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Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet-making tradition as practiced by artisans today​ < Back Wayang Kulit Makers of Java The Jungle Journal 16 Feb 2024 Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet-making tradition as practiced by artisans today Y ogya (pron. Jo-Ja) is considered the cultural centre of Java, and post-independence from the Dutch, it was briefly the capital of Indonesia. Wayang kulit makers tend to live and work in the outskirts of this particular city, where the roads narrow and tyre stores give way to sugar cane. Wayang kulit , Indonesia’s sacred shadow puppet show, is a form of traditional theatre complete with gamelan orchestra and a puppet master called a dalang . It is mainly practiced in Java and Bali, based on Hindu stories such as the Mahabharata. Top shows cost over 50,000,000 IRP (£2,600) to put on, including the Dalang, gamelan orchestra and decorative set. However, during the COVID pandemic walang kulit shows were banned as large gatherings were prohibited, so the creators turned to producing work for collectors. Walang kulit puppets are produced on demand for both dalang and for collectors who spend tens of thousands of pounds to expand their collection. The true craftsmen follow the rules and customs set down centuries ago for the design and creation of the wayang kulit characters, which are far more intricate than souvenir versions. The production time for each puppet varries but ranges from two weeks to a month, depending on the amount of detailed work required. The puppets themselves are made of fine buffalo skin ( kulit means skin) which is sketched out, cut, shaped, sanded and then chiselled using a set of fine tools made from bicycle spokes. The puppets are then delicately painted; the more expensive wayang kulit puppets feature gold leaf imported from China. Some walang kulit makers use hammers made out of buffalo horn, and the rods, handling spine and joints are all made of buffalo bone. There are so many characters that when you ask the wayang kulit makers how many there are they tend to laugh and roll their eyes – every character has versions of the character as well. While these artisans all learnt at the hands of a master before them, the revival in interest in the last 25 years in Java’s cultural heritage has led to walang kulit courses now being taught at Yogyakarta’s ISI Faculty of Fine Arts (Jurusan Seni Murni FSR ISI). Those who collect walang kulit keep them in large coffin-like boxes, lying flat one on top of another, with each box dedicated to a craftsman. The mixing of puppets made by different makers would be noticed immediately. Collectors can spend tens of thousands of pounds on expanding their set of puppets, joining waitlists to secure the most prized gold leaf puppets. Old wayang kulit puppets are very treasured – I was shown one 150 years old. Traditional performances of walang kulit can last for up to nine hours although these days there are ‘cut down’ versions for shorter, younger attention spans. It is the dalang, the puppet master, who controls the marionettes, putting on different voices and improvising with topical news, politics, and religious subjects of the day. Supporting him is a gamelan orchestra, a collection of Indonesian percussive instruments that are played such harmony that it is considered part of gotorong royung – the life philosophy of working together to communally support each other. These shows and performances can be watched from the front where the colourful puppets appear as shadows illuminated by halogen lights, or from the back to see the dalang in action as the gamelan plays. This photo essay features: Mr Sarjiano , a walang kulit craftsman since 1980. Now operating out of a small workshop at the front of his house, he has been a guest presenter many times at schools to discuss and demonstrate his craft. Mr Jumakir , has been a walang kulit craftsman for 46 years and is now working out of one of the more well-known studios, Sagio Griya Ukir Kulit (Sagio Puppet Handicraft). Mr Suryadi , an extensive Wayang Kulit collector, who puts on shows once a week for local children to learn about the traditions at Kali Opak restaurant and gallery @kaliopak.wo Tour organized by Mr Deny , Yogyakarta Tour Guide Originally Published in The Jungle Journal < Previous Next >

< Back People of the Balkans 14 Apr 2013 Guy Needham's People of The Balkans solo exhibition opened yesterday at The Photographer's Gallery in Napier. The collection documents a two month journey through Albania, Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia and Slovenia, and the resulting portraits are of a proud people who have gone through much in the last 20 years. < Previous Next >

“38!!” laughed Alison, when I asked her the population of Ngawi, the small fishing village we’d just set out from. We were aboard the fishing vessel Elan skippered by her husband Andrew, who had generously agreed to take me for ‘a spin around the point’. < Back Palliser and Pinnacles New Zealand Herald 22 Mar 2022 “38!!” laughed Alison, when I asked her the population of Ngawi, the small fishing village we’d just set out from. We were aboard the fishing vessel Elan skippered by her husband Andrew, who had generously agreed to take me for ‘a spin around the point’. ‘The point’ was Cape Palliser, the southernmost tip of the North Island, which at 41°37’ South is further down the map than Blenheim and Nelson. Just an hour and a half from Wellington, I’d decided to make the most of a weekend of cancelled concerts (thanks Covid) and explore Southern Wairarapa. Ngawi, the nearest township to Cape Palliser, is known for two things: crayfish and bulldozers. Not natural bedfellows you may think, but the steep incline down to the ocean has led to innovation. Bulldozers line up on the shingle beach with custom-built trailers carrying their boats which are then reversed into the sea. Andrew is one of Ngawi’s eight commercial fisherman, catching crays for live export while keeping the fishery sustainable. As the boat rounded the cape and we watched Fluttering Shearwaters feeding on a school of kahawai, Andrew turned and pointed, “There!” A pod of playful dolphins cut across our bow on their own little mission to the bay. Beyond their splashes lay the misty headlands, sea spray drizzling the glistening hills under the morning Sun. The Caterpillar high track was waiting for us when we came in. It took skill to steer a fishing vessel straight into the middle of a semi-submerged trailer, but Andrew did it without a second glance. After saying our farewells we wandered off; New Zealand’s only red and white striped lighthouse beckoned us. Ngawi, the nearest township to Cape Palliser, is known for two things: crayfish and bulldozers. First lit in 1897 the Cape Palliser Lighthouse today is unmanned and automated, standing sentry over a foreshore that has claimed scores of ships and dozens of lives. “Right, let’s do this”, said my partner as I eyed up the Led Zeppelin-esque stairway. 7 minutes and 250-odd steps later we were next to the giant cast iron lamp. Its double white flash started beaming not long before we were treated to an ethereal light show as the most fiery of sunsets painted the Kaikouras pink. The following day we were off to visit another landmark, the Putangirua Pinnacles. Thousands of years old, Lord of the Rings fans will recognise them as the backdrop for the Dimholt Road. While they’re not ‘You Shall Not Pass’ territory, you will need a decent pair of shoes to do the 1½ hour walk across an irregularly marked trail of loose rocks, shingle, riverbed and scrub. Standing in the gorge of these badlands (an actual geological name) it’s hard not to be mesmerised by the light clay hoodoos (another actual geological name) throwing long shadows down the valley. The Pinnacles are popular with day trippers and campers alike; in fact, the whole of Palliser Bay is dotted with campervans, converted buses, house trailers and tents. ‘Those who know’ make the most of the freedom camping, surf casting and left hand point break. The ability to just pitch up is ideal for an overnight stay, especially since it’s not easy to find accommodation for a single night as most places require a two night minimum. Many of those campers had followed the same journey we had: leaving Wellington on State Highway 2, crossing the Remutaka Range, before sliding into Featherston. Often ignored on the way to bigger towns, it’s worth stopping in Featherston for C’est Cheese alone - an award-winning cheesemonger (with their own brewery!) who have such treats as Blue Monkey and Chilli Cheddar. Through the window you can see cheeses being made, and samples are there for the tasting. For me though the highlight was the shop next door, a collection of “oddities & delights, art & bibelots” housed in the quirky Mr Feather’s Den. Featuring everything from local crafts to mid-century furniture to taxidermy, it was the surprise find of the weekend. Onward to Pirinoa (and the last petrol pumps before Cape Palliser), we came across an Aladdin’s Cave in the form of The Land Girl which opens up to be a fully-fledged clothing, upholstery and gift store. To find that they do good coffees in this former blacksmith’s shop was a godsend. Don’t tell anyone, but the freshly toasted pulled beef sandwich is by far the best I have tasted in a long time. Once you hit the rugged coastline the scenery is so spectacular that it’s hard to keep your eyes on the road – but believe me, you need to. Beyond the curved one-land bridges, river fords, cliff hugging lanes and road cones separating you from the sea, lies a ‘sealed’ road of a different kind. Cape Palliser is home to New Zealand’s largest fur seal colony and they’re not afraid to wander into your path. The best place to see them in their natural habitat is Matakitaki-a-kupe Reserve, sharing the Māori name for Cape Palliser meaning “The gazing place of Kupe”. Now it was shiny, wet, googly eyes that were gazing – seal pups only a few months old taking a break from a wave swept rock pond. Now it was shiny, wet, googly eyes that were gazing – seal pups only a few months old Conscious of not wanting to get between the sucklings and their protective mothers we didn’t venture too close, but sure enough, the inquisitive ones bounced and flipped towards us. Too cute to look away from, we spent a good couple of hours watching the seals roll, flop, hide and bark, honk and grunt the afternoon away. It was getting late and time to head back to Ngawi where we had a hankering for some of the local cuisine. It was hard to go past Captain’s Table, Ngawi’s original food caravan. “What’s good” I asked the kid serving, whose head barely reached over the top of the counter. “Fish ‘n’ Chips!” came a slightly familiar voice. Alison beamed out from behind the fryer – it was only fitting that we ended the day with one of the 38 locals. Details Getting there: Self-drive from Wellington 1.5 hour See: Cape Palliser lighthouse, fur seal colony, Ngawi, Putangirua Pinnacles Eat: Captain’s Table, The Land Girl Stay: Freedom camping, local Air B’n’B, Lake Ferry Hotel Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

< Back Winner of National Geographic Traveller Competition 8 Jul 2015 An image taken in the highlands of Papua New Guinea by Guy Needham has won National Geographic Traveller magazine's "Colour My World" photography competition. The image, called Final Touches, is of a Huli tribesman getting ready for a 'sing sing' or traditional dance was taken as he prepared his face. < 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 >

See the exhibition about one of Angola's oldest tribes, the Vatwa of Angola "We were the original inhabitants of this area thousands of years ago. No one really knows where we came from. We have crops over there, we have these goats, we live off the land.” Mutjila, Vatwa chief. The Vatwa of Angola Regarded as the first indigenous inhabitants of the Onconcua region, the Vatwa remain semi-nomadic and grow crops and tend goats within the compounds housing their traditional huts. The most striking thing about the Vatwa are the women, covered in a red paste of ochre clay, animal fats and lotion that makes their skin shine in the unrelenting sun. Young, newly married women wear a three-pronged ekori goatskin on top of their platted dreadlocks. The wearing of certain necklaces, braids and shells represents a unique mix of personal style and significant life stages. The attire makes sense considering the isolated environment: sparse, desolate, flat. See the exhibition Melbourne 8 April - 6 May 2026 Address Ladder Art Space 81 Denmark St, Kew VIC 3101 Contact (03) 9852 8772 Opening Hours Tue - Sat 11:30am – 5:00pm info@ladderartspace.com.au guy@guyneedham.com ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER Guy Needham’s inquisitive worldview was shaped by growing up in rural New Zealand in the 1970s. Today he is noted for his international work with indigenous tribes, primarily drawing on themes of identity and place within cultural narratives. His work is a hybrid of photographic genres, sitting somewhere between documentary and portraiture. The simplicity of his pared-down style has been described as having both a quiet intensity and a subtle momentum. His images have been exhibited in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, Tokyo, and Athens, and been seen on the pages of National Geographic Traveler, CNN.com, Lonely Planet, SUITCASE Magazine, International Traveler, Portrait Magazine and AFAR.

< Back Yunita Mabel wins Shoot The Frame 8 Jul 2022 A portrait of a young Dani woman, Yunita Mabel, from the Papua region of Indonesia has won the Portrait Award for Shoot The Frame. The image, which has echoes of the Mona Lisa , was taken in Anemoigi village and will be on display at this year's IPF Festival in Hyderabad, India. Yunita is one of the Dani tribe that was unknown to the rest of the world until 1938. Like their ancestors they still live a simple life and, while not isolated from the march of modernity, they keep their traditions and values alive through their culture. < Previous Next >

< Back Opening Night in Melbourne 7 May 2021 Last night saw the opening of The Hadzabe of Tanzania in Melbourne, Australia, where guests found out about the Hadzabe's traditional nomadic lifestyle of dirt, baboons and clicks. The exhibition will be on show through to 22nd May at Ladder Art Space, and features award-winning images that have been shown in Europe, the United States and the UK. < Previous Next >

“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be al-riiight…” It seemed only appropriate that Bob Marley blared out the front of the pick-up as we bounced along the dirt road. After all, this was the country of Emperor Haile Selassie, recognised by Rastafarians as the Massiah of African Redemption and head of their religion. < Back Better than a Band Aid New Zealand Herald 12 Jan 2016 “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be al-riiight…” It seemed only appropriate that Bob Marley blared out the front of the pick-up as we bounced along the dirt road. After all, this was the country of Emperor Haile Selassie, recognised by Rastafarians as the Massiah of African Redemption and head of their religion. Not that any of that mattered as we dodged goats and dug into ruts. I was on my way to the Lower Valley of the Omo, a great swathe of land in Southern Ethiopia, to spend time volunteering with the Hamar tribe. Our driver had taken a ‘short cut’ as he’d heard that one of their most important rituals was taking place: the Jumping of the Bulls. Ukuli is a three day coming-of-age ceremony that every Hamar boy must go through in order to prove himself a man. We arrived just in time for the whipping. “Aiii, Aiiiiii!”, a young woman was screaming as she struggled against her mother, pleading to be let go. She broke away and ran to the half-naked man holding an acacia branch. Crack! The whip came down and her skin opened. The young woman smiled with pleasure – a showing of her dedication and love to the boy. It was an eye-opening introduction to the Hamar tribe. As the bleeding women created a bell-ringing frenzy, the men tugged the beasts into place. Tails were held, horns were gripped. The boy jumper looked nervous. He dropped his modest goatskin and leapt up on the first bull. Scampering naked across their backs he made it to the far end and back six times. He was now maza (an unmarried man who had jumped bulls), and was ready to go to the bush while his family selected a bride for him. It made our version of proposing seem a little easy. Going to Ethiopia is like going back in time. For a start they use a different calendar with 13 months in a year, so right now it’s 2008 – I lost 7 years just by getting off the plane. Not only are the years different but so are the hours. The clock starts at 6am. 4 hours after 6am it’s 4 o’clock. 2 hours before 6am is 10 o’clock. But they use both their clock and the farangi (foreigner) clock. Confusing as hell when you want to arrange a meeting time. Most of what we’ve heard about Ethiopia is shaped by images of the 1984 famine. Civil war, a drought and crop shortages all combined to make the situation so dire that Bob Geldoff put together ‘BandAid’ – a concert of the world’s biggest singers to raise funds for the suffering. Unfortunately that legacy lives on, with many today thinking the country is not much more than a dust-bowl. Although it does have serious drought in places, our camp looked out onto lush green bush speckled with brown paths. I was volunteering with an organisation called Big Beyond, an accredited NGO in the UK, Uganda and Ethiopia. They appealed because of their belief that more can be achieved through sharing knowledge than with handouts, and I also liked that they tailored projects to suit a person’s skills. My job was to document the lifestyles of the Hamar for a future cutural centre. My fellow volunteer Luke, a lawyer from the UK, was running business sessions and helping to set up a cottage honey industry. Jilly, a researcher for UK Statistics, was surveying the Hamar and tourists to see what both wanted when it comes to tourism. Crack! The whip came down and her skin opened. “T.I.A,” said Fiona, the manager when I arrived. “Huh?” “T.I.A. This is Africa. Oh and watch out for the scorpions” she added cheerily. What she meant was that if you don’t like flies and dirt and bugs and dust and heat then you’re better off staying at home. There was no electricity, no cellphone coverage, no internet, no running water. Our camp was next to Shele vilage, on land that had been gifted to Big Beyond by the head donza (elder). Shele is all that you imagine an African village to be: thatched roof huts, fenced off goat pens, cows wandering around, a boca where the donza sit, fields of maize and a water pump in the distance. We were considered part of the village and it was not unusual to find two strangers outside your ornay (hut) in the morning chatting away in Hamar, also the name of their language. The camp itself was still being finished when I arrived although it already had the luxury of our own personal huts, an outdoor shower, loo-with-a-view, parafin lamps, a dinning-cum-talking table under the cool shade and an outdoor kitchen. We also had a lame three-legged goat and two resident crows. “Rise up this mornin’, smile with the risin’ sun, three little birds, pitch by my doorstep… The days began with an orchestral warm up of percussional cowbells, a choir of birdsong, baying goats, the crack of whips and the occasional gunshot bringing them all into line. Breakfast was cooked by our resident chef Miley and usually consisted of porridge or eggs and then it was off to do our projects with the nearby Hamar. The Hamar, like a lot of subsistence tribes, still have traditional roles for men and women. The men protect and decide; looking after the lifestock and managing the crops. The women are the heavy lifters; carrying back-bending loads of firewood and sorghum – a type of maize – as well as being responsible for raising the children, cooking and looking after the household. Hamar men often have more than one wife, and the first wive is chosen as young as 7 so the marriage doesn’t take place until she reaches child-bearing age. Part of my project was spending time with a second wife, Hayto, so it was off to her hut I went. “Fiyo” I called out, contorting myself through the small, low, entrance. “Fiyene” came the reply from everyone inside – Hayto, the other wive, their husband, a younger brother, 3 sons, 4 babies and a neighbouring teacher. Everyone had squeezed in for morning buno, the local version of coffee made of dried-up coffee husks, ladelled into a half calabash shell. All eyes were on this farangi as I sat cross-legged and took the first sip. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Hamar women are extremely photogenic, their beautiful black skin topped with copper-coloured goscha dreadlocks, a twisted mix of ochre, water and hand-shaken butter. For 5 Birr (35c) you can photograph them in all their finery: colourful chickeny necklaces, brass coils around their wrists, kashe goat skin loosely draped over their bare breasts and, unique to first wives, a leather necklace with a metallic portrusion symbolising fertility. For a start they use a different calendar with 13 months in a year – I lost 7 years just by getting off the plane. After breakfast we started the 17km walk to the nearest town. The occasional tree gave respite from the vicious sun. Vultures circled in the distance. At the edge of a dry river bed a head emerged from a deep hole and called out, offering braken water. The market was still an hour away.Turmi is a small speck of a town, a wide dirt road pimpled with concrete-walled shops. It smells of goat and sweat. The only reason to visit Turmi is the markets, where Hamar from all over the woreda gather to buy and sell – be it coffee, sorghum or tempo (a snuff tobacco). This is where the Hamar also make money by having tourists take their photo. The men’s showpiece is their hair; they take great pride in shaping their locks and often accessorise with hairpins, feathers (for the muza) or clay-moulded hairpieces. In the villages Hamar men usually walk around bare-chested or wrapped in a sheet called kardi when it’s cold, in the town they wear more Westernised tops.The Hamar have no pockets – it’s said because they have nothing to hide – so one thing men carry is their borkoto, a wooden seat no more than 15cm high. You can purchase your own intricately carved one from the market, as well as wooden dolls adorned with chickeny, goat skins to take home and the ubiquitous patterned gourds. Plus of course enough food for dinner that night. Back at the volunteer camp cooking was done over an open fire. There were always root vegetables to be had and on special occasions we ate goat, although it was a little disconcerting having lunch tied up next to you. The main Ethiopian food is injera, a type of spongy thin bread that forms the base of a dish piled with food such as chicken wat, a kind of spicy curry. You tear off a piece of injera, scoop up some wat and eat with your hand. If you’re lucky you can wash it down with some of the local areke liquor. At dinner each night we exchanged stories, listened to some battery powered music and laughed at our First World problems. The downing sun was slowly replaced by a spectacular moonrise. Under the Milky Way it was easy to appreciate the simplicity of Hamar life. Sitting around the table we all agreed that volunteering had opened our eyes to a part of Africa we would never have seen. Being in an unspoilt land and immersing yourself in another culture is not for everyone, but to see first hand the good you can do was a reward in itself. It was worth that long, bumpy, reggae-filled ride down the dirt road. “Sayin’, this is my message to you-ou-ou.” Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

Guy Needham is noted for his international work, primarily drawing on themes of identity and place within cultural narratives. His images have been exhibited in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, Tokyo and Athens. ABOUT Guy Needham’s inquisitive worldview was shaped by growing up in rural New Zealand in the 1970s. Today he is noted for his international work with indigenous tribes, primarily drawing on themes of identity and place within cultural narratives. His work is a hybrid of photographic genres, sitting somewhere between documentary and portraiture. The simplicity of his pared-down style has been described as having both a quiet intensity and a subtle momentum. His images have been exhibited in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, Tokyo, and Athens, and been seen on the pages of National Geographic Traveler, CNN.com, Lonely Planet, SUITCASE Magazine, International Traveler, Portrait Magazine and AFAR. see exhibitions in situ > GET IN TOUCH guy@guyneedham.com +64 2164 5600 CONTACT CONTACT First Name Last Name Email Type your message here... Submit Thanks for submitting!

I was warned about getting shot in Colombia. The balaclava, reflective sunglasses and combat fatigues in the southern city of Pasto were a giveaway. I should have just run. Instead, I'm hit twice - not with bullets but with white foam shooting out of a canister by a 12-year old boy shouting “Viva Pasto!” < Back Colour in the Streets Get Lost Magazine 6 Apr 2018 I was warned about getting shot in Colombia. The balaclava, reflective sunglasses and combat fatigues in the southern city of Pasto were a giveaway. I should have just run. Instead, I'm hit twice - not with bullets but with white foam shooting out of a canister by a 12-year old boy shouting “Viva Pasto!” That gushing “spssstttttttt” was my intro to El Carnaval de Negros y Blancos (Black and Whites' Carnaval), a five day party held in January that just happens to be the world’s biggest foam fight. The Carnaval is the loudest, longest and messiest festival in southern Colombia, and a real celebration of cultures. To be fair, at the time the trigger is pulled I’m distracted by street vendors yelling, “Some goggles for you, senõr ? A sombrero, cheap?”Now I understand why. Of course, in truehorse-bolted fashion, I purchase a ridiculouslyoversized sombrero and a ‘foam-proof’ poncho to protect myself. Post splatter, I sheepishly make my way back to the hotel. The security-conscious manager, Jaime, is waiting behind a locked door. Letting me in with a chuckle, he looks at me with pity. “You got shot on your first day?! Bienvenido a Colombia! ” After cleaning myself up, I cautiously head towards Plaza del Carnaval, the main square of Pasto and the centrepiece of all things Carnaval. My peripheral vision is working overtime – it seems like every second person is armed with a carioca, an aluminium foam canister, cocked at the ready. Squeezing in next to a family, I proudly introduce myself in halting Spanish, adding “ Viva Pasto!” as if it is some sort of protective cloak. We are jostling among the thousands who have gathered to celebrate La Familia Castañeda – a colourful family who, when they arrived in Pasto in 1929, walked smack-bang into the middle of a horse parade and started randomly waving to the crowd. The Castañeda family became so popular they now have a dedicated parade in their honour. The vibe is electric. We cheer on the performers dressed in 1920s attire as they dance and sing their way past the masses, their vibrant costumes lighting up the parade like the hot Colombian sun. The performance is barely finished before I am hit with foam again, but this time it gets me in the mouth. In an attempt to escape, I hurtle down the main street and find myself at a security checkpoint to a concert, being pat down by a member of the policia. What an entry to Colombia I’ve made. I decide to take it all in my festival-stride and finish the night with a chorizo and a few local Poker pale ales. The next morning Jamie intercepts me as I’m leaving to hit the streets on day four of the Carnaval. “Hey, you got Vaseline?” he whispers. It seems like an oddly personal question. “Huh?” I reply. “Your face,” he says, “the Vaseline, to get grease off.” This is his not-so-subtle way of warning me that it is Dia de Negros (Day of the Blacks). This event marks the day African slaves were freed, and it’s now celebrated with partygoers taking to the streets with black paint smeared across their faces as a sign of respect, symbolising the unity between all ethnicities. My peripheral vision is working overtime – it seems like every second person is armed with a carioca Paint decorates the faces of the masses, and before long I realise I should have taken his advice and packed the Vaseline. My own face gets smudged and I’m greeted back to the hotel with a shake of the head and a smile from Jamie sending a telepathic ‘I told you so’. The pinnacle of the Carnaval is the Grand Parade that falls on Dia de Blancos (The Day of the Whites). This is the cause of all the foam, flour bombs and talcum powder, but before the war starts, a spectacular kaleidoscope of floats takes to the streets. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The floats are covered in colourful and intricate details, and showers of confetti and streamers rain down as tiers of performers dance atop the four-storey-high structures. Cumbia rhythms blast from massive speakers and mechanical heads roar and bob about to the beat alongside the larger-than-life costumedcharacters who dance the streets lined with an enthusiastic crowd. I feel a hand close around my arm and I’m pulled towards a woman. It’s La Lloronda , the legendary ghost who steals children, and she is not to be denied. Doing my best not to look uncoordinated, we salsa Cali-style, spinning and twirling throughout the parade to the sound of laughter, cheers and applause from my fellow spectators. After five hours the show finally comes to an end. Looking around, there is now more white stuff on the ground than in any episode of Narcos. The foam battles have already started up again so I’m pretty grateful there is only 200 metres between my hotel room and my location. Not close enough, it would seem. The powder hits me square on the ear, and it’s impossible not to grin from that one to the other. “ Arriba Pasto! ” Details Get there: Qantas flies to Santiago, Chile, and then take connecting flights on Latam or Avianca from Santiago to Bogota to Pasto www.qantas.com . It is best to arrange a transfer in advance from the airport to your hotel, which should cost approximately 40,000 Colombian Pesos ($18) for the 45min ride. Wear a seatbelt. Stay there: The Hotel Boutique Casa Lopez is perfectly placed between the Plaza del Carnaval and Plaza de Narino – a more casual fun square. The hotel is built in the Spanish style, with restaurant on site, free wi-fi throughout, friendly staff and a relaxed atmosphere. www.facebook.com/hotelcasalopezpasto or on www.Booking.com . Four nights cost 858,000 Colombian Pesos ($377 Tour there: Your hotel manager can arrange local guides, and it’s probably the best way to go as they know their reputation depends on it. You don’t need a guide to the festival, and best of all it’s free. Just get there early and buy a plastic stool off the vendors. Get Informed: Check out Off2Colombia as starting point www.off2colombia.com . The best site about the Carnaval has detail of what to expect every day and is… only in Spanish. Get the Google Translate extension for Chrome or Safari and check out www.carnavaldepasto.org Get in the Know Pablo Escobar was arrested in Pasto when he was caught smuggling 18 kilos of cocaine into Colombia from Peru in truck tires The local culinary delicacy is Guinea Pig, ‘cuy’, which tends to be available roasted. Mmmmmmm. Pasto was founded by the Spanish conquistador Sebastián de Belalcázar in 1537 as he plundered his way south Road rules are more a ‘guide’ as taxi drivers play chicken with petrol tankers on the mountain roads 8000 feet above sea level Near Pasto is the spectacular Las Lajas Sanctuary, a gothic bridge-church built on the site of an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Original publication: Get Lost Magazine < Previous Next >

Members of Culinary Local 226 blocked traffic on the Strip in front of the Cosmopolitan hotel to protest stalled contract negotiations with management. At least 104 people were cited for obstructing the roadway during the protest, which closed parts of Las Vegas Boulevard for 50 minutes, Las Vegas police said. PHOTOJOURNALISM Protests Las Vegas, United States Members of Culinary Local 226 blocked traffic on the Strip in front of the Cosmopolitan hotel to protest stalled contract negotiations with management. At least 104 people were cited for obstructing the roadway during the protest, which closed parts of Las Vegas Boulevard for 50 minutes, Las Vegas police said.