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< Back The Hadzabe in Portrait Magazine 19 Sept 2020 Portrait Magazine, a digital publication dedicated to portrait photography, has chosen The Hadzabe of Tanzania to be featured in its latest issue amongst six other photographic projects. The brainchild of Mexican photojournalist Alex Coghe, the magazine can be purchased here . < Previous Next >

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. < Back Cruising down the Highway 35 New Zealand Herald 5 Mar 2024 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. State Highway 35 is its vein, an artery of townships that have risen and fallen with the tide of resources, people and politics. And yet this narrow, storm-beaten road attracts more passion than perhaps any other. ‘35’ logos proudly sit across low-hanging trackies, XXL tees and well-worn bucket hats. 35, the TikTok sensation by the 24-rangatahi choir Ka Hao and Rob Ruha has over 5 million views on YouTube. Driving the road you can see why. Honour guards of rata canopy across the sticky tarmac while almighty ponga stand sentinel over isolated coves. Beehives and bulls fall into the rear vision mirror, as a new Haere Mai approaches. Each township has its own unique ways. Te Kaha is home to the strikingly carved wharenui Tūkākī, next to a memorial dedicated to the Māori Battalion's C Company. Just before it is the Te Kaha Beach Resort complete with swimming pool, sea views, restaurant and event facilities. The Coast, authentic yet polished. As the road curves a bright star appears on the isthmus. Raukokore’s church, its external beams glistening, is as picturesque as it is isolated. The Pacific laps metres away as a stallion nonchalantly looks up. A single ute’s exhaust splutters and then the quiet returns once again. Further on the gears shift down, as does the pace. Fans of Taika Waititi pay homage to Boy’s Michael Jackson moves in front of the Waihau Bay Post Office, as kuia roll their eyes and chuckle. Fisherman patiently wait their turn to use the popular boat ramp as the sea begins to settle. After Hicks Bay the first straight heads towards Te Araroa and a carpet of needles under Te Waha o Rerekohu, the largest Pohutukawa in New Zealand. I played on it as a kid; there’s now a sign politely asking you not to. The most easterly point of State Highway 35 is at Tikitiki. Atop its hill sits the historic St Marys, widely considered to be the most beautiful Māori church in New Zealand. Sunlight strikes the stained glass window depicting two soldiers kneeling at the feet of Christ, below them sit glowing pews. Kowhaiwhai and tukutuku panels bathe in the light, embracing the intricately carved pulpit. The church, which was built as a memorial to Ngati Porou who sacrificed their lives in the Great War, has been lovingly restored over the last two decades. State Highway 35 is its vein, an artery of townships that have risen and fallen with the tide of resources, people and politics. Under the watch of the maunga Hikurangi, the first place to see the Sun, lies Ruatoria. Home of Pa War s - officially the Ngati Porou inter-marae challenge – every year over 20 marae come together for a day of competing fun. As varied as the Coast’s landscape the battles range from sprints to karaoke to euchre. A chorus of ‘chur bro’ sings out as kids collapse over the finish line into the embrace of cheering whanau. Pa Wars is a welcome respite from a tough 18 months on the Coast. Floods, road closures, and of course, COVID-19 restrictions have all affected it. Erosion is no stranger to State Highway 35 either; the roads can be as uneven as the weather. Following another vehicle on the Coast forges an anonymous bond, a shared sense of navigating dips and swerving rocks, until they break away for their own journey as the road winds on. The gastronomical pull of Tokomaru Bay is too strong to drive by. Served fresh and creamy, Café 35’s famous Paua Pies fuel locals and tourists alike. Heads turn as trays breeze past, the waft of hot flaky pastry delivered with a knowing smile, making the wait worth it. The pies travel well, making their half-eaten way to nearby ‘secret’ Anaura Bay. This stunning bay embodies ‘getting away from it all’, its long sandy beach bookended by DOC and commercial camping grounds. The biggest township on the East Coast happens to have the longest wharf in New Zealand. Buttressed by easterly swells the Tolaga Bay wharf can be a stirring sight; a reminder of the respect Tangaroa commands. Light-coloured driftwood touched by fingers of ocean tentatively rests as the tide comes in one more time. A determined father with stroller heads towards the end of the pier, hair askew and hands clasped tightly. Waiting for him when he gets back are Broad Bills’ cheesy wheezies curly fries, a just reward for such a long walk. Beyond Tolaga Bay the road straightens as it makes its way to Gisborne. Behind it is a unique unspoiled land, threaded with a living, breathing highway. The Coast, like State Highway 35 itself, is still a little rough around the edges, but nothing a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon can’t handle. Details Getting there: Self-drive from Opotiki to Gisborne or vice-versa. 4WD is best. Accommodation: Te Kaha Beach Resort, Hicks Bay Motor Lodge, Freedom camping Stop at: Te Kaha, Waihau Bay, Te Araroa, Tikitiki, Tokomaru Bay, Anaura Bay, Tolaga Bay Web: tairawhitigisborne.co.nz/see-and-do/statehighway35/ Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Why Albania?” “Why not?” “What have they done to us?” “What have they done for us?” “Nothing….” “See, they keep to themselves. Shifty. Untrustable.” < Back Why Albania Let's Travel 4 Jun 2015 “Why Albania?” “Why not?” “What have they done to us?” “What have they done for us?” “Nothing….” “See, they keep to themselves. Shifty. Untrustable.” No, not a weird conversation about where to holiday but a scene from Wag The Dog, where Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman are deciding who America should go to war with. Thankfully it never happened, but if it had you can bet Albania would have been ready. Dotted along its coastline are thousands of concrete bunkers to protect it from invasion - the paranoid legacy of communist dictator Enver Hoxha. It had been 20 years since communism had died and I was in Albania to see how much the country had changed. To the outside world Albania is still a mystery; a former Socialist People’s Republic “somewhere near Greece where everyone is poor and backward and ride donkeys and the women have moustaches” (they don’t). Sure, it’s not the most advanced country in the world but that’s what makes it so unique. Where else would you see grass being cut on the main square with a scythe? Or a foreign street named after George W Bush? My quest to discover today’s Albania began in its capital, Tirana. In the 1990s the former mayor - himself an artist - came up with the idea of painting the ubiquitous apartment blocks different colours, to brighten up residents’ lives. As a result the city’s a lot more attractive these days, but it’s never going to win a beauty pageant. No matter, what Tirana lacks in looks it makes up for in character. From the never-ending cacophony of horns as three-wheeled trucks fight with motorbikes navigating Skanderbeg Square, to elderly men warily drinking tea to pass the time of day, the capital of Albania is truly a mish-mash of east meets west with a victor yet to be decided. As the capital, all roads lead to Tirana and you certainly know when you’re on them. “Pot-holed” is an understatement but bouncing up and down in the back of a furgon taxi adds to the sense of adventure. In typical Balkan fashion these shared taxis have no set schedule (nor departure point for that matter); as soon as they’re full, they’re off. I managed to catch an early morning one and only had to wait 15 minutes before the chugging Mercedes starting making its way to my next destination, Berat. After two hours of Albanian viba-train I was relieved to finally arrive. “Somewhere near Greece where everyone is poor and backward and ride donkeys and the women have moustaches” Berat is a charming 2400 year old Ottoman town with houses built one on top of another, earning itself the moniker ‘Town of a Thousand Windows’. I was excitedly met by my host and taken to his ‘welcome room’ for a shot of rakija (a fermented alcoholic drink that’s probably illegal elsewhere). The room itself was magic: traditional curved brick walls, pigeons cooing on the sill, strings of onions hanging from rafters, and the waft of slowly cooking lamb. Another rakija was poured. “Are you going to the Xhiro tonight?” he asked. “It’s Monday so it should be good.” He pointed down to the town. The Xhiro (pronounced ‘giro’), as it turns out, is one of the most curious rituals I have come across. At a time when we might be watching primetime TV the inhabitants of Berat are walking back and forth down a closed off boulevard, dressed to the nines like its 1987. Furtive glances are exchanged as Europop seeps from the cafes. This is dating, Albania-style. In a country where pre-marriage relations are frowned upon and the Western version of ‘going out’ is non-existent, the nightly Xhiro is the one opportunity to size up potential partners. Like someone? Your relatives can talk to their relatives. We joined in – the walking, not the dating – and amongst the fried sweetcorn hawkers and popped collars you could sense the locals enjoying themselves. Berat was also where I saw another sign that times have changed. Mount Shpirag, behind the entrance to the township, once had the name “Enver” (after the former dictator) spelt out in huge letters on the mountainside. Today they’ve been rearranged to spell “N.E.V.E.R” – a very large, defiant statement not to repeat the past. Of course not all of the past was bad. My guide, a Tirana native who had spent much of his life in construction openly opined, “Under communism, we always had a job. No matter how small. Now look around you.” He waved his arm across the square. Men of working age were sitting around doing not much. It was 2:30pm on a weekday. He did admit though that since ‘freedom’ he now had enough money to send his daughter to Germany to study which he would never have been able to do “in the old days”. The final stop on my journey was Shkodra, a town bordering Montenegro. With a castle above and lake below it prides itself as being a little more Balkan-esque than the rest of Albania. Certainly, it has its fair share of al fresco restaurants, tourist-oriented ‘lodges’ and fresh food stalls; Shkodra was a cosmopolitan surprise. One of my favourite moments happened just as I was leaving town and looking to spend the last of my LEK on some meaningful souvenirs. An old woman at the bus stop dangled some woollen socks in my face in the hope that this foreigner would buy them - despite me sweltering in the 35 degree heat. I followed her back to her knitting, and after much hand gesticulation I gave her cash, she gave me some socks, and topped it off with an Albanian ‘smile’. As the bus pulled out I gave her a wee nod, and thought about all the changes she’d seen. After 20 years, capitalism had replaced communism and pester-power had replaced paranoia. The Albania of old was no longer there and yet, as the country was finding itself – with infrastructure and systems still to come – I felt lucky to have seen the Albania of today, knowing that it’s special quality would change again 20 years from now. < Previous Next >

My guide turned to me. “I’m lonely,” he said. Oh OK, this is going to be an interesting trip. “No, no, that is my name. My Bantu name is Uliwa which means Lonely. I have no idea why my mother called me that, I have seven brothers and sisters!” And so began a weeklong friendship of Angolan stories and Afropop beats in the cabin of a Hilux. < Back Opening up Angola The Post 23 Jun 2025 My guide turned to me. “I’m lonely,” he said. Oh OK, this is going to be an interesting trip. “No, no, that is my name. My Bantu name is Uliwa which means Lonely. I have no idea why my mother called me that, I have seven brothers and sisters!” And so began a weeklong friendship of Angolan stories and Afropop beats in the cabin of a Hilux. One of the least visited countries in the world, Angola is a former Portuguese colony on the Atlantic coast of south-west Africa. More associated with danger than tourism, the country is now on a mission to change that perception, introducing visa-free entry to 90+ nations (including New Zealand) and opening a second international airport in the capital Luanda. As one wit put it, it doesn’t help having a machete on your flag. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect as the reviews weren’t exactly enticing: “The most expensive, obstructionist, bureaucratic, and most difficult place for travel in Africa.” Part of that is explained by Angola’s recent history. The country has endured massive crop failures, yellow fever outbreaks, failed coups, and a brutal 27-year civil war that became a Cold War proxy: thousands of Cubans and Russians on one side, with the United States and the apartheid-South Africa backing the other. World attention was drawn to Angola in 1997 when Princess Diana wore body armour walking through one of Angola’s minefields. Today, there are still millions of unexploded devices throughout the countryside slowly being de-mined by NGOs. Despite Uliwa being personally affected by the war – he left the country as a child refugee and lost family in the fighting – he was positive about the future of Angola and eager to show it off. “We’re nearly there!” he unconvincingly tried to tell me as we were into our fifth hour of rutty off-roading and dry riverbeds. ‘There’ was the municipality of Oncocua, a village in the remote south western province of Cunene and our home for the next week. We were here to spend time with the indigenous Vatwa, one of the lesser-known tribes who imitate the dress and language of another tribe: the Himba. Upon arrival the chief, Mutjila, invited us to join him under a mupane tree, a shady respite from the punishing 35 degree heat. “The Vatwa”, Mutjila explained in Herero, “were the original inhabitants of this area thousands of years ago. No one really knows where we came from.” Sipping a drink that one of his two wives brought over to him, he continued. “We have crops over there, we have these goats, we live off the land.” A few years ago the Government built houses for them in the village but they soon reverted back to their traditional huts and semi-nomic lifestyle. 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. I asked about the beads, shells, anklets and leathers worn by the women. “Oh that’s just personal style,” replied Mutija, as I purchased one of the necklaces from a woman feeding her baby. On the morning of our last day we were farewelled with traditional singing and dancing (‘ Also try to take milk from the goats ’ was a favourite) before tackling the uneven road back to the nearest city, Lubango. A clean, modern, metropolitan centre of one million people, Lubango is considered the most beautiful city in Angola. With its Rio-inspired version of Christo Rei looking down from the hill above it, and a nearby large Hollywood-type sign proclaiming the town’s name, there is no shortage of civic pride. Like much of Angola, the informal market economy is hard at work here: roadside touts offer everything from windscreen wiper blades to sim cards to grilled fish heads; women balance sacks of wheat and loaves of bread on their heads; and children try to poke bananas through any open car windows for a quick sale. A few Kwanza, the local currency, can go a long way; while accommodation can be expensive, generally food and transport is very affordable. “I need to show you something,” Uliwa announced. Not far from Lubango was one of Angola’s natural wonders, Fenda da Tundavala, a stunning gorge between two steep-walled cliffs with a 1km drop straight down to the valley below. “My pastor came here,” Uliwa said. “He came with everyone and they closed their eyes to pray. When they opened their eyes he was gone. Just gone. Do not get too close to the edge.” He did not have to tell me twice. Once back in Angola’s capital, I decided to explore the city and its surrounds. In contrast to the sparse countryside, skyscrapers tower over Luanda Bay and G-class Mercedes rule the road – a nod to the vast wealth generated by Angola’s oil, gas, diamonds and gold. Not far from the Luanda’s rich centre lies a more sober reminder of the country’s past, the National Museum of Slavery. During the 400 years of Portuguese rule, over 5.6 million people were taken as slaves from Angola, most heading to another Portuguese outpost, Brazil. Located in a former church where the captives would be baptised, the modest museum houses chains, shackles, and whips next to tally boards listing the ports slaves were traded to. Rather than being a depressing reminder of humankind’s cruelty, it is an authentic collection that aims to educate and preserve a major part of Angola’s history. “Boa tarde!” the guard cheerfully waved as I exited the museum, taking the steps down to Benfica craft market strategically located below. There sat men chiselling away at wood carvings, traditional masks and hand-made bowls, each inviting a closer inspection of their handiwork. I settled on a wooden carving, small and portable, something to go with the necklace I was purchased in the village, so it wouldn’t be lonely for the long trip home. Original publication: The Post < 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 >

< Back Pride of Kenya 11 Dec 2018 If you want to know about drinking goat's blood and tracking lions, pick up a copy of today's New Zealand Herald. The cover article of Travel is my first hand account of journeying into lion country to meet the fearsome Samburu warriors - who are forced to leave home when 12 to fend for themselves. You can read the full article here . < Previous Next >

Images of Guy Needham's exhibitions, presentations and shows in situ. IN SITU IN SITU see exhibitions in situ > see exhibitions in situ >

The Hadzabe are a tribe so old that National Geographic calls them “the closest living relatives of the humans who first left Africa to migrate to the rest of the world.” Today there are only 1,500 Hadzabe remaining, occupying the same harsh valleys that they have since the beginning of the Stone Age. TRIBES The Hadzabe Lake Eyasi, Tanzania The Hadzabe are a tribe so old that National Geographic calls them “the closest living relatives of the humans who first left Africa to migrate to the rest of the world.” Today there are only 1,500 Hadzabe remaining, occupying the same harsh valleys that they have since the beginning of the Stone Age. < Previous Next >

< Back Palliser & Pinnacles 22 Mar 2022 Check out the cover story of today's Herald Travel section to read all about New Zealand's only red-and-white striped lighthouse, the country's biggest fur seal colony... Check out the cover story of today's Herald Travel section to read all about New Zealand's only red-and-white striped lighthouse, the country's biggest fur seal colony, rock formations that formed Paths to the Dead, where bulldozers drive boats into the sea, and where Wellington-surfers-in-the-know sneak away for weekends... < Previous Next >

< Back Ciao Vatwa 14 Oct 2025 The Vatwa will be popping up in Rome at the Galleria Arte Roma Design in early January 2026. The Galleria Arte Roma Design will play host to a select number of Vatwa portaits as part of a pop-up exhibition in early January 2026. Coordinated by Blank Wall Gallery, the exhibition will feature both print and digital artworks from a range of international artists for a limited time, on show in Rome's central Piramide district. < Previous Next >

TRAVEL Timor-Leste Dili, Timor-Leste The history of Timor-Leste (pron. less-tay) is a long and bloody one. After 400 years as a Portuguese colony, a coup in Lisbon encouraged the East Timorese to declare independence in 1975. While the suffering of the past is never far from the country’s collective memory, these days Timor-Leste is on friendly terms with its neighbours, is eager to prosper, and keen to show the world what it has to offer. Previous Next

< 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 >