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< Back Yunita Mabel wins Bronze 30 Nov 2022 Fresh off winning the Portrait award for Shoot The Frame, and ashowing at the Indian Photography Festival, this image of Yunita Mabel has just won Bronze at the Budapest International Foto Awards. The strong portrait which has echoes of the Mona Lisa was taken in Anemoigi village in West Papua, Indonesia, and will be on display in Hungary in 2023. Like other Dani women, Yunita plays the traditional role expected of females in the tribe - cooking, cleaning, and looking after the children - and lives separately from the men in the village. < Previous Next >

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

< Back Issues around Permission 23 Oct 2015 Last night Guy Needham spoke at the Auckland Photographic Society about his travel photography experiences and his recent Shades of Otara exhibition. As well as talking about photographic styles, issues around permission, and cultural awareness, Guy took questions on everything from staging an exhibition to low profile street shooting. < Previous Next >

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

Every day, NGOs, charities and other on-the-ground organisations are working to make the world a better place. From environmental protection to economic development to disaster response, NGOs are at the forefront of assisting others in their time of need and helping them become self-sufficient in their own communities. PHOTOJOURNALISM NGOs Global Every day, NGOs, charities and other on-the-ground organisations are working to make the world a better place. From environmental protection to economic development to disaster response, NGOs are at the forefront of assisting others in their time of need and helping them become self-sufficient in their own communities.

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 >

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

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 >

< Back Shades of Otara opens 1 Jun 2015 Guy Needham's latest solo exhibition, Shades of Otara, opened this week at Studio One in Auckland. A black and white documentary series three years in the making, the Opening Night was attended by hundreds as part of the Auckland Festival of Photography. The exhibition is on until June 18. < Previous Next >

< Back The Hamar opens in Auckland 5 Aug 2016 The Hamar of Ethiopia opened last night in Auckland with Guy Needham sharing stories about Ethiopia and talking about the concept behind the exhibition. The opening was also covered by D-Photo magazine who reviewed it online < Previous Next >

< Back On cultural awareness 14 Apr 2016 Last night Guy Needham spoke at the North Shore Photographic Society about his travel photography experiences and his recent Shades of Otara exhibition. As well as talking about photographic styles and cultural awareness, Guy took questions on everything from lighting to permission to working as a freelancer. < Previous Next >

"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. < Back Kenya's Lion Warriors New Zealand Herald 11 Dec 2018 "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. We were half an hour out from Samburu airstrip in central Kenya, a wee spot on the map just inches above the equator, and the entry point to Samburu National Reserve. The landing wasn’t pleasant. My fellow passenger gave me a pained smile as she mumbled off the plane. Unlike her, I wasn’t there to go on safari; it was the guardians of the animals who interested me. “Super!” came the crisp New England welcome from behind a beige Land Rover. Strolling towards me was Tina Ramme, a Professor in Biology who tracks nomadic male lions for six months of the year and lectures at Harvard the other six. (I later learned she was actually saying ‘ su pa ’ which is ‘hi’ in Samburu language, as opposed to being really happy to meet me). Strapping myself in, we bumped our way across the east African wilderness, passing through the reserve – an unexpected safari of elephants, giraffes, baboons and ostriches. Exiting the park, a small plaque caught my eye: “In memory of Elsa, who helped safeguard this game reserve”. “You’ve heard of Elsa, right?” Tina asked. Elsa the Lioness was a young orphaned cub, adopted as a pet by game warden George Adamson and his wife Joy in the 1950s. They released her into the wild and their story, Born Free, went on to sell 5 million books and was turned into an Academy Award-winning film. I nodded affirmatively. Years on from Elsa, the presence of lions is still a hot topic. While the park is a guarded national reserve, the massive area around it is untamed land where lions and humans have co-existed for centuries, sometimes not so peacefully. Which is where Tina came in. “No lions have been killed by a Samburu since 2006,” she said proudly. Working with the Lion Conservation Fund for the best part of a decade now, her specialty is lions who are expelled from a pride – when they threaten the leader – and then become nomadic. But researching nomadic lions is, unsurprisingly, no easy thing. She realised early on that she needed the help of the moran (warriors) of the Samburu tribe, known for their tracking abilities. The moran (pron. mo-rahn) are the fearsome face of the Samburu, still traditionally dressed and armed with spears, and now with cell phones. The Lion Warrior project they are part of not only empowers them to track lions, but also helps educate their communities about the wider role conservation has to play in today’s Kenya. “It’s interesting,” she mused, “The moran have so many parallels to nomadic lions. They both are kicked out of families early in life and can’t return for a number of years.” I looked puzzled so she explained. The moran are the second stage of life for the Samburu male – after childhood and before ‘elder’ – that begins when the young male is 12 to 14. At that age they are circumcised (women are still circumcised too) and must leave home and join other moran in fending for themselves. Over the next 15 years they learn to hunt, kill, protect and live in the bush, and only after that period are they allowed to return to their boma (village), having shown that they are responsible enough to marry and raise a family. “You’ll get to meet them soon.” Sure enough, as we arrived at Sabache Eco-Lodge at the foot of the mountain O’Lolokwe, I was introduced to my helper, a young moran named Dickson. The lodge, run by the Samburu community, was far from what I expected. Described as a ‘traditional African bush camp’, my room came complete with hand-crafted furniture, stone ensuite, solar power and sundowners whenever I wanted them. Mornings started with watching elephants rummage in the riverbed below; days were spent chilling on my own private veranda; and in the evenings the campfire beckoned as dinner was shared with other guests – rock climbers, film crews, tourists and families. Over the next 15 years they learn to hunt, kill, protect and live in the bush, and only after that period are they allowed to return to their boma (village). “Do you want to meet the warriors?” asked Dickson with a wry smile.The moran were returning to camp having tracked lions over the previous few days. Once pawprints or other signs are spotted, they can identify the size and age of the animal they’re following. When they see the lions, they keep a healthy distance and report their observations to Tina once back at camp. I took the opportunity to ask them, through Dickson, what their day had involved. Suddenly, these serious young men become animated, pointing and gesturing down the valley towards the mountain. Dickson explained that three of the nomadic lions had banded together and were hunting in a mini-pack. Seeing this sort of activity in person was very rare and the moran were obviously proud. I was invited to join them for a meal. “Ohhhh, a goat! Now that’s something special,” said Tina knowingly, when I told her where I was off to. I arrived just as ‘lunch’ was being unloaded from the back of a motorbike. Held down by four warriors the animal bleated into submission, its body still. One of the moran put a knife to the goat’s throat, slowly, shallowly, slicing down the skin to part its coat under the neck. A quick nick, and then blood started flowing into the pocket of skin that had been created. One by one the moran put their lips to the pool of blood, sucking in the rich redness as the goat slowly died. The sacrifice wasn’t just because of lunch; the moran were contributing to a celebration that was being held that night. The entrails and liver were carefully wrapped and taken to the entrance of the nearby boma. “We are not allowed to eat with our family,” explained Titus, another moran, “so this is the closest we get.” My timing could not have been better. 29 days before I arrived there had been a blood moon eclipse where the moon ‘disappeared’. In the customs of the Samburu, the only way to guarantee its return is sing at it to bring it back. Tonight was the first full moon since the lunar eclipse and I was about to attend “The Moon is Back” party. The colourful Samburu women were gathered in a group in front of me, their bright beads bouncing upwards as they jumped and sang to welcome the Moon back. Nearby, elders drank tea while keeping an eye on the excitable children. Knowing I was a photographer, the women each lined up to have their picture taken. After seeing her portrait, one of them said something in Samburu to the group which got them all laughing. “What did she say?” I asked worryingly. “Don’t worry,” I was told,” She just said that you’d whispered that she was the most beautiful!” The eating started and the celebrations got under way. Taking my leave before it got too late, I crossed the riverbed on the way back to the lodge. Under the trees I could make out the Lion Warriors sitting around a fire, finishing off the remains of the goat. Away from their family, living the traditions that has kept the Samburu strong, and having their last meal before preparing to track the lions one more time. The Moon was indeed back. Details Fly: From Nairobi, depart Wilson Airport on Safari Air / Air Kenya to Samburu Visit: Samburu National Reserve www.samburu.net USD70 entry fee Activities: Samburu safari, village visits, camping, bush walks, rock climbing, birding Stay: Sabache Eco-lodge sabachecamp.com Visa: eVisa required www.evisa.go.ke USD50, valid 3months before travel Travel tip: Check the luggage allowance of any small planes you’re travelling on. Most have a 15kg maximum allowance including hand luggage, all to be in soft bags. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >