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"All the fun of the fiesta in Latin America" is captured on the cover of the latest New Zealand Herald travel magazine. < Back Colours of Colombia 16 Jan 2018 "All the fun of the fiesta in Latin America" is captured on the cover of the latest New Zealand Herald travel magazine. From the arm-grabbing La Lloranda to getting shot on the streets of Pasto, Guy Needham's latest adventure in Colombia takes you to the most colourful Festival of the Blacks and the Whites on earth. < Previous Next >

The Royal Photographic Society, one of the world's premium photography institutions, is featuring a gallery of Shades of Otara on their website. < Back Royal Photographic Society meets Otara 13 Sept 2017 The Royal Photographic Society, one of the world's premium photography institutions, is featuring a gallery of Shades of Otara on their website. The exhibition was included in the Society's Documentary magazine, The Decisive Moment. < Previous Next >

PROJECTS Nature Global A collection of images off animals in the wild - from the plains of the Serengeti to the falls of Iguacu. Previous Next

Continuing their tour of major European cities, in June the Dani of Papua will next be making their inaugural showing in Rome, at Italy's GARD Galleria Arte Roma Design. < Back I Dani vanno a Roma 24 Apr 2026 Continuing their tour of major European cities, in June the Dani of Papua will next be making their inaugural showing in Rome, at Italy's GARD Galleria Arte Roma Design. GARD, a specialist gallery known for its international collaborations will be showing a unique collection of portraits of the Dani. Artist Guy Needham will be attending in Rome on opening night, 5 June, to talk about the Dani, their culture, customs and unique attire, as well as the work he has done photographing indigenous tribes over the past ten years. < Previous Next >

Like their ancestors before them, the Hamar of the Lower Valley of the Omo are agro-pastoralists and subsistence farmers. The fields of sorghum that they live off are not far from their ornay (huts) and the bocas where the elders sit and chat. TRIBES The Hamar Lower Valley of the Omo, Ethiopia Like their ancestors before them, the Hamar of the Lower Valley of the Omo are agro-pastoralists and subsistence farmers. The fields of sorghum that they live off are not far from their ornay (huts) and the bocas where the elders sit and chat. < Previous Next >

The feature image of the Shades of Otara series is on show this week at the 2018 London Photo Festival. < 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 >

Boston's Griffin Museum of Photography will be the first United States gallery to feature one of the Dani tribe from Indonesia's Papua region. < Back From Papua to Boston 15 Nov 2022 Boston's Griffin Museum of Photography will be the first United States gallery to feature one of the Dani tribe from Indonesia's Papua region. Although thousands of years old, the Dani were unknown to the rest of the world until 1938. Today they still live a simple life and, while not isolated from the march of modernity, their traditions and values have endured. The portrait of Lokop Mabel, pensive while smoking and wearing a traditional horim (penis gourd), will be part of the Winter Solstice exhibition on show in Massachusetts from 9 December 2022 - 8 January 2023. < Previous Next >

In an exclusive interview with D-Photo magazine Guy Needham talks about the lengths he went to to get the shots for his upcoming exhibition, The Mentawai of Indonesia. < Back The Mentawai in D-Photo Magazine 19 Jul 2017 In an exclusive interview with D-Photo magazine Guy Needham talks about the lengths he went to to get the shots for his upcoming exhibition, The Mentawai of Indonesia. The article reveals what it's really like as a photographer where a contrast in culture is the least of your worries. Read journalist Adrian Hatwell's article here . < Previous Next >

Guy Needham and a number of photographers worldwide have joined together to raise funds for UNICEF Ukraine via Portugal's Incubator Gallery. < Back Photographers for Ukraine 9 Mar 2023 Guy Needham and a number of photographers worldwide have joined together to raise funds for UNICEF Ukraine via Portugal's Incubator Gallery. Sales from the images donated , like this one of a Hadzabe leader, will go towards life-saving support for children and their families who are suffering as a result of the Russian invasion. Images will be on show in Lisbon for all of March plus available online to purchase at < Previous Next >

PROJECTS Rodeo Warkworth, New Zealand Every year one of New Zealand's premiere rodeos, the Warkworth Rodeo, is held north of Auckland. Full of the usual events such as barrel racing, bull riding, saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling and breakaway roping, interest in the event has only grown over the years, no doubt helped by the global TV phenomenon that is Yellowstone. Previous Next

For years the name Beirut evoked images of a vicious civil war and a hotspot of clashing cultures. It’s been a while since tourists flocked to the ‘Paris of the Middle East’, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a Lebanon of high class fashion, vibrant beauty, worldly citizens and some of the most amazing nightlife in the Middle East.​ < Back A Date with Hizbollah Real Travel 10 Feb 2009 For years the name Beirut evoked images of a vicious civil war and a hotspot of clashing cultures. It’s been a while since tourists flocked to the ‘Paris of the Middle East’, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a Lebanon of high class fashion, vibrant beauty, worldly citizens and some of the most amazing nightlife in the Middle East. Before I go on, forget everything you have ever heard about Lebanon. These days it is generally (a) out of date (b) wrong, or (c) the exception rather than the rule. It’s true that years of war and occupation have left their mark on Beirut, especially the southern Shi’ite district of Dahieh, but it is no longer home to the violence that used to dominate TV news. Like anywhere in the Middle East you have to take care and be aware, but it’s certainly not as unsafe as people make out. The locals, while wary, are welcoming and generous – even when you accidentally end up in the middle of a Hizbollah protest. But let’s start at the beginning… I was on a 6 week trip through the Middle East and had always wanted to go to Lebanon. Having heard so much about the country, it was a blend of curiosity combined with the “Oh my god, you’re going where?” factor that made me want to explore this part of the world. Initially I had hoped to go to Palestine and Israel first, but the Israeli stamp ‘issue’ meant that I would then have trouble getting into Syria and Lebanon. (As it was, the Israelis will stamp a piece of paper instead of your passport if you ask.) I’d just spent a week in Syria coping with the fact that Facebook is blocked (one of only two countries in the world; the other is Iran), where the highlight was Crac de Chevaliers – a medieval crusader castle that looked like the ones you imagined as a kid. Coming from Homs in Syria, I crossed the border at Abboudieh into Northern Lebanon. The ride to Beirut was an adventure in itself. I took a sherut, a shared taxi, paying an agreed amount and stopping numerous times along the way to have our papers checked. While my Arabic was very rudimentary a couple of Asalaam 'Alaykum’s (peace be upon you) and Shukran’s (thank you) can get you further than you think. And money’s pretty easy to use once you get into Lebanon: the general rule is pay $US for large amounts and LP (Lebanese Pounds) for smaller purchases. Beirut’s nightlife was calling me, so as soon I’d put my pack down at the Mayflower Hotel in Hamra (got a great rate on Hostels.com – lots of accommodation to choose from), I was off to a club. Flagging down the nearest taxi, the driver Jamal spoke very good English. Little did I know that he would end up shaping my entire visit. When I said how I wanted to go to Southern Beirut the next day to see the reconstruction and find out what the people are really like, he just smiled and said Inshallah (God willing). So we agreed a pick-up time, and he then dropped me off for my first experience of Lebanese nightlife. Entering the ironically designed Element club – which looks and feels as if you’re in a bunker – I immediately knew that this was glamour plus. The women were stunning, the men stylish, the drinks reasonably priced and the locals friendly. And this was on a Tuesday. Nearly everyone spoke English (de rigueur among young Lebanese professionals), and one couple who were celebrating their 3rd wedding anniversary wanted to know everything about my home country, New Zealand, while I wanted to know everything about theirs. It was a very late night. The next day Jamal was waiting outside my hotel as promised. He’d put aside the day to show me his city, which started with the drive down the Corniche, the boulevard that once used to be the jewel in Beirut’s crown. While the rebuilt downtown area with its restaurants and high class shopping is now the star attraction, there were more than enough people strolling along the promenade on a slightly overcast day. I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice From there we headed into Southern Beirut, where Jamal lived and a Hizbollah stronghold. It’s not an understatement to say I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice. What was fascinating though was what Hizbollah actually did beyond what we hear about in the news. Not just an armed organisation, Hizbollah also has representatives in the Lebanese parliament. As we drove along Jamal pointed out the Hizbollah universities, Hizbollah petrol stations, Hizbollah construction companies, Hizbollah supermarkets and of course, subtley, the Hizbollah checkpoints. All was going well, until we turned the corner. I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice. Little did I know that that day was Ashura, one of the holiest Shi'ite festivals that marks the Battle of Karbala where the grandson of Mohammed was killed. To show their affinity with the suffering, men self-flagellate. As we entered the next street we found ourselves next to bleeding backs from whipping, and boys with rubbing blood onto their chest. While that was a little concerning, it wasn’t until we got a few metres down the road when it became apparent what was really going on. The head of Hizbollah was giving a televised address to thousands of followers, all pumping fists and firing guns in the air. Now, at this point I should say that my timing was extremely bad. It was January ‘09 and while I was in Jordan, Israel had invaded the Gaza strip, the Middle East was in an uproar and rockets were being fired from Southern Lebanon into Northern Israel. This was one of those “exception to the rule” moments and is definitely not the norm. Thinking quickly, Jamal pulled the taxi over and bought a Hizbollah flag from one of the stores opposite the protest. We tied it to the car aerial with a rubber band and slowly made our way through the ever vocal crowd, with Jamal voicing his support so we didn’t get stopped at checkpoints and no-one asked what I was doing there. It seemed like the longest car ride in the world and I still have today “the flag that rescued us”. Once we got to relative safety, there was one other place I wanted to see: the Sabra and Shatila camp which is home to over 10,000 Palestinian refugees. My interest in politics meant that I had long ago heard of the massacre here that inspired the Israeli animated film “Waltzing with Bashir”. Despite its awful history - and my naiveté - I didn’t know what to expect. The "camp" is really a one kilometer square suburb with roads and the semblance of paths; there is no wire or separation wall surrounding them and people are free to go out beyond them. The buildings are concrete and food stalls abound. The people were cautious of this stranger in a taxi and perhaps with some justification. Jamal told me that this is their home even though it officially isn’t: if you are a Palestinian born in a refugee camp on Lebanese soil, you do not get Lebanese citizenship. There was a palpable degree of resolve in the air with the knowledge that their fathers, or in some cases, their fathers’ fathers had land that was taken from them, and the hope that one day it will be returned. And yet they became friendlier when I introduced myself and explained why I wanted to be in this part of the world. Standing outside the large banners of dead bodies at the Sabra and Shatila memorial was extremely sobering. Deciding it was time to lighten things up, and due to the fact we couldn’t get far because there were still so many people protesting, Jamal invited me back to his house to meet his wife and family. Recognising that this was a truly generous offer and one that I was never likely to get again, I gratefully accepted… and it was here I saw the true meaning of Lebanese hospitality. Arriving outside of his apartment he saw that the power was off, a frequent occurrence in Dahieh as the government restricts electricity to Hizbollah. No matter though, up the dark internal stairwell we went to be welcomed by his wife and two teenage kids who wanted to know what was on my iPod and if I was in Lord of The Rings. So here I was, with a taxi driver I’d just met, his wife, their teenage kids who had lit candles around the place and out comes the Merlot from Bekaa valley. In between Jamal regaling them with where we’d been, by the time the power came back on we’d worked through dishes of lamb, tahini, salad and the ever-present Markouk bread. Luckily, after a month in Arabic countries I already knew to only use my right hand while eating and not to eat everything on the plate, so I got some points for not being a complete Westerner. It was getting late and I had to get back downtown. As I left, Jamal’s teenage son handed me the Palestinian scarf he had around his neck as a gift for visiting their family and breaking bread with them. I realised that I’d been taken into the home of people who did not have much but wanted to share it all. The next day I saw a completely different side of the country. The manager of the Lebanese branch of a company I worked for, Daniel, had offered to show me the sights north of Beirut. Unlike the rest of the Middle East it seemed that the towns on the coastal road didn’t end and start as such, they just ran one into another. Beirut became Dawa which became Jounieh which became the ancient town of Byblos. Named by the Greeks after their word for papyrus (which used to be shipped via the port), the town has been invaded by Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Ottomans and Mamluks… and it shows. I’m the first to admit that I thought this major archeological site was going to be a bunch of boring ruins, but I’m glad I was wrong. I can best describe it as a history lesson pockmarked in stone, and to touch walls over 5000 years old really brings home how much Lebanon has seen through the ages. Walking around the port, I asked a fisherman who was eyeing up the horizon why he wasn’t out there. Gestations to the sky and the sea complemented his broken English: “no good, no good”. At the top of the hill, there was nothing more to do than wander through the restored souk and humorously haggle over a cedar wooden box with shell inlay which made a fantastic Christmas gift.Back in the car again, this time heading to Beit Mary, a suburb reached at the top of a cable car – and a far cry from Southern Beirut the day before. Standing at the foot of the statue of Our Lady of Lebanon with her arms outspread over the city below, I had the perfect view over Jounieh Bay. But it was what was underground on our way back, rather than what was on top of it, that really piqued my interest. Daniel insisted I was not going to leave Lebanon without visiting the Jeita Grotto, a set of crystalised limestone caves that is truly a world class attraction. With site map in hand I headed down the long boardwalk into the stunning Upper Cavern, joining a group of ohh-ers and ahh-ers as the guides showed us through (without once seeking the ubiquitous baksesh). With an abundance of ‘tites and ‘mites I wondered how the Lower Cavern could really be any better… but it had the bonus of a short boat trip further into the cave. It’s more than a little eerie when the only sounds you hear are drips of water into the lake below. It was disappointing that you’re not allowed to take any photos, which was a real pity for something so beautiful. We got back to downtown Beirut in time to appreciate the lit up Mohammed Al-Amin mosque; the call to prayer echoing from its towering minarets. A Christmas tree stood proudly nearby, another symbol of reconciliation in a land that has experienced a lot. Beirut is literally a phoenix of a city. The rejuvenation of the Solidere (downtown Beirut) after the civil war is generally credited to one man – former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, who was killed in 2005 by a massive car bomb outside a hotel. Thanks to his work, boutique stores, restaurants and offices all stand now where once there was rubble. Eateries are plentiful in the cobblestoned area so we thought ‘why not spoil ourselves’ and entered one of the flashest restaurants in the Solidere, Al-Sultan Brahim. It definitely wasn’t the cheapest place to eat but the food was as good as anything I had tasted in the Middle East. Truly Lebanese, with four types of hommos and the obligatory missed pickles. Blanched dandelion leaves never tasted so good and I won’t even mention how delicious the fish sausages were (who knew?!). Mezzed-out and ready for my last night we hit the clubs once again. As I suspected, everyone is beautiful here all the time – not just on Tuesdays. The morning of my leaving I got a surprise as Jamal, my taxi driver, and his two teenage children who had entertained me with the lights out, were waiting outside the hotel when I checked out. Not to pick me up, but just to say goodbye and hand me an e-mail address so I could keep in contact. So there it was, three days in one of the most ancient/modern, peaceful/politicised, friendly/wary, and beautiful/bombed places on earth. As I left Lebanon I learnt one final lesson: if you’re going to be there from say, a Monday to a Wednesday do not get the free 48 hour visa. Get the visa that covers between 48hours and 15 days for 25000LP (about US$16). Otherwise you’ll find yourself like I did, signing Arabic forms at the Lebanon-Syria border which say things to the effect of “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again”. It was worth it though. < Previous Next >

“Smash it on the head” yelled Geranio, our guide. “Quick!” The freshly caught piranha was flip-flopping in a desperate attempt to get back to water, sharp teeth biting at air as I brought a rotting stick down upon its head. Minewa, a 60-year old local tribesman, added it to his string of dead fish and smiled at me. “Now you are a warrior!’”, laughed Geranio. < Back When Two Worlds Collide Sunday Star-Times 25 Feb 2018 “Smash it on the head” yelled Geranio, our guide. “Quick!” The freshly caught piranha was flip-flopping in a desperate attempt to get back to water, sharp teeth biting at air as I brought a rotting stick down upon its head. Minewa, a 60-year old local tribesman, added it to his string of dead fish and smiled at me. “Now you are a warrior!’”, laughed Geranio. We were fishing in the Amazon Basin on the edge of the world’s most bio-diverse ecosystem. I was there to spend time with the Waorani, one of Ecuador’s indigenous tribes who today number no more than 3,000. Not that any of that mattered to the piranha. Getting to the Amazon had been no easy task. Far from the cobblestones and thin mountain air of colonial Quito, it had taken us two days by boat. I say ‘us’ because I wasn’t the only tourist onboard; sitting ahead of me was a machete-wielding, coca-chewing, bird spotting Dutch sociologist. He had been travelling for three months now and had something of a gaunt Colonel Kurtz of Apocalypse Now look about him. The Cononaco River - one of the feeders to the 1000km Rio Napo - was low as the rains hadn’t come. The upside was that the bird and animal life were a zoologist’s dream. As we skimmed logs and scraped rocks, a Black Vulture screeched in the distance. Overhead a pair of White Throated Toucans flopped from one river bank to the other. Squinting into the Sun we could make out an Amazon Kingfisher, perched on the far branch of an even farther tree. He had been travelling for three months now and had something of a gaunt Colonel Kurtz of Apocalypse Now look about him. “Look”, exclaimed my new Dutch companion. Bringing our eyes back down to earth, he pointed to a strange animal gazing on the river bank – thin long snout, big bushy tail - a cross between a giant raccoon and a stretched pig. With a nonchalant glance the Giant Anteater ambled back into the grass behind it. On we continued. As we approached another curve Geranio abruptly raised his fist. The engine was cut. Off the bow we saw movement, a pale fin cutting through the calm brown waters. Then bubbles – and we watched in awe as a rare Amazon Pink Dolphin surfaced 30metres from us. The largest dolphin of its kind had just made our day. Still on a high by the time we got to our destination, we disembarked through the mud carrying water, camping gear and cooking supplies. I’d prepped myself for meeting the Waorani. Having been with tribes in Africa, Asia and the Pacific, I knew to expect very basic conditions, traditionally dressed people and a limited understanding of the modern world. How wrong I was. I found something even more fascinating – a tribe in transition between two worlds. While the older members were traditionally (un)dressed, the rest of the tribe were in Westernised clothing. While their malookas (huts) were built using no nails, concrete bricks were lined up for construction of new houses. While we had taken two days to get there by boat, there was an airstrip down the middle of the village. And while they hunted using blowguns and poison darts, the Wi-Fi kicked on every night. The dichotomy that intrigued me. Minewa was the personification of the old ways. With his stretched ear lobes dangling under his long hair, naked aside from twine tying up his foreskin, it was he who led us on our first hunting expedition. As we started out he gave me a closer look at his weapons. His blowgun was over 2metres long and perfectly straight, its pre-poisoned darts in a cylinder looped over his shoulder. Just as impressive was his spear, sharpened to a point with slight notches to make it difficult for monkeys to pull out. Following Minewa’s lead we crept as quietly as two non-Amazonians can creep. The deeper into the jungle we got, the more distinctive the loud calls of the Howler Monkeys. Suddenly Minewa took off – spear raised above his head. By the time we caught up to him he was frozen, staring down at a salt lick between a group of trees. Ahead of us were a family of Collared Peccaries (pigs) snorting through the undergrowth. With an almighty throw and not a single word, Minewa launched the spear at the boar. Narrowly missing by inches, the family rapidly grunted off, Minewa in close chase behind. When he returned half an hour later with nothing more than a look of resignation it was time to return to the village. On the way back I asked about the changes he must have seen in this lifetime. The Waorani, I was told, were only ‘discovered’ by Europeans in the 1950s. That is now four generations ago since the average age of childbirth is 16. But it wasn’t until we got to the village that we were shown the biggest impact on their way of life. Standing in front of a map, Geranio drew a circle around the Waorani territory that is officially part of the 10,000km2 Parque National Yusumi. A red line marked the border with Peru, and green shading showed where two ‘uncontacted’ tribes still roam. Most noticeable though were Bloque Petroleum – areas where the Ecuadorian government have allowed oil exploration and drilling despite the national park being a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. Suddenly Minewa took off – spear raised above his head. By the time we caught up to him he was frozen, staring down at a salt lick between a group of trees. It was the oil industry that had brought electricity to the Waorani, levelled the airstrip, introduced the internet and built a covered basketball court, although obviously not everyone agreed with this ‘progress’. As Geranio spoke, the Dutchman and I looked around. It was nature that made the place so special, not the material things that had been brought in from the outside. Despite the accelerated change the tribe was going though, despite the encroachment into their traditional lands, the Waorani simply wanted to protect their environment. A few days later it was time to say our farewells and get back in the motorized canoe for the two day journey home. Minewa had picked up that we were sad to be leaving, but even sadder about what was happening to the tribe. As we got onboard he gave us a big broad smile and said something to Geranio. “It’ll be aright, he wants to let you know. The spirits and Mother Earth will look after them as they always have.” And with that final wave of optimism we headed back up the Cononaco, towards ominous dark clouds covering the jungle canopy, hoping that for a little while longer the Waorani can hold on to their traditional way of life. Details Getting there: Air New Zealand flies direct to Houston with a connecting United flight to Quito. Domestic Avianca flights fly from Quito to El Coca, which is the starting point for any Ecuadorian Amazon adventure Staying there: You can choose to base yourself at one of the river lodges throughout the basin or take a tour staying in tents in the villages. Ask your tour company for options. Exploring there: Your accommodation will determine how you explore the area, but you will go by boat and by foot. Depending on your level of fitness, you can go on jungle walks for the whole day or go birdwatching for an hour Services there: The lodges are fully equipped, and even if you camp at the villages your tour guide is likely to have a chef with him. There are no ATMs or credit card facilities so it is best to take small notes of the Ecuadorian currency with is US Dollars. More Information: www.ecuadorecoadventures.com www.yasuninationalpark.org Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >