The third of Guy Needham's tribal series, The Mentawai of Indonesia, will be shown as part of the Head On Photo Festival in Australia this year. < Back Head on Photo Festival 12 Jan 2018 The third of Guy Needham's tribal series, The Mentawai of Indonesia, will be shown as part of the Head On Photo Festival in Australia this year. The exhibition, to be held at the historic ArtHouse Hotel in Sydney, will feature ten of the original portraits taken in 2017 and be on display from May 5th though to June 8th. < Previous Next >

One of the images in the upcoming exhibition, The Mentawai of Indonesia, has featured in the US magazine Digital Photo as their Photo of the Day. < Back Digital Photo Magazine's photo of the Day 4 May 2017 One of the images in the upcoming exhibition, The Mentawai of Indonesia, has featured in the US magazine Digital Photo as their Photo of the Day. The image of Aman Ipai smoking was taken in his longhouse (uma) doorway using natural light against a dark interior backdrop. < Previous Next >

Marden was ashen, it was obvious that the poison was starting to take effect. I knew what would happen next – the toxins making their way into his bloodstream, then his glands and finally hitting his central nervous system. With a small first aid kit there was nothing I could do. Not that he wanted me to. < Back Peru Navidad Sunday Star-Times 26 Jan 2020 Marden was ashen, it was obvious that the poison was starting to take effect. I knew what would happen next – the toxins making their way into his bloodstream, then his glands and finally hitting his central nervous system. With a small first aid kit there was nothing I could do. Not that he wanted me to. Marden, my Peruvian guide, has just taken kambo , a ritualistic poisoning sourced from the secretions of a spreadeagled giant monkey frog. Moments before, the village apo (chief) Julio had mixed the dried poison on a tamshi stick before applying it to two spots he had burnt into Marden’s shoulder. Kambo is renowned amongst the Matses tribe for giving a man more energy, greater strength and sexual stamina. The only thing rising right now though was Marden’s lunch as he began to violently vomit. Julio, his two wives and seven children looked on. I was deep in the Peruvian Amazon in a sleepy fishing village not far from the Brazilian border. I had come to spend time with the indigenous Matses (pron. ma-sez), who had only made permanent contact with the outside world in 1969. Since then spears and beads had been replaced with iPhones and adidas, but there were still some elders who followed the traditional ways. “ Passe ,” beckoned Julio, inviting me to the back of his house. Stabbed into the thatched roof were several piercing arrows which he used to hunt wild boar. As he drew his bow to demonstrate his hunting prowess, I could see a glint of pride in his eyes. Julio belonged to the last generation to have the mark of the Matses – a geometrical pattern tattooed from ear to ear. Now faded across his weathered face, his father had inked him half a century ago when he was 10 years old. It was the same marking shared by his wives, said to be done so a Matses ‘never gets lost’ amongst others. It was the same marking shared by his wives, said to be done so a Matses ‘never gets lost’ amongst others. Two of his children joined us. Beads criss-crossed their breasts and stripes of face paint represented the blood of their ancestors. One tried to hold her younger brother in place as he fidgeted with a palm headpiece. The Matses are known as the ‘jaguar people’ and older women insert whiskers of thin bamboo shoots into their noses to represent their feline association. A groan came from Marden as he supported himself against a pole. He didn’t look well. Cheers erupted outside. It was Navidad and the first fútbol match of the day was being played on a concrete court (due to the usual pitch being under the rain-swollen Rio Galvez). All the big names were here – Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar – although somewhat shorter in stature. A sharp midfield cross, a lunging header, GOOAALLL! A 7-year old crossed himself and pointed to the sky, frowning when his celebrations were cut short by the village loudspeaker crackling into life. “ Atencion, atencion!” Before the words had even finished the boys started running, shoving and pushing each other towards the community hall, knowing what lay in wait. There they joined the village’s other children, holding out plastic mugs for Christmas cocoa and waiting for a slice of panettone cake that had come all the way from Iquitos. Ahh, humid, wet, noisy Iquitos. The biggest city in the world inaccessible by road was my starting point for the Amazon, or to be precise, a Peruvian Air Force base. Grupo Aero 42 operated the Twin Otter seaplane that was going to get me and another dodgy looking turista into the jungle. There were strict weight limits for the flight so onto the scales with my luggage I went. “ Doce soles por favor senior”. Hmmmm, maybe one too many helpings of rice the night before. Handing over the 12 soles, soon we were onboard, powering forward until our wake on the Rio Morona was no more. Once landed in the provincial capital of Colonia Angamos it was then a 7-hour boat trip to the village which would become my home for a week. Julio helped Marden to his feet as colour returned to his pocked cheeks. We ambled back to where we were staying; there was no need to rush. Weaning dogs snoozed on broken footpaths as chickens lazily got out of the way. The slow creak of swaying hammocks filled darkened doorways and in the distance children laughed and splashed. Our house was typical of the Matses. Built on stilts with the family name painted on the door, the main room was for relaxing and eating. The kitchen area off to the side had an open fire (there was no electricity or running water) and behind us mosquito nets marked out sleeping areas. I climbed into mine, too exhausted to care about the oppressive heat. The slow creak of swaying hammocks filled darkened doorways and in the distance children laughed and splashed. The next day began before dawn as our host Sebastian had offered to take us hunting. Gliding his peka-peka boat over the glassy surface we drifted silently through the parting mist. A family of spider monkeys rustled from tree to tree, disturbing a pair of Blue and Yellow Macaws as they were eying the activity below. Once on land my newly acquired gumboots were proving their $11 worth, testing rotten logs and untangling twisted vines. Sebastian, gun in hand, stopped to point out a recent hoof-print of a majoz – a favourite edible rodent. Squinting at the undergrowth ahead he stealthily moved forward while we held back. Minutes later Sebastian returned and said something softly in Matses. “It was too fast amigo !” laughed Marden with a bounce in his step. At last, the kambo energy was beginning to kick in. Details Where: Village of Buen Peru, Loreta region, Peru Getting there: Fly from Auckland to Lima, Peru via Santiago, Chile, and then on to Iquitos. Take a military seaplane from Iquitos to Colonia Angamos. From there it’s a 7-8 hour motorised canoe trip to the village. Staying there: You’ll be hosted in local houses in the jungle but spoil yourself and check into the Hilton Iquitos on the way back. Eating there: Local food includes fish heads, turtle soup, paca rodents, green bananas and yuca (jungle potatoes). Only drink bottled water though. Currency: 1 Peruvian sol (S./) = $0.45. It is best to take small notes such as 10 and 20 soles and expect to tip your guide and porter at the end of the trip. Travel tips: You are going to get hot and wet so take breathable Gore-Tex and merino. Double the amount of mosquito repellent you were thinking of taking. Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

Articles ARTICLES 17 Sept 2026 From Shame to Bond New Zealand Herald “Is this the square?” “Si.” The couple sitting next to me were taking in Piazza San Giovanni, picturing James Bond in his DB5, machine guns blazing as his steely blue resolve and bullet-proof glass got him out of another sticky situation... Read More 20 Mar 2024 Why Bluff is the New Hotspot you must Visit New Zealand Herald The town known for those fat juicy you-know-whats, and the place where every New Zealand fundraising ride / walk / tour seems to end, is having a modern-day renaissance. Bluff is one of the oldest settlements in New Zealand but rather than resting on its oyster laurels its quickly becoming a destination of its own. Read More 5 Mar 2024 Cruising down the Highway 35 New Zealand Herald I first saw it through a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon’s smoke-stained window. Staring back at 11-year-old me was a blue and yellow sign: ‘Pig Dog Training School / Bookbinder’. Located just outside of Torere, Joshua Kauta’s iconic landmark still stands, symbolising the next 300 kilometres. Known yet mysterious, friendly yet wary, this is the East Coast. Read More 8 Nov 2023 A Spell in Salem New Zealand Herald “Salem has 400 years of history, yet all people want to talk about was the single worst year we ever had”. Our gregarious Witch City Walking Tour guide, Sean, with tongue firmly planted in cheek, introduced us to what put this Massachusetts town on the map – the Salem Witch Trials. Read More 25 Oct 2023 Falling for New England New Zealand Herald As the road softly curved under a canopy of maples, rusty reds and golden yellows tumbled to the ground. A solitary man, belt braces strapped over his checked shirt, stood out against the wall of crimson trees. Tailgate down on his Chevy pickup, twin American flags bookending his sign, his bottles of homemade liquid sweetness magnified the sun’s rays. Read More 9 Aug 2023 Hidden Gisborne New Zealand Herald The runway was approaching and we still didn’t have clearance. We’d reduced speed but the control tower was looming closer. Suddenly we got the green light. “There it is,” pointed Geoff, “Up in the tower”. Sure enough, a green light beamed back at us, permission to continue on the railway that cuts through Gisborne’s airport. Read More 13 Oct 2019 Barcelona Nights New Zealand Herald “Li-ber-tat! Li-ber-tat!” The chant was sweeping across the square like a Catalan wave. The crowd ignored the soaring heat to remind the world that their pro-independence leaders were still in exile or jail. “Libertat-del-presos-politics!!” Read More 21 Aug 2019 Disappointing a Nun New Zealand Herald 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. Read More 11 Dec 2018 Kenya's Lion Warriors New Zealand Herald "Um, aren’t we a little low?!” shouted my fellow passenger over the Cessna’s engine. She was right of course, we were only 50 metres above the ground and below us impala were scattering everywhere. “No, of course not,” I reassured her while secretly enjoying a personal ‘Out of Africa’ moment as she gripped the armrest. Read More 24 Oct 2017 The Mentawai of Indonesia New Zealand Herald “Hold on, I just need to scrape something off…” My guide had removed his gumboot and was reaching for a knife. Slowly he sliced the blade down his leg to remove the blood sucking leech that had attached itself to him. “Welcome to Mentawai!” he said with a broad grin. Read More 12 Jun 2017 Guiding Principles New Zealand Herald Even the most ardent solo traveller at some stage will need a guide - someone who knows their cantons from their arrondissements better than you do. I’ve used more than 20 guides around the world, from well-known tour companies to random taxi drivers, so here are a few simple tips that might help you out. Read More 2 May 2017 Where the Ocean meets the Sky New Zealand Herald “In the olden days,” began Apinelu, a tone of longing in his voice, “it was never this hot. Never. Now everything has changed, not just the sea.” It was a very still 33° and my earlobes were sweating. Welcome to the small island nation of Tuvalu. Read More 3 May 2016 Deep in the Heart of Texas New Zealand Herald Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio. Read More 12 Jan 2016 Better than a Band Aid New Zealand Herald “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. Read More 5 Feb 2015 Off-grid Ocean Journey New Zealand Herald “When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts. Read More 14 Apr 2009 Morocco in Focus New Zealand Herald When you're in Morocco colour is inescapable. The contrasts, hues and shades that make up this North African country are evident from the moment you land. Travelling through the country is an unbelievably vivid experience, an intoxicating blend of colours, photo opportunities mixed with spicy smells and the strange sounds of a foreign land. Read More see tear sheets >

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 Behind the scenes in Lisbon 22 Oct 2025 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... A pencil case, keeper of memories and three-way pens, lives in that no-mans-land of utilitarian nostalga and scholastic glory. Read the full article here < Previous Next >

In one swift motion the taxi driver heaved my suitcase into the boot. “Do not worry, I am strong!” she laughed, flexing her biceps. Sabrina was my unofficial welcomer to Isola di Procida, a 4km2 speck of land in the Gulf of Naples. < Back Salve Procida Herald on Sunday 2 Aug 2026 In one swift motion the taxi driver heaved my suitcase into the boot. “Do not worry, I am strong!” she laughed, flexing her biceps. Sabrina was my unofficial welcomer to Isola di Procida, a 4km2 speck of land in the Gulf of Naples. The only female tassista on the island, she had taken over the taxi business from her father. “Uh-uh,” she warned jokingly when I reached for my seatbelt, “We are friendly drivers here – no need for that”. Often overshadowed by its flashier neighbours of Capri and Ischia, Procida (pron. PRO-chee-dah) is where Italians come to relax. “You come for holiday? It is very quiet here, no boom-boom-boom like Ischia. You like the quiet, no?” A traditional fishing village since the 17th century Procida is so beautiful that images of it adorn Naples Airport. Named Italy’s Capital of Culture in 2022, the island dotted with beaches and bays has two main towns: Marina Grande, where the ferries arrive from Naples, and the stunning fishing village Marina Corricella, where I was staying. “Salve!” beamed Vincenzo, the welcoming host of Callia Rooms B&B. A Procida local who has travelled extensively, Vincenzo enthusiastically explained what was nearby, where to eat, and what to see. Waiting in my room was a complimentary bottle of prosecco and much appreciated water. A few hours later and keen to explore the island I Whatsapped my new best friend, Sabrina. “Andiamo!” (let’s go) she beckoned, waving me over as she stubbed out a cigarette. Winding through the narrow streets – side mirrors folded in – we started at the highest point on the island, the fortified Terra Murata. The view from the top was jaw dropping; a picture-perfect postcard of Marina Corricella’s kaleidoscope of colour, looking out to the boat-filled bay framed by the Mediterranean Sea. Sabrina nodded with pride, explaining that the pastel-coloured houses were originally painted that way so fishermen could recognise their homes when returning from sea. Passing where the daily fish markets are held at Marina Grande, we drove east to Spiaggia di Pozzo Vecchio, nicknamed Postman’s Beach after the 1994 film Il Postino . Small and pebbled, it is less popular than the nearby black sanded Ciracciello Beach with its choreographed sun umbrellas and overhanging cocktail bars. At the southern end of Ciracciello lies the nature reserve of Isola di Vivara, an island connected by a causeway but with restricted access due to its protected status. Travelling across the island, gated villas and hidden groves began to appear, before the stone roads descended to compact houses once again. “Ciao, ciao!” called out Sabrina to two women chatting across balconies, their washing lightly flapping in the wind. Most Procidani , especially those born here, know each other and there is a palpable sense of community. “When we go to Naples, we are easy to pick out because we have a different dialect.” Following closely behind a couple of Vespas we made our way back to Marina Corricella, where Sabrina dropped me off with a cheery “A rrivederci!” . I made my way down one of the four steep stairways to a restaurant Vincenzo had recommended, Il Pescatore. Before arriving in Italy my food research consisted of watching one episode of Stanley Tucci’s Tucci in Italy , when he visited Procida for its… lemons. Unlike the mouth-puckering citrus we know, limone pane are grander, more bulbous, with the tart flavour replaced by a subtle sweetness. The waiter brought out insalata di limoni procidana (lemon salad) before masterly tossing the chilli flakes into the limon, as if it were a scene from The Talented Mr Ripley. Of course, I had to finish the evening in that most Italian way, pistachio gelato from the waterfront’s Chiaro di Luna . The next morning it was time to see the island from a different perspective. “New Zealand! I was in Auckland three times when I was second engineer for P&O,” announced our boat captain, Christian. With two other passengers on board, we circumnavigated the island over a couple of hours as Christian pointed out the caves, cliff formations and ruins that were only visible from the water. Back on land the sun was punishing. It probably wasn’t the best hour to walk up to Procida’s landmark abbey, Abbazia di San Michele Arcangelo. I was nearly tempted to have a break - “Free limoncello shot if you dance your way to the truck” the sign said. Originally built as a Benedictine Monastery, the 1000-year-old building was deserted by monks in the 15 th century due to constant pirate attacks. Later dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel, over the centuries it has had ecclesiastical works of art, an intricate wooden box and gold ceiling, and numerous frescoes added to it. By pure coincidence the abbey was playing an even bigger role this evening - the starting point for Catholic Processione del Corpus Domini through the streets of Procida. Luckily for me the procession was to pass by Vincenzo’s Callia Rooms. School children led the way, holding up a banner for world peace, followed by clergy in yellow, red and aqua blue vestments, before the Archbishop of Benevento (who was once a pastor on Procida) came into view, walking under a four-poster canopy. Local dignitaries were next, but it was the Procida musical band, playing amongst the hundreds of faithful that received the loudest applause. As the procession stopped at various waypoints, remarks were celebrated with fireworks, colourful flashes in the night sky, sparks fading back to earth. And then there were the explosions, one after another after another wowing the procession. It turns out the Sabrina was only partly right - Procida does have some boom-boom-boom after all. Tips & tricks Procida is a 40minute SNAV hydrofoil boat trip from Naples The island, while compact, has many steep steps so be prepared and wear good shoes Sundays are still traditional, shops are closed and locals treat it as a day of rest If hiring a scooter or motorbike to travel the island, make sure your insurance covers it Plan ahead: https://www.visitprocida.com/en/ Originally published in Herald on Sunday < Previous Next >

It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” < Back A Flying Visit Let's Travel 11 Mar 2011 It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” The city’s known for a lot of things including being first to see the Sun, landing place of Captain Cook, brilliant beaches and Rhythym & Vines – but this weekend was going to start with the isolated, rural, "Boy"-ish East Coast. Tolaga Bay, 45 min north of Gisborne was my first stop. The biggest township on the East Coast happens to have the longest wharf in New Zealand, a stirring sight as waves crash against it at dawn. From there it was down the road – a quick stop at ‘secret’ Anaura Bay where my parents still go to “get away from it all” – before moving on towards the East Cape. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Tokomaru Bay, Te Puia Springs and Ruatoria all deserved a visit before arriving at one of the most majestic Maori churches in the country – the ornate St Marys in Tikitiki. With tukutuku work and intricate wood carvings, the church is dedicated to the Ngati Porou soldiers who died in World War I. Of course, no trip up the Coast would be complete without venturing to Te Araroa to see the world’s largest Pohutukawa, and the sign politely asking kids not to play on it. Back in Gisborne a few hours later there was only one thing to do under the sun… wine tasting. I thought I’d misheard when, at The Works, a winery located on the wharf in town, they’d suggested “7 tastings for $10”. Out they came as the owner patiently took me through each glass, explaining the origin and various other things that I can no longer remember due to 7 wine tastings. Gisborne has no shortage of fine wine with names such as Milton Estate, Montana, Lindauer, Matawhero, Huntaway and Bushmere Estate all calling the region home. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Time to walk it off and luckily I’d picked up a Gisborne, A Historic Walk brochure from the Visitor Information Centre beforehand. Marking the landing of the first European on New Zealand shores in October 1769 is the Captain James Cook memorial. The first hongi between Pakeha and Maori took place on a rock just opposite this statue. Further along, another statue, that of Nicholas Young - “Young Nick” – who was the first on board the Endeavour to sight New Zealand and who has the brilliant white cliffs south of the city named after him. Then the beach. Aficionados will argue about which Gisborne beach is better: Waikanae, Midway, Kaiti, Makarori… the fact there are so many to choose from tells you something. White sandy expanse? Check. Room for your huge towel and beach umbrella? Check. Offshore swell? Check. Icecream store with generous double scoops? Check. Yes, the beaches are something else and the locals know it. They teach surf school here. At dusk the city comes into its own. No longer the sleepy town of the 80s, Gisborne has more hotels, bars and clubs than it rightfully should. Whether it be an Irish pub, a waterside wine bar or an upmarket restaurant you won’t be disappointed by either the service or the entertainment. And when the big Kiwi names go on their summer tours guess which town is always on the list? If you just want to take time out though, like I did for my final afternoon there, you can appreciate this pretty city by strolling through Gisborne’s Botanic Gardens. An oasis for lovers to relax and admire one of the rivers flowing through the city, the gardens also house a decent aviary, some noisy ducks, and oh yes, some beautiful plants.48 hours didn’t quite seem long enough though, and I felt a little cheated that I hadn’t dedicated more time to exploring this part of the country. It was hard getting back on the plane to leave, but somehow I knew that even that would be friendly. Details Air New Zealand flies to Gisborne up to 7 times a day from Auckland and 4 times a day from Wellington. www.airnewzealand.co.nz State Highway 35 from Gisborne to Te Araroa on the East Coast is approximately a two hour drive one way. The Works Great value wine tasting 0800 333 114, info@theworks.co.nz, http://theworks.co.nz/ Wines of Gisborne a handy guide and a good starting point to book tickets to the annual wine festival http://www.gisbornewine.co.nz/ Gisborne Visitor Information Centre The first stop for planning your trip http://www.gisbornenz.com Grey Street, Gisborne Ph: 06 868 6139 or email: info@gisbornenz.com Gisborne Surf Report: Webcams, swells, winds, conditions and “stoke ratings” http://www.surf2surf.com/reports/gisborne < Previous Next >

In this coming weekend's Sunday Star-Times you can read all about how I helplessly watched on as my guide was slowly poisoned... < Back Jaguars in the Jungle 20 Jan 2020 In this coming weekend's Sunday Star-Times you can read all about how I helplessly watched on as my guide was slowly poisoned... ... how children celebrate Christmas in an Amazonian fishing village, how the 'mark of the Matses' is slowly fading with generations, and how I ended up on a Peruvian Air Force sea plane trying to reach the middle of the jungle. < Previous Next >

A portrait of a young Dani woman, Yunita Mabel, from the Papua region of Indonesia has won the Portrait Award for Shoot The Frame. < 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 >

"The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver." < Back The Last Great Hunter-Gatherers 22 Dec 2023 "The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver." The 23rd issue of The Travel Almanac, themed “Origins”, is packed with inspiring journeys and conversations, including my article on dinner with The Hadzabe. Part of a stunning 270-page hardcover, you can order your copy from The Travel Almanac here . < Previous Next >

Guy Needham's tips on preparing for overseas photoshoots is part of this month's D-Photo Magazine article on "Someone Else's World". < Back Someone Else's World 7 Sept 2014 Guy Needham's tips on preparing for overseas photoshoots is part of this month's D-Photo Magazine article on "Someone Else's World". Included in the advice is what's the most important thing to consider when prepping - "You can be forgiven for mangling a word, but if yu eat your food with the wrong hand or are too familiar with the host's family, it's hard to come back from that." < 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 >