If you'd like to know what it's really like living with an ancient tribe in the equatorial rainforest check out my latest article in the New Zealand Herald to find out about coping with leeches, rotting wood, poison arrows and medicine men. < Back Living with the Mentawai 24 Oct 2017 If you'd like to know what it's really like living with an ancient tribe in the equatorial rainforest check out my latest article in the New Zealand Herald to find out about coping with leeches, rotting wood, poison arrows and medicine men. < Previous Next >

Published tear sheets of Guy Needham images and articles. TEAR SHEETS see exhibitions in situ > see exhibitions in situ >

Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. < Back Leap of Faith The Press 12 Feb 2013 Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. In 1992 the Bosnian town of Mostar, until then a peaceful mix of Muslims, Serbs and Croats, self-imploded; a microcosm of all that went wrong in the former Yugoslavia. Neighbours who had fought a common enemy turned on each other. The pointlessness was summed up by one act: the destruction of Stari Most – Mostar’s old bridge which had stood for over 500 years was destroyed by Bosnian Croat shells. I was in BiH (Bosnia & Herzegovina) to see how the country had progressed since the Bosnian War. What I found was a vibrant, friendly culture and people that only respected, but also remembered, the past. “Never Forget ‘93” is painted on a rock. Bombed out buildings house trees where once windows were. Cemeteries have the same year on the headstones. And yet, the country is warily finding its own way in the world and once again attracting visitors. While Mostar itself is a relatively small town it is one of the most visited in the Balkans. Known for its alley of coppersmiths, where the sons and daughters of coppersmiths before them have toiled, the ‘clang clang clang’ nearly drowns out the Europop wafting like the smell of burnt coffee. “I have been here with my brother for 17 years,” said one proud artisan. “We started after we stopped fighting. These are the tools of my father”. Showing me his family symbol on the bottom of a plate, he demonstrated how each tool creates a different indent while explaining that “imported stuff in other stores could never be pretty”. I walked away with a copper bowl, a shiny, hand-crafted, story-infused memory of Bosnia. The memory most of us have of Bosnia of course is the nightly news 20 years ago, dominated by Sarajevo. For nearly four years the city was under siege, surrounded by Bosnian Serbs who wanted it as part of a Greater Serbia. Today in The Hague sit those being tried for war crimes for the shelling and snipers that made Sarajevo unliveable. Zig-zagging across the street for fear of being shot. Queues for water and bread. Every tree cut down for firewood. And football fields converted to graveyards. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. The city had one way in and one way out, a tunnel to the UN-protected airport. We decided to tour it.It wasn’t long before our tour guide was on the verge of tears. She apologised for her emotion and had to stop at the tunnel entrance. “We found out our friends had died because they didn’t come to school. I had many friends… die. It was very sad to be 8 and lose friends”. Her English was broken but not because she didn’t speak fluently. 11,541 civilians were killed in the siege. Today’s Sarajevo is a symbol of resilience, buzzing with tourists-a-plenty. Its pedestrianised areas are filled with chain stores. Old men play chess, young couples kiss passionately and kids cry over spilt gelato. The charm of the old town is still there with restaurants serving up shots of rakia (40% distilled alcohol) and hot plates of cevapi, a moreish grilled lamb dish in open kebab bread. < Previous Next >

As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. < Back The Land of the Toraja Otago Daily Times 1 Nov 2023 As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. For the Toraja of southern Sulawesi, death is very much a part of life and their elaborate funeral rites are renowned throughout Indonesia. As per custom, Tanjkeara was being kept in the southern end of the house until he could be buried. For now, he was considered ‘ill’ and was still talked to, brought water and tobacco, and received visitors like me. Ithos, my local guide, explained more. “For us, it is important to honour those who will pass to puja , the afterlife, and to connect between the living and the dead. And here that is very expensive.” Although the Toraja are predominantly Christian – a highlands enclave in the most populous Islamic country in the world – they blend this with Alukta , the ‘old religion’. It is believed that without a traditional tomate funeral ceremony misfortune will come to the family of the deceased. For the high caste that means constructing temporary seating and housing for hundreds of expected guests, feeding and watering the helpers in the months leading up to the funeral, and then the bloody sacrifice of at least 24 buffalo to accompany the deceased to puja . Until then, like Tanjkeara, they rest at home in a coffin. Ithos continued. “After burial, once every three years we remove them to change their clothes, and polish their necklaces, and clean their glasses. This is ma’nene , this is how we look after them.” The exhumed are then returned to their graves which may be in the form of crypts carved into solid rock, coffins hanging from cliffs, or natural ledges in caves. He nodded upward. Sitting quietly in the rock balconies above us, tau tau effigies of the dead reached out with chipped wooden hands. “It is OK, I know it is different for you, but think of it as a celebration not a sad time.” I must have been silent for a while, as Ithos sensed my wonder (or unease) and offered to take me to see his family’s tongkonan for a change of scenery. The drive from the town of Rantepao into the countryside was a pretty one, full of rice paddies and giant bamboo, punctuated only by swerving to avoid dogs sleeping on the road. As we approached his family’s traditional tongkonan my jaw dropped. Intricately carved, elaborately painted, saddleback-roofed houses stood before me, reaching to the sky. That is, until I was corrected. “No no, not those,” smiled Ithos, “They are only alang , rice barns. There are our tongkonan ”. Facing north stood three giant houses, their distinctive shape representing the prows of ships that brought the original Toraja across the Java Sea and up the Sa'dan river. The architectural beauty was only surpassed by the extraordinary number of buffalo horns adorning the front of the house. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. As luck would have it I was about to find out where all these buffalo came from as the Bolu market was being held in town. The market, held unhelpfully ’every six days’, is a raucous affair of yelling and haggling on top of crowing and grunting. The giant buffalo pen smelt like, well you know, as close inspections started on the most prized white-faced buffalo. The cost? I could pick up a small buffalo to take home for about 14,500,000 Indonesia Rupiah ($1000 US dollars). Something bigger? I'd be dropping a cool 50mil at least. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. Bolu market is also where a canny Torajan can pick up a winning investment – in the form of a rooster. Although betting on cock fighting is not officially allowed, a blind eye is turned in the case of celebrations or funerals. Before me, men crouched, holding their prized roosters before challenging others to a mock fight (no blades). By proving their rooster’s prowess, through speed and ‘efficiency’, the men get to put more Rupiah in their pocket. Knowing I was keen to explore the countryside, the next morning Ithos took me further into the hills. The name Toraja comes from “People of the uplands” and the geology of region naturally irrigates the numerous rice terraces. As we navigated between paddies the retreating mist gave way to early morning workers, passing slowly under Salamat Datang signs that welcomed visitors to each village. “You like rice?” Ithos asked half-jokingly. “Tonight, I take you to a favourite restaurant for bamboo in chicken.” Not quite knowing where to expect the bamboo to be but always keen to try local delicacies, you can imagine my relief when pa’piong ayam arrived - grilled chicken minced with vegetables and extra hearty Toraja spices, all sitting in a hollowed-out bamboo shoot. As we sat there discussing the price of buffalo, the roar of engines and horns got louder. We looked outside to see a procession of bikes, revved up motors and cheering passengers, slowly making their way up the street. Behind them in a cloud of fumes followed an ambulance. The motorcade was the Torajan way of paying respects to someone who had just died and was being returned to their village. They were now on the first part of their journey to puja , but would first rest in their home, receiving visitors and guests. Details Where: Toraja land, South Sulawesi, Indonesia When: July and August are the drier months when the ma’nene cleaning is held How: Fly into the new Toraja Airport (TRT), one hour’s drive from Rantepao Stay: Toraja Misiliana Hotel, including options to stay in a Toraja Tongkonan Suite Original publication: Otago Daily Times < 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 15 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 >

On Tuesday 3rd June at 6pm Guy Needham, will be talking at the opening of his latest exhibition, The Huli of Papua New Guinea. < Back Presentation on the Huli 20 May 2014 On Tuesday 3rd June at 6pm Guy Needham, will be talking at the opening of his latest exhibition, The Huli of Papua New Guinea. Part of the Auckland Festival of Photography, Guy will be sharing his experiences with the Huli tribe - the last traditional tribe in the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea. < Previous Next >

We both looked up. It was a strange sound, obviously unfamiliar to my host. “When was the last time it rained here?” I asked. A pause. “Um… this is the first time this year. Might settle the dust though,” said Nick laconically. Perhaps a good omen to mark the centenary of what some would say is Australia’s strangest town. < Back The Strangest Town in Australia Sunday Star-Times 26 Apr 2015 We both looked up. It was a strange sound, obviously unfamiliar to my host. “When was the last time it rained here?” I asked. A pause. “Um… this is the first time this year. Might settle the dust though,” said Nick laconically. Perhaps a good omen to mark the centenary of what some would say is Australia’s strangest town. I was in Coober Pedy, located in the desert of the South Australian outback, a red dirt town under big blue skies. It’s a town that was founded 100 years ago on opal mining, a town where 50% of the population live underground, and a town that hadn’t seen rain for a while. As the showers gently eased Nick, the owner of The Lookout Cave Underground Hotel, commended me for visiting during the ‘colder’ months (it was 31° outside). In January it had been an unbearable 43°. The locals avoid the worst of it by living in ‘dugout’ homes excavated out of sandstone hills, giving them a constant 22° and respite from the harsh desert heat and dust. Unlike ‘mole holes’ these homes – like my underground hotel room – are generally at ground level, super quiet and thankfully not claustrophobic. When the rain stopped Nick pointed out the air vents that dotted the landscape, rising like metallic mushrooms giving air to the dugouts below. Google Maps had already shown me that Coober Pedy was going to be different: the reddy-brown landscape, few structures, fewer roads and lots of dirt. But what the town lacks in looks it makes up for in superlatives: it is, after all, the Opal Capital of the World, down the road is the Largest Cattle Station in the World, cutting through it is the Longest Man-made Structure in the World, there’s the Driest Golf Course in the World and of course, the Largest Underground Hotel in the World (capitals intended). I think it also has the most flies in the world. I’d timed my visit with the Coober Pedy Opal Festival, which this year was celebrating 100 years since fourteen-year-old Willie Hutchison found the first opal there. The festival kicked off with the annual Street Parade, hosted by jovial MCs keeping the crowd entertained under the blazing mid morning sun. Slowly the flotilla came into view, heavy mining trucks leading the way followed by local businesses, AFL fans and the obligatory Mines Rescue vehicles. In a town of only 3500 if you weren’t in the parade you were cheering it on from the sidelines. “Where you from eh fella?” asked the aboriginal man next to me, from under his Akubra hat. I told him and then David Mindi Crombie told me his life story. Born inside an open-cut opal pit with his twin brother. Famous for writing songs about Coober Pedy. Performed at the Sydney Opera House on a national tour. Named Coober Pedy Citizen of the Year (1992). A Justice of the Peace. Singing tonight at the pub up the road. I’d picked a good person to sit next to. Nick commended me for visiting during the ‘colder’ months (it was 31° outside). The Opal Festival also coincided with Easter so there was no better time to visit one of the town’s underground churches. Father Brian Mathews welcomed me at the door of Saint Peter’s and Paul’s and patiently took me through its history. “The parish is rather large I guess,” he said, standing in front of a wall map. “And we don’t always have a church everywhere. Last week I had mass in the dining room of a pub.” He drew his finger across the boundaries. It went up to Uluru, touched Western Australia, Northern Territory, Queensland and New South Wales. This priest was responsible for a parish area bigger than Texas. Across from the church was one of the town’s two dozen opal jewellery stores, which makes sense when you consider that 85% of Australia’s opals come from Coober Pedy. “They’re all individual, that’s what makes each one so special,” said George of Opalios, peering up with his jewellery magnifiers still on while polishing a stone. “It doesn’t matter what type of opal you like - cut, rough, milky, black, pinfire – it’s bound to be different to what anyone else has.” He pulled out a solid opal set in 18k gold. Price? A steal at $12,500. The dirty end of the business was found at Tom’s Working Opal Mine. After the briefing and donning a hard hat, I wound my way down 12 metres underground. Blower pipes, Caldwell shafts, pillar bashing, explosive setting, sump tunnels - there’s a lot to this opal mining gig. Which explains the numerous abandoned drill holes in the area (“Beware deep shafts” “Don’t walk backwards” the signs warn). Even the town’s name comes from the Aboriginal kupa-piti meaning ‘white man in a hole’. The landscapes weren’t just a potholed mess though; this was the scenery that had starred in Priscilla: Queen of the Desert and Max Mad: Beyond Thunderdome so I arranged to explore more. “Today we’re gonna go off road for about 600k’s,” said Rowie as I put my seatbelt on. Peter Rowe isn’t your typical tour guide. He’s an official Australia Post contractor and I was joining him on ‘mail run’ from Coober Pedy to William Creek to Oodnadatta. The 12-hour drive would take us across the Great Artesian Basin to the edge of the Victorian Desert. First stop was Anna Creek Station, the largest cattle ranch on the planet at a whopping 24,000km2 – that’s 6,000,000 acres. To give you a sense of scale, the distance from the property boundary to the unassuming homestead is further then the distance from Auckland to Hamilton. No one was home but Peter dropped off the mail, disturbing hundreds of screeching Corella birds all wanting to make their presence known. To get to Anna Creek we had to pass the Dog Fence, designed to keep dingoes away from livestock. The fence is twice as long as The Great Wall of China; 5600kms of protective barbed wire and posts weaving across three Australian states. William Creek (pop. 6) is a town so small that it’s entirely surrounded by Anna Creek Station. One thing it does have though – aside from a pub – is an outdoor ‘rocket museum’. I had to squint to read it but that’s what it said: the metal carcass in front of me was part of a rocket used to launch a British satellite from the nearby Woomera Rocket Range. Impressed, I went back inside for some Kangaroo Yiros and a Hahn Super Dry. The unsealed road that runs from William Creek to Oodnadatta is known as the Oodnadatta Track. Partially built on the old Ghan railway line the track is at times bone jarring, very geologically diverse and a little surprising. In the distance a dingo stared at us. “Hang on to ya hat!” Peter yelled, as he turned the 4WD onto the tundra and raced towards the now scurrying dog. That particular chase was futile but we did get close to kangaroos, camels and hawks. On the way back to Coober Pedy I was regaled with more stories – from the Afghan cameleers to the unfortunate souls who perished in the desert heat. We arrived back long after dark. The week of celebrations culminated with the Coober Pedy open-air cinema. Held every second weekend it seemed like the whole town had parked up, tuned in, sat back and enjoyed the free ice creams and cheap snacks. It was one of the few above-the-ground activities in town. Of course, like any movie theatre, it began with the “Patrons: Explosives are not to be brought into this theatre” slide, a joke flashback to the old days. Staying in Coober Pedy made me realise it’s not for everyone. To be honest, it can be a little strange – like that uncle you try to avoid at Christmas – but if you’re ready to exchange more than pleasantries and are willing to be surprised, you’ll find that there’s a lot more under the surface of this unique outback town. Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

Online photography magazine F-Stop has included two of the Hadzabe series in its June issue - Hadzabe Boy and Hadzabe Kudu. < Back Hadzabe Kudu in F-Stop magazin 2 Jun 2020 Online photography magazine F-Stop has included two of the Hadzabe series in its June issue - Hadzabe Boy and Hadzabe Kudu. The magazine features contemporary photography from established and emerging photographers from around the world with each issue's theme uniting photographs to create a dynamic dialogue among the artists. < Previous Next >

See the exhibition about one of the world's most remote tribes, the Dani of Papua "One of Papua’s 150 tribes, the Dani live in the isolated Baliem valley where the smell of dampness hangs in the air, pushed down by the cigarette smoke and low cloud.” The Dani of Papua In the distant land of Papua, Indonesia, live the Dani tribe. Although thousands of years old, they were unknown to the rest of the world until 1938. Today they still live a simple life and, while not isolated from the march of modernity, their traditions and values have endured. Dani men are renowned for their formidable appearance – including wearing the horim or penis gourd. While most of the younger members of the tribe wear western clothes today, the elders still adhere to the old ways and the tribe embraces traditional dress when it comes to ceremony. See the exhibition Porto 12 - 26 June 2026 Address MIRA FORUM 68 Padre António Vieira Street Porto, Portugal Contact (+351) 929 145 191 (+351) 929 113 431 Opening Hours Wednesday to Saturday 15:00 – 19:00 miraforum@miragalerias.net guy@guyneedham.com ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER Guy Needham’s inquisitive worldview was shaped by growing up in rural New Zealand in the 1970s. Today he is noted for his international work with indigenous tribes, primarily drawing on themes of identity and place within cultural narratives. His work is a hybrid of photographic genres, sitting somewhere between documentary and portraiture. The simplicity of his pared-down style has been described as having both a quiet intensity and a subtle momentum. His images have been exhibited in New York, London, Paris, Berlin, Barcelona, Tokyo, and Athens, and been seen on the pages of National Geographic Traveler, CNN.com, Lonely Planet, SUITCASE Magazine, International Traveler, Portrait Magazine and AFAR.

“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. < Back The Mentawai of Indonesia New Zealand Herald 24 Oct 2017 “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. The leech and I were on the island of Siberut in the Indian Ocean, 150km west of Sumatra, on one of Indonesia’s 17,000 islands. I was there to spend a week living with the Mentawai tribe, a proud, independent hunter-gatherer people living off the land since the Stone Age. Far from your typical holiday, only a few people make it this deep into the equatorial rainforest, and had I not been researching for an exhibition I doubt I would have heard of them. So, here I was, three flights, one ‘fast’ ferry, 1 motorcycle ride, 3 hours on a motorized canoe, and 2 hours tramping through mud later. No electricity, no cell phone, no internet, no bedding, no toilet, no running water. “Anai loita” welcomed the tough, wiry sikerei (medicine man) who wore nothing more than a loin cloth, as his intricately tattooed hands firmly gripped mine. Aman Teutagougou was to be my host for the next few days, and after pointing out where in the uma (long house) I could leave my backpack – just under the monkey skulls hanging from the door frame – it was time to look around. Aman Teutagougou, like other Mentawai men, had multiple tattoos all over his body. He told me that the tattoos – which are tapped out painfully with needle and ink – each take a week. The men all have the same designs and start with the Sun, symbolising life. The final tattoo applied is to the face, signifying “I am finished”. Perhaps more disconcerting to the Western eye is the Mentawai women’s teeth. In a show of traditional beauty women sharpen their teeth to a point, which the Mentawai men find attractive. A beaming Bai Ibuk proudly flashed me her chiselled molars one night, as the jungle rains came down hard outside. Looking out into the torential rain it was easy too understand why the Mentawai consider themselves Keepers of the Rainforest. They are entirely self-sufficient, only taking what they need from the world around them and are at one with nature. I saw first-hand bark from the breadfruit tree stripped to make loincloths, water channelled to make sago, special leaves picked to mix poison for arrows, and left-over chicken bones fed through the floor boards to the snorting pigs below. What living with the Mentawai lacked in creature comforts, it made up for in spirits. Literally. While the rest of Indonesia is predominantly Muslim, the 64,000 Mentawai still follow a type of animalism called sibulngan, which worships the four main nature spirits of the Sky, Sea, Jungle and Earth. It was these spirits that were called upon when I was sick with fever towards the end of my trip. In a show of traditional beauty women sharpen their teeth to a point, which the Mentawai men find attractive. Ill, sweating, shaking, lying on a thin mattress under a mosquito net, I awoke feeling pressure on my stomach. Struggling to open my eyes, I could just make out a man kneeling over me pushing his hands into my abdomen. He slowly lifted my head and poured a crushed concoction of berries, leaves, water and dirt into my dry mouth. Delirious, I wondered why he was wearing my watch… When I awoke the next day I was told that the medicine man who came to see me was Aman Toikok, a village elder I had met at the start of my trip and who I had gifted my watch to. He heard that I was sick, and made the 3 hour walk to the uma I was staying in to call to the spirits of the Sky to heal me. While I was grateful for the relief, officially the Mentawai are not allowed to practice medicine, nor their indigenous religion. Pressure from the Indonesian government, including a 1950s decree prohibiting such customs, and the construction of ‘Government villages’ with schools, amenities, healthcare and free houses to entice the Mentawai from the jungle, are threating the traditional lifestyle and simple values of the tribe. Today the Mentawai people have to work harder than ever to preserve their ancient unique culture. Leeches and all. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

If you want to know about drinking goat's blood and tracking lions, pick up a copy of today's New Zealand Herald. < 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 >

Guy Needham is an international photographer noted for his work with indigenous tribes, who primarily draws on themes of culture, identity and place.