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TRAVEL Torajaland Sulawesi, Indonesia For the Toraja of southern Sulawesi, death is very much a part of life and their elaborate funeral rites are renowned throughout Indonesia. Previous Next

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

< Back PhotoKina Germany 14 Jul 2018 Final Touches, the lead image of Guy Needham's The Huli of Papua New Guinea series, will be on show at PhotoKina in Cologne, Germany this September. It will be part of the international Atlas of Humanity exhibition, a multi-artist project dedicated to highlighting the ethnic and cultural populations that inhabit our planet to share their traditions, customs and origins. < Previous Next >

< Back Thinking clouds 8 Jul 2025 Fieldfare - a print journal celebrating our connection to place with a longer, slower read - recently published its favourite reader travel photos on Substack. Mine was one of them... “Southwestern Angola, 2 weeks ago. I was staying in the small town of Oncocua and walking to a nearby village. I love the colour palette of the land, building and sky, with the dog just wandering past. The building looking like it has ‘thinking clouds’ appeals to my sense of humour”. You can see the whole gallery here . < Previous Next >

< Back Photographers for Ukraine 9 Mar 2023 Guy Needham and a number of photographers worldwide have joined together to raise funds for UNICEF Ukraine via Portugal's Incubator Gallery. Sales from the images donated , like this one of a Hadzabe leader, will go towards life-saving support for children and their families who are suffering as a result of the Russian invasion. Images will be on show in Lisbon for all of March plus available online to purchase at < Previous Next >

TRAVEL Heart of Texas Texas, United States Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, is a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio - an area known as much for its wildflowers and Harley-hugging roads as it is for being in the Bible Belt of America – a place where God meets guns, traffic yields to longhorns, and TexMex and ribs are a staple diet. Previous Next

< Back The Mentawai opens in Sydney 8 May 2018 The third of Guy Needham's tribal series, The Mentawai of Indonesia, is now on show in Sydney as part of Australia's Head On Photo Festival. The exhibition in the historic ArtHouse Hotel's Grafitti Bar, features ten of the original portraits taken in 2017 and will be on display though to June 8th. < Previous Next >

< Back The Dani come to Auckland 27 Sept 2023 In Guy Needham's first New Zealand show in three years, The Dani is now showing at The Grey Place in Auckland. A testament to the tribe, the exhibition will be a collection of intimate portraits displaying both a quiet intensity and a subtle momentum. The images – all taken using natural light in front of a backdrop held up by villagers – are printed on C-Type photographic prints and Giclee prints. The Grey Place is open 10am-3pm Tues-Sun at 37 Scanlan Street, Grey Lynn. < Previous Next >

< Back Carnaval in the Bogota Post 25 Jan 2018 Colombia's Bogota Post has selected an image taken by Guy Needham at the recent Carnaval de Negros y Blancos for its front page. It's a rare honour for a foreign photographer covering a Colombian cultural event to be featured in this newspaper. You can see the image here . < Previous Next >

< Back La Mercè selected for US exhibition 13 Sept 2021 La Mercè, an image taken for a New Zealand Herald article, has been selected for Praxis Gallery's International Juried Photography Exhibition. Taken during Barcelona's Correfoc de la Mercè, the photo celebrates the heady mix of street theatre, dance and pyrotechnics on Via Laietana. La Mercè will be on display at the 'After Dark' exhibition from October 16 in the city of Minneapolis. < Previous Next >

The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver. The baboon dripping in front of him will be dinner, and perhaps breakfast, for the four families gathered under the ledge. < Back The Last Great Hunter Gatherers The Travel Almanac 24 Jan 2024 The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver. The baboon dripping in front of him will be dinner, and perhaps breakfast, for the four families gathered under the ledge. Tossing offal to the scrawny, yapping dogs, he picks up his bow and wipes the arrows clean. They will be used again tomorrow by the only tribe permitted to hunt in the Serengeti: the Hadzabe. Considered to be Africa’s last true hunter-gatherers, the Hadzabe have lived around Tanzania’s Lake Eyasi since the beginning of the Stone Age . Their origins are our origins: they are the closest living relatives of the humans who first left Africa to migrate to the rest of the world. At first glance, one might take in their dusty environment, spiked spears and worn kudu skins and describe their way of life as primitive. While it’s true that the Hadzabe’s traditions have not changed much over the past millennia, it would be a mistake to prejudge them. For in this land of survival, their uncluttered lives are a counterpoint to the West’s preoccupation with peak everything and insta-gratification. As discussion ensues regarding which parts of the primate to carve up, the words selected not from a universal phonetics. Rhythmic clicks come from the back of their mouths as tongues flick in a musical dance. Each ‘djik’ and ‘thock’ of the Hadzabe language literally preserves their culture, for they neither read nor write. Teachings are passed down orally and visually. A daughter watches intently as her mother plucks a bird, the child’s wondrous eyes popping out of an atmosphere of dust. The wet season is yet to arrive here — yet to dull the odour of animal innards and still-damp hides that permeates the air. D ust rides in on a breeze, as transient as the families it lands upon. Every few months t hese subsistence nomads pack up their modest belongings and move to another boma [ rock ledge ] , where food is more plentiful. For in this land of survival, their uncluttered lives are a counterpoint to the West’s preoccupation with peak everything and insta-gratification. Balancing the ecosystem is existential — if there is no prey to catch, the Hadzabe starve. Today’s choice of arrowhead is barbed; tomorrow’s might be tipped with poisonous sap from the desert rose. The hunters wear their prowess with pride, whether with the skin of an antelope draping their torso or a headpiece made from baboon hair. The women are more demurely wrapped in cloth. One young girl is dressed in a cut - out hessian sack. Chasing away the flies, the leader starts hacking at the lifeless baboon. Cutting off long , lean strips, he hands them to the children who eagerly, haphazardly, place them over the open fire. Although the men eat separately from the women and children, the seared meat is shared equally; the Hadzabe’s communal egalitarianism means no one gets more or less than another. Their appreciation is announced with every loud bite and sinewy chew —taste torn into by hungry mouths as today’s catch is savoured. Although there is no formal hierarchy, it falls to the leader, usually the best hunter, to maintain the group’s harmony. If a dispute arises, it is usually resolved by one party apologising. If a Hazda man does not admit fault despite evidence to the contrary, he receives the most personal of punishments —confiscation of his bow, making him “more useless than a woman. ” The alternative, being cast out to the harsh terrain, is too punitive, for even the majestically ugly baobab trees offer little respite from the sun. The wind whips up sand circles in the sky. It is easy to forget that in a few months’ time this will all be a sea of green. Before then, though, the women must look for sustenance, walking for hours in search of nourishment from roots, fruit and berries. On their backs are babies, quietly staring out to the wilderness. Some of the infants have fresh scars on their cheeks — cuts that were made by their parents. When a baby cries too much the wounds are irritated by their tears, and the child learns to stop crying. For many Hadzabe men, their cheek scars are as prominent as the redness of their eyes, a consequence of smoking bushweed and imbibing fermented sorghum —n ot that this makes them any less attractive. Marriage is a common , monogamous union between Had zabe men and women , but should either party wish to walk away, they do just that and then they are “ divorced. ” The leader carefully resheathes his bloody knife. Two starlings flutter low overhead and he immediately looks up, before slowly turning to flash a knowing smile. It looks like tomorrow will be a poisoned-arrow kind of day. Original Publication: The Travel Almanac < Previous Next >

< Back From Papua to Boston 15 Nov 2022 Boston's Griffin Museum of Photography will be the first United States gallery to feature one of the Dani tribe from Indonesia's Papua region. Although thousands of years old, the Dani 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. The portrait of Lokop Mabel, pensive while smoking and wearing a traditional horim (penis gourd), will be part of the Winter Solstice exhibition on show in Massachusetts from 9 December 2022 - 8 January 2023. < Previous Next >