly difficult to find places in East Africa where the safari experience does not feel like a visit to an open-air zoo. Yet, these animals still roam freely in their natural habitats—for now. But for how long? Population growth and widespread poverty around national parks have significantly contributed to the shrinking of wild spaces.
Moreover, the growing demand for tourism, coupled with local corruption, has led to the construction of an excessive number of hotels, surpassing the already limited capacity and intensifying the pressure on wildlife.
Every year, over a million wildebeest cross from Tanzania’s Serengeti into Kenya’s Maasai Mara — one of the last true spectacles of the wild. But behind the wonder, the reserve is collapsing. Over-tourism, unchecked development, and massive hotel investments are choking the ecosystem. The Mara, which holds 25% of Kenya’s wildlife, is being sacrificed to short-term profit. And still, no safeguards are enforced — because corruption and lack of political will continue to silence accountability. Without urgent reform, we are witnessing the slow death of a natural miracle.
