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Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. < Back A Horim The Travel Almanac 14 Dec 2023 Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. Made from a dried-out elongated gourd, this penis protector is much more than a simple sheath. Whether a long cylindrical peaking pipe or spectacularly curved seahorse shape, this uniquely Papuan add-on is a sign of prestige, respect, and seniority within the tribe. In fact, the Dani’s male members (pun intended) have two horim – one for show and one for work . Their traditional existence on the land means that their more elaborate, longer phallocrypt s get in the way when working closely with others. No one likes to cross horim . It is no surprise that such an accessory exists in this patriarchal, polygamous society. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Smooth and mid-brown in tone, horim are carved out and gifted from father to son, a sign of respect for a growing boy. Many are customised as the years pass by; the more ornate ones carry small cowrie shells and decorative feathers. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Fastening a horim is not for the uninitiated: a short loop at the base sits very tightly around the scrotum, while the tip is held in place with a loop halfway up the chest. Carefully wiggled into place with a little adjustment here and a slight tuck there, the men are then off walking. The days of the horim appear to be numbered, though. Generational change is succeeding where the Indonesian Government’s Operasi Koteka (Operation Penis Gourd) failed , replacing traditional attire with W estern clothes. For the younger men, it’s cargos over calabash, garments over gourds. The exception is festivities where pride is as evident as the tribe they belong to. Original Publication: The Travel Almanac < Previous Next >

< Back Judging for Crete 15 Apr 2019 Guy Needham has been selected as one of the international jury for the upcoming Chania International Photo Festival. As part of the judging committee he will help select the award winners and highly commended images in the festival that runs in Crete from August 16th until August 24th this year. < Previous Next >

Vasillia gently touched my arm and leant in. “You are an Orthodox at heart,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, yes, I can see it inside you!” For the first time in my life I had to disappoint a nun. < Back Disappointing a Nun New Zealand Herald 21 Aug 2019 Vasillia gently touched my arm and leant in. “You are an Orthodox at heart,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, yes, I can see it inside you!” For the first time in my life I had to disappoint a nun. Upon learning of my Protestant upbringing Vasillia feigned disappointment. “Ahh, we all have our crosses to bear!” she laughed, her round face beaming out of her habit. We were standing in the nave of the Monastery of Agios Stefanos, gazing up at a fresco of the Second Coming of Christ. Vasillia was handing out candles. “I have been living here now for 15 years - there are 32 of us. Meteora is my home,” she said proudly. Meteora, a collection of ancient monasteries perched atop towering pinnacles of rock, is one of the holiest sites in Greece. Derived from the Greek meaning “suspended in the air” it literally lives up to its name. We were half a kilometre up in the sky. The history of Meteora dates back thousands of years, with Homer’s Iliad talking of six men from the area who fought alongside Achilles. More ‘recently’ in the 11th century, it became a refuge for monks fleeing inland from pirates. The monks’ need for sanctuary combined with their quest for austerity made Meteora the perfect place to escape to. Setting up solitary cells in the caves dotted across the cliff faces, they established the first hermitages still visible today. There is even a ‘monk jail’ where those who had sinned would be banished to. “Ahh, we all have our crosses to bear!” she laughed, her round face beaming out of her habit. By the 14th century, monks who had formed a community attempted to climb higher, using stakes and ropes to work their way up the rock pillars. When they finally made their way to the top they built their most important structure first – a pulley. It took hundreds of years to lift up provisions and materials to create what is now an UNESCO World Heritage-listed site. Until the 1920s the only way to reach the peaks was by a network of rope ladders, hauled baskets and nets. Local legend has it that a curious visitor asked a monk how often the ropes got replaced. His reply? “When the Lord lets them break.” Once home to 24 monasteries, there are now only six remaining including two run by nuns like Vasillia, who was now walking me to the edge of a precarious garden. “See there?” she nodded towards the town of Kalambaka far below. “The whole town and this monastery were destroyed by the Nazis. Greece was the first to resist. We had to rebuild our spiritual home.” It was a sobering thought. Even from above the sheer rock formations were impressive as the winter mist rolled in. Unsurprisingly a favourite for climbers, it was easy to see how the other-worldly landscape was chosen to feature on Game of Throne s. Each pillar topped with a monastery looked like a giant finger pointing to Heaven. We stepped back towards the katholikon , Agios Stefanos’ main church around which the convent is based. Inside, the alter faced east to meet the rising sun. Vasillia restocked the candles. “We do what those before us have done. We get up early. We prey. We eat. We do our duties.” The life of a nun has not changed much, Vasilla added with a smile in her voice. As I was leaving she reached out. Still not discouraged by my lack of piety, she placed a small green crucifix in my palm. “You never know when your calling will be.” And for the first time in my life, a nun winked at me. Details Getting there: Fly to Athens via London on Air New Zealand / Aegean, train to Kalambaka Tours: www.visitmeteora.com Activities: Pilgrimage, visiting monasteries, hiking, rock climbing Visa: No visa is required for New Zealand nationals for stays up to 90 days Travel tip: Splash out the extra euros on a first class return train ticke Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Seriously man, what are you wearing?” My friend Fernando was jacket shaming me in the Valencia arrivals hall, not-so-subtly pointing out how hot it was. “What is wrong with you?!” With mock indignation I removed my jacket – and then proceeded to sweat profusely anyway. < Back Viva Valencia Sunday Star-Times 29 Nov 2025 “Seriously man, what are you wearing?” My friend Fernando was jacket shaming me in the Valencia arrivals hall, not-so-subtly pointing out how hot it was. “What is wrong with you?!” With mock indignation I removed my jacket – and then proceeded to sweat profusely anyway. It’s been nearly 20 years since 25,000 New Zealanders came through the same arrivals hall, enduring the Valencian humidity during the 2007 Americas Cup. After the cup moved on most Kiwis didn’t hear much about Valencia – that is, until last October’s devastating flood. In a city that has over 300 days of sunshine a year the speed of the rising floodwaters came as a shock, leaving over 230 dead and billions of euros worth of damage. It wasn’t the first time either: in 1957 the Turia River flooded so badly that the Franco government permanently rerouted the river three kilometres away from its original course. The Turia’s old riverbed was the starting point for my exploration. Now a sunken verdant park in the centre of the city, the 9km long Jardín del Turia is full of trees, running tracks, fountains, a football pitch and – most impressively – an oversized climbing structure that when viewed from above is a giant Gulliver pinned to the ground, sword and hat beside him, with Lilliputians (actually, humans) climbing all over him. Jardín del Turia is not only a living breathing artery, it’s also a direct path to Valencia’s top attraction: Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències (City of Arts and Sciences). Designed by Valencian architect Santiago Calatrava the stunning futuristic complex is considered one of the 12 Treasures of Spain, up there with La Sagrada Família and the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. Fernando looked at me looking in awe as we walked through the whale-like spine of the interactive Museu de les Ciències, while behind us stood L'Oceanogràfic, the largest aquarium in Europe. The star of the complex is without a doubt the spectacular L'Hemisfèric – a building ‘made whole’ as a huge human eye when reflected in its surrounding pond. I half expected to see Westworld’s Charlotte Hale step out of the Delos headquarters (IYKYK). My modernist bucket filled, we made our way back to the Juliet balconies and ornate doors of the old town, Ciutat Vella. In medieval times it was surrounded by the Muralla Cristiana (the Christian Wall) and only two of the original 14th century gates still stand, one being Torres de Serranos. Initially built to defend Valencia from siege, over the years it has been a prison for knights and nobles, hosted official ceremonies for Kings, and even protected artworks during the Spanish Civil War. I paid the princely sum of €2 and climbed to the parapets for a panoramic view of the Valencia’s Gothic, Romanesque and Neoclassical architecture. The old town’s one-way streets below were extremely walkable if somewhat deceptive. “If it’s big enough for a car, expect a car,” advised my friend Sarah, as we shared what looked like wide footpaths with e-scooters, Segways, and electric Peugeots. “Look, see that?” she said, pointing to a manhole cover. “There, above the crown…”. The shape of a bat, wings spread, sat atop Valencia’s coat of arms, stamped into the cast iron cover. Legend has it that in 1238 a noisy bat awoke King Juame 1, warning him of a surprise enemy attack and giving him time to defeat the Moorish invaders. Despite the interesting history lesson it was the odour emanating from below that caught my attention. My hosts, both in olfactory denial, had obviously got used to Valencia’s sewerage smell long ago, but ‘Spain drain’ is real and the city’s antiquated pipes are particularly pungent during humid weather. Not that it was putting off any tourists; the clacking of suitcases across cobblestones only stopped when visitors paused to admire the street art in front of them. An urban canvas of walls, shutters and roller doors, Valencia’s El Carmen neighbourhood is an eclectic mix of graffiti by taggers such as Deih, Hyuro and Xelon. David de Limón’s masked ninja peaks out from behind lamp posts, while Disneylexya’s large scale Latin-American illustrations cover entire walls. Urban art is such an integral part of the city that the contemporary gallery Centre del Carme is holding an exhibition on its origins. Art has long been part of Valencia and nowhere more so than Iglesia de San Nicolás de Bari y San Pedro Mártir de Valencia, or San Nicolás for short. Having pre-purchased tickets to this 750-year-old church we didn’t have to wait long before picking up our audio guides. And then we looked up. Nicknamed the ‘Sistine Chapel of Valencia’, San Nicolás’ ribbed-vault ceiling is simply magnificent. Painted in Baroque frescoes that stretch all the way from the altar to the baptismal font, depictions of archangels, saints, apostles, and cherubs look down upon the headphone-wearing visitors below. Like many a historic site San Nicolás is using 21 st technology to introduce a new generation to its attractions. We stayed for La Luz de San Nicolás, an immersive video show that transforms the Gothic architecture with beams of light, projects heavenly flowers across the frescoes, and fills the nave with divine ethereal music. Impressive as it was, Fernando wasn’t sure that the already beautiful church needed it. Three short blocks away was a more traditional slice of Valencia, the Mercat Central. Like Barcelona, Valencia has its own language – Valencian – and here a market is not a ‘mercado’ but a ‘mercat’ and there is none bigger than the Mercat Central. Pescaderos (fish mongers), fruiters (green grocers), and pastissers (sweet sellers) all have their sections but it is the charcutiers who are the busiest. Under hanging legs of jamón ibérico, Jose Vicente was handing over prime cuts accompanied by local cheeses, catering to customers ducking in during the siesta. Ahhh the siesta. Valencia still honours the afternoon rest period although not for sleeping these days, with the majority of small-to-mid-size shops closing between 2-5pm then reopening until 8pm. Even the shops that don’t have split shifts remain open late, before the al fresco restaurants start filling up quickly for dinner. As you’d expect for the birthplace of paella, food holds a special place here – Valencians eat five times a day – so it was only right that we went to one of Fernando’s favourite eateries, Kiosko La Pérgola. Perched up on barstools we ordered two large bocadillos, half and half sandwiches of beef tenderloin, ham, cheese, tomato, bacon and salsa verde, which were promptly cut in half again giving us eight minis. Eating over the hum of the kitchen, we watched servers enthusiastically leaning out to talk to locals and visitors alike. Unlike other Spanish destinations, visitors are welcome here (side eye emoji to Barcelona), and although Valencia is the country’s third biggest city at no stage did it feel overcrowded with tourists. Even the Line 3 metro back to the Aeroporto was busy but not packed with travellers. In the departures hall I hugged my tour guide farewell, thanking him for showing me the best of Valencia. It was time to put on my jacket again. Original publication: The Post < Previous Next >

< Back Resting at London Photo Festival 15 May 2018 The feature image of the Shades of Otara series is on show this week at the 2018 London Photo Festival. Part of an international group exhibition on Street Photography, it is on show at St George the Martyr Church until 19 May. The image balances a young man's physical exhaustion with a girl looking on, licking an ice-cream as if it was her reward for his hard work. < Previous Next >

A pencil case, keeper of memories and three-way pens, lives in that no-mans-land of utilitarian nostalga and scholastic glory. In Lisbon, a city known for its leatherwork, a pencil case is much more than a convenient carrier; it’s a culmination of artisanal training, pre-cut patterns and naked flame. < Back The making of a pencil case Substack 10 Oct 2025 A pencil case, keeper of memories and three-way pens, lives in that no-mans-land of utilitarian nostalga and scholastic glory. In Lisbon, a city known for its leatherwork, a pencil case is much more than a convenient carrier; it’s a culmination of artisanal training, pre-cut patterns and naked flame. Half-way up the cobblestoned Rua Arco de Graca, behind the fresh façade of Di Zocco sits Leonardo di Croce, bent over his vintage Pfaff sewing machine, heel-toe technique on full display as the needle pumps furiously. An Argentine native who began leathercrafting with his brother in Buenos Aires, di Croce loosely follows in the footsteps of his cobbler grandfather and leathersmith uncle. Now plying his trade in Portugal, his unfussy shop-cum-studio welcomes visitors with purposely placed samples lining wooden shelves. Out the back, an old fan unevenly oscillates, wafting the soft, homely aroma emanating from a mélange of offcuts. Choosing a piece of leather, di Croce tugs at it tenderly to check for blemishes. Taking a blade to the Portuguese cow hide he traces around a well-worn pattern, carefully pushing against the metal workbench. The outline for the pencil case is deceptively simple – two shapes – versus the more complex ‘Jimmy’ messenger or ‘Sam’ backpack (each bag is named after its first customer). He precisely threads the leather through a thinning skiver, pushing out a smooth bevelled edge on the other side. Transferring glue from large jar to small, he fastidously wipes his hands on his denim apron, before patting down the adhesive using a fine brush. There are no plastic caps or excessive cloth inserts here; Di Croce follows a maxim passed on by another old hand, ‘If it is leather, show the leather.’ Concentration on his face, tongue between his lips, he expertly guides the Gutermann polyester thread along the zip line. Cigarette lighter and micro scissors in hand, di Croce snips and sears off the final loose threads before turning it all inside out. A smooth, rich dark brown, hand-crafted pencil case is revealed, ready to sit on the shelf and be named after the next customer. < Previous Next >

On the East Coast of New Zealand lies the township of Tikitiki. Rural and isolated, it is a poster-child for parts of the country that have been left behind. In 2014 Guy Needham returned to where he grew up. The sight of decrepit buildings and desolate spaces motivated him to embark on an ongoing project. Originally a cathartic ode to his childhood called "The Paper Came the Next Day", his deep connection with the town is evident; the images reflecting both physical and emotional isolation. PHOTOJOURNALISM Documentary Tikitiki, New Zealand On the East Coast of New Zealand lies the township of Tikitiki. Rural and isolated, it is a poster-child for parts of the country that have been left behind. In 2014 Guy Needham returned to where he grew up. The sight of decrepit buildings and desolate spaces motivated him to embark on an ongoing project. Originally a cathartic ode to his childhood called "The Paper Came the Next Day", his deep connection with the town is evident; the images reflecting both physical and emotional isolation.

< Back Interview with The Photographers' Mail 13 May 2015 Adrian Hatwell of D-Photo magazine and The Photographers' Mail sat down to discuss Guy Needham's upcoming solo exhibition, Shades of Otara. As part of the Auckland Festival of Photography, the exhibition opens on Wednesday 27 July. < Previous Next >

“The Pope, The Pope!” A construction worker was vigourously waving his arms and yelling at me. “The Pope, no entrada!” Seeing my obvious confusion, he came running over and introduced himself by way of tattooed name on his forearm. Pito explained that the attraction I had come to see, was closed, in preparation for a visit from the Pontiff. < Back Asia's overlooked Gem Copy Sunday Star-Times 6 Jul 2024 “The Pope, The Pope!” A construction worker was vigourously waving his arms and yelling at me. “The Pope, no entrada!” Seeing my obvious confusion, he came running over and introduced himself by way of tattooed name on his forearm. Pito explained that the attraction I had come to see, was closed, in preparation for a visit from the Pontiff. Pito and I were on the road below Cristo Rei of Dili, a magnificent statue of Christ with welcoming arms, standing atop a globe. Reminiscent of Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the Redeemer, the statue was built by the Indonesian Government during its occupation. “It’s OK,” Pito assured me, “I can tell you history.” The sun bounced off his dusty hard hat. The history of Timor-Leste (pron. less-tay) is a long and bloody one. After 400 years as a Portuguese colony, a coup in Lisbon encouraged the East Timorese to declare independence in 1975. In the lead-up there were border incursions by Indonesian militia, a prequel to a full-scale invasion. The film Balibo, about the five Australian journalists killed during those incursions and journalist Roger East who was executed, is an excellent, if gut-wrenching, watch. During the 24 years of Indonesian rule more than 200,000 Timorese lost their lives. Many Kiwis will remember that New Zealand was part of the UN peacekeeping force in East Timor after a referendum on independence in 1999. Private Leonard Manning of the New Zealand Army was one of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice, killed in action while defending the freedom of the East Timorese. While the suffering of the past is never far from the country’s collective memory, these days Timor-Leste is on friendly terms with its neighbours, is eager to prosper, and keen to show the world what it has to offer. A country of boundless natural beauty, it’s fair to say that intrepid travellers will get more out of it than someone who loves their creature comforts. Don’t get me wrong, there are 4-star hotels in Dili and Timor-Leste is gearing up for more tourism. But part of the charm is the unique opportunity to experience a country that hasn’t yet been commercialised. Even the arrival process is uncomplicated: you line up for a visa (US$30 cash only), you get your stamp, you walk around the corner, you pick up your bag, you buy a local SIM card (very important), and the next thing you know you’re in Dili. Getting around the capital is best done by microlet – colourful, numbered minibuses that follow set routes. They’re easy to hail down, and when you’re ready to get off you tap the metal handrail with a coin. It costs 25 centavos (about 40c) no matter how far you go. Getting around the rest of the country though, that’s another story, and usually requires your own set of wheels. I was lucky enough to have two Timorese, Guido and Cesar, take me to the easternmost point, Tutuala Beach. It really is off the beaten track. We were bouncing around so much on the deconstructed roads that my Apple Watch asked If I’d like to “Record indoor walk”. Our beachfront accommodation was the community-run Valu Sere, made up of simple rooms with thatched roofs, mosquito nets, and a light. We ate in the open-air dining room metres from the sea enjoying the fish Guido had picked out for dinner. The next morning, we hired a boat to take the 10-minute journey across to instagrammable Jaco Island. Part of the protected Nino Konis Santana National Park, the sand is so white, the ocean ridiculously clear. This is about as deserted a tropical island as you can get. Back in Baucau, the country’s second city, we stocked up on water to explore the nearby countryside in 30-degree heat. Our first stop was Gua Tujuh (the seven caves) where the Japanese fought from in World War II, and the Timorese resistance fought from during the Indonesian occupation. The mountainous landscape is dotted with numerous scenic points, but none as revered as Mount Ariana. At the top of some steep, concrete steps the wind buffeted us as we took in the 360-degree views and looked up to the statue of Maria Auxiliadora. Part of joy of travelling through Timor-Leste is sampling the local cuisine. On the way back to Dili we stopped at a beachside restaurant for some skewered grilled fish, unwrapped our katupa (rice wrapped up in coconut leaf parcels) and dug in with forks and fingers. The local food is very cheap, despite the official currency being US dollars. Timor-Leste now only accepts US $5 denominations upward and uses local Centavos for anything below that. Don’t worry though, it’s all interchangeable. Just make sure you have enough cash before you leave the cities. Select ATMs accept Visa – although they had run out of money after the weekend. Off the coast, Atauro Island looms large. A divers’ and snorkelers’ paradise, travel agents can not only hook you up with dive masters but also accommodation ranging from eco resorts to camping. Even if you’re not an avid diver, the water is so clear that a snorkel and mask is all you’ll need. Back in Dili the cacophony of horns continued as pedestrians skirted around the uncovered manholes. A Ranger full of nuns zoomed past, habits flapping out the open windows. In a country that’s 95% Catholic it’s no surprise that Pope Francis is visiting, the first Pope to do so since the late 1980s. Papa Francisco will get a very Timorese welcome, full of warmth and respect and love. He will get to climb the steps to Cristo Rei and look out at Asia’s newest county. And I’m sure Pito will be there, calling out to him. Details Flights: From Darwin or Bali daily Tourism Timor-Leste: https://visiteasttimor.com/timor/ Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

< Back Hadzabe Girl in Budapest 16 Nov 2019 Next week Hadzabe Girl appears as part of a group exhibition to be held at Budapest's Ferencvárosi Művelődési Központ. One of only 13 finalists from around the world, the image will be part of a show run by The Budapest Diary - an initiative to connect artists and build bridges between peoples, nations and cultures by using photography. < Previous Next >

< Back Carnaval in Suitcase Magazine 8 Dec 2021 The latest issue of travel + culture magazine SUITCASE features a photo essay of images Guy Needham took at the Carnaval de Blancos y Negros. Each January, the 5-day festival of colour, noise and foam is held in the southern Colombian city of Pasto, with showers of confetti raining down on performers atop the four-storey-high floats. You can pick up your copy of SUITCASE from next week. < Previous Next >

< Back Māpua Magic 28 Sept 2025 This week The Press featured my article on Māpua, a pocket of paradise on the Waimea Inlet 30 minutes from Nelson, that blends natural encounters with artisan flair and friendly style. From being propositioned not long after we arrived, to taking an e-bike on the only ferry crossing on the New Zealand's cycle trail, you can read all about how this historic and revitalised township is punching above its tourism weight, in The Press here or on my website here . < Previous Next >