Ethiopia 2009 Simien Mountains, Bale Mountains, Omo River Delta
Day 1 - We left Nairobi around noon, and flew for almost 2 hours
into Addis Ababa where we met our private charter and took off
on another 1.5 hour flight to Gondar, the nearest town to the
Simien Mountains.
The flight over was breath-taking. A maze-like network of plowed,
worked fields of the local, popular foodstuff, tef, covered most
open spaces. Sometimes, but infrequently, a dirt road paralleled
or neared the plots, but often, from the air, there seemed to
be no access, and often the fields were miles from the nearest
villages or settlements. There were no cars or trucks, and even
on the two paved roads we flew over, we saw less than a dozen
vehicles. We were in another age.
We landed in AA at just shy of 8,000 feet, and for much of
our flight we crossed over the Ethiopian plateau which snaked,
in twists and turns, across the horizon. Often we flew over incredible
canyons, the sides of which sometimes sporting a round, green-roofed
structure, the monastery for the orthodox Christians that dominate
the highlands. The land was torturous, and only slightly less
rugged than the Grand Canyon of Arizona, but here the canyons
were country-wide and not a mere slash in the Colorado plateau.
The canyons and outcrops are formed from volcanic activity, then
shaped in the last assuage by weather - rain, hail, wind, water-erosion
(the Blue Nile and its tributaries cut beneath us), and perhaps
even glaciers.
The drive to the Simien Mountains and our lodge went through a
few bustling villages, crowded, dusty, and dirty, but most of
the drive went through open land - all cultivated, but with scattered,
small settlements. We stopped at one to photograph the haystacks
and met the farmer and family, and he posed obligingly, not really
having a clue what we were doing, but responsive to our smiles
and handshakes, and intrigued by the digital monitor when we showed
him his picture.
At one village we stopped to photograph a white-robed woman, a
new bride, we were told, on a pony decorated in red. While the
models, and the kids that gathered were cooperative, we were soon
swarmed by people and I think it was a bit intimidating for some.
But the people were friendly, and when our crowd grew into the
size of a mob we hopped back into our LandCruisers and drove off.
Approaching our lodge, we entered the Simien Mountain highlands,
and we were soon treated to the absolutely stunning landscapes
- buttes reminiscent of Canyonlands or Monument Valley, sheer,
towering cliffs that fell straight to the valley floor 2,000 or
3,000 feet below. Our winding dirt road sometimes skirted the
cliff edge, albeit with several yards of shoulder, but, of course,
no guard rails, and one simply had to trust that our vehicles'
had good brakes.
When we arrived at the lodge the electrical power quit, and we
unpacked, downloaded, and showered via flashlights, and ate by
candlelight. The food was modest and tasty, and after a long day
of travel we felt fairly settled, only hoping that we'd have power
soon.
Day 2 - Simien Mountains
We still had no power by breakfast, and around 8AM headed to the
Gelada Baboon ridges, hoping to photograph them as they climbed
out of the valleys, or steep cliff side shelters, where they overnight.
We were advised that the Geladas wouldn't appear before 9:30 or
so, but we wanted to be sure and left early, and indeed found
Geladas already up and on the tightly cropped grass plateaus or
along the roadside. We stopped at the first significant group
to get some snaps, but there were some researchers there so we
quickly moved on, finding our own group not too far ahead.
The Geladas are stunning, at least the males, with blond-brown
flowing manes that give a very lion-like appearance to this primate.
We were fairly cautious at first, using our long lenses, but we
soon discovered that they were completely habituated and would
walk, run, or graze within feet of where we stood or sat.
I headed to the cliff edge, hoping to find Geladas just climbing
up and still sitting on the edge where I could incorporate the
rugged background, and I found several. Within a few minutes I
had slid forward, on my butt like a Gelada, within two yards or
so, and the baboons were unconcerned.
Over the next several hours we changed locations once, finding
another group where the background was even more dramatic. There,
on the grassy plateau, we started doing ground-level shots, lying
on our bellies and using wide-angles where we were incredibly
close. Sometimes, we were actually shooting up at the Geladas
with our 16-35mms, framing the baboons against a cloudy sky.
Mary and I followed one troop into the woods, a gnarly, ghostly
forest of low trees draped with hanging lichen or mosses, reminding
me in a way of some forests in the gorillas' habitat of Rwanda.
By then, we were the only two still shooting so we reluctantly
returned to the cars and headed back for lunch. We downloaded
cards during lunch, and the process drained our laptop's batteries
to near zero, so we were worried about our power situation.
Around 4 we headed back out, hoping to catch the baboons as they
returned to the cliffs and started down. At our shooting site
we had hundreds of baboons interspersed with a few score of goats
and a couple of children who tended and moved the livestock. The
Geladas were completely unconcerned, feeding by the kids and goats.
The skies were a bit stormy so we tried framing Geladas against
the sky, using flash fill to even the exposure, while also working
on tight portraits with our telephotos. I had some luck catching
views that represented the steep cliffs that the baboons descended,
and missed a couple ferocious fights between rival males. We shot
to almost sunset, finishing the day with landscapes that depicted
the rows of blue ridges, drifting off to a distance haze.
Everyone shot a huge number of images, and all of us were concerned
we'd be out of battery power to download cards but, fortunately,
the power was on and we downloaded and backed up our images.
Day 3 - Simien Mountains
We headed out the usual time, going for Walia Ibex at the far
end of the park, about 2 hours distant. En route we passed more
Geladas, and in the bright sunshine it was killing me to pass
them by. Ibex country is high, and our first encounter occurred
after we had rounded a 14,000 foot pass. Our park scouts spotted
a nice ram, with huge sweeping crenellated horns, fairly high
up a hill in the company of a group of Geladas. Rick, Mary and
I started up the steep slope, breathing heavily in the thin air.
The ibex was shy, but I did manage some near frame-filling shots
as it walked by, at 700mm, but shortly afterwards it crested a
rock outcrop and bounded passed Steve and away.
We soon found another herd of about 15, all males, down the hill
on the opposite side of the road. We followed them several different
places, finally having a bit of luck when we jumped into the car
and raced ahead on the road to a spot this very shy herd appeared
ready to cross. They did, and we got some passing shots. I tried
following them up the slope, hoping to intercept them on the ridge,
but the Park Warden had appeared, and was giving us a hassle about
photography permits, thinking we were a film crew. With much reluctance,
I headed back down the slope, after a lung-busting climb that
nearly had me to the ibex.
Meanwhile, Bill, Sarah, and Carolyn had driven off with another
driver and were extremely lucky, finding an entire family group
of ewes, lambs, and rams that approached, paralleled, and crossed
the road so close that Bill was shooting head shots! One of our
vehicles had gone looking for the three of them, and finding they
had luck had raced the several miles back to find and fetch us.
By the time we got there the ibex were a few hundred meters up
slope, and after all of our hiking, chasing ibex, the three of
us were beat, and the climb upwards painful.
But the ibex were there, just off a trail and at the base of a
steep slope, and we did quite well as they grazed towards us,
before climbing up and over the cliff. Steve and I anticipated
this and found a route up, hoping that they'd feed towards us.
They didn't - they moved exactly opposite us, but we did get nice
shots as two rams reared on their hind legs, pausing for several
long seconds, their forelegs raised in a tuck, folded flat against
their chests, before dropping and slamming horns. They sparred
for several minutes, just fitting within the frame of my 500mm
lens. Good shooting! Meanwhile, Mary and Rick worked on ibex lower
down on the slope and both shot frame-filling portraits of lambs
and ewes on the cliff.
After the shoot, we had a picnic lunch of last evening's left-over
pizza on the edge of a cliff face that dropped 3,000 feet to the
valley floor. While we munched, a thick-billed raven pair flew
down to join us, giving great opportunities for portraits. It
was a bit unsettling to be eating less than two meters from a
drop off that would surpass any skyscraper's height - it was like
eating on the windowsill of the Empire State Building. The view
was superb, and the terraced farmland far below resembled the
wheat fields of the Pelous in Washington.
Steve and our guides, meanwhile, headed to the warden's office
to sort out the photography problem. Originally, when the warden
found us (he had raced from HQ on a misinformed tip that there
was an unauthorized film crew) he wanted to charge us $400 as
a photo fee. Steve, accustomed to the bribes and corruption of
Kenya, refused to pay, rightly saying that we didn't need a permit
since we were tourists. The warden grew annoyed, and later called
his boss who then told the warden that we would need to pay $3,000
instead!
When we arrived at HQ, Steve informed us that our vehicles had
been impounded and we were not allowed to pass until we paid the
$3,000, which we had no intention of doing. Fortunately, Steve
had a satellite phone and called a friend at AA who was connected
to the tourism department, and he called the head of the Park
Department to sort things out. Eventually, when the Park chief
called, we came to a compromise, and we paid the original $400
to the warden, but we did get a receipt, so we know the payment
was official.
The encounter put a slight damper on the afternoon, although I
made it a point to talk with the warden and his assistant warden,
explaining how well-heeled American tourists interested in wildlife
would be carrying these big lenses, like ours, and would balk
at paying big fees for doing so. We had a pleasant conversation,
and hopefully things will be sorted out in the future.
Afterwards, we headed back to the lodge, again passing hundreds
of Geladas that tempted us to stop, but we were hoping to shoot
the rare Lammergeier Vulture, which we intended to bait with bones.
At 4 we did so, but for nearly an hour the skies were empty, although
the western sky, our light source, was shrouded in a heavy rain
cloud. By 5:30 the storm had passed, and with wonderful late afternoon
light an adult Lammergeier flew by, followed later by an Egyptian
vulture, and a very curious and cooperative immature Lammergeier
and a tawny eagle. We did some great shooting, but rued our luck
that our best vulture was only an immature. Still, the shooting
was wonderful.
We had no power as evening closed in, but shortly before dinner
the electricity came back on, so we could pack, and download,
with power and light. We were sorry to have to leave the Simien
Mountains, and decided four nights, instead of three, would be
the best plan for a future trip.
Day 4 - Gondar to Bale Mountains
We left on schedule by 8, driving directly to Gondar where we
visited the one remaining church that survived a Muslim siege
and sacking back in the fifteenth century. The artwork inside
the temple was outstanding, and we did plenty of slow shutter
speeds of frescoes and walls, and some great Rembrandt lighting
on a priest I posed. Later, behind the church, I found another
man praying with his bible, and he consented for more photos,
completely ignoring me while he prayed.
Our flight to Bale was an hour late, but we spent the time looking
at Steve's videos of Ethiopia, psyching us for the Omo Valley
and the Simien wolves of Bale. The flight to Bale was long, nearly
three hours, and went over some spectacular terrain before leveling
out on a farmed plateau of 8,000 feet. On landing, we were met
by our local guide, who had driven up from AA, and we soon discovered
what a gem he, Yilma, was. A great birder and naturalist, perfect,
American-accented English, and a good sense of humor, we knew
we were in for a good time.
Not surprisingly, there was no power at our hotel, which was scheduled
to turn back on at 9PM, but I'm writing this a few minutes passed
and I'm still, literally, in the dark. Tomorrow, we go for wolves!
Day 5 - Bale Mountains
WE had breakfast at 7 and were on the road by 7:50, driving slowly
and carefully up the wide dirt road that led to the entrance to
the Bale Mountains. Our climb would total over 4,000 feet as we
passed through farmland and forest, heath and moorland, before
reaching the summit - a grassy, rock-strewn landscape, and the
home of the wolf.
We hadn't traveled very far into prime habitat when Sarah glanced
to her left and said, "There's one, two" that were lying
curled up, still in their night's sleep, quite close to the road.
As we braked they got up and moved far enough off the road that
we needed 700mm, but soon two pups joined the adults and we have
a rarely seen treat as the family gamboled together. Eventually
they moved off, and we all wondered about our shooting - infirm
supports, movement in the bus, etc., and as I write this I don't
know if the images will be sharp. We wondered, too, if this was
the big opportunity, the first shots of the day, and the rest
of the day would be anticlimactic. To be sure, it certainly was
not.
Before the day was over we saw at least 15 different Ethiopian
wolves, and seeing several that we think we saw two or more times
(including the parents and pups - which totaled 3, at least) we
had a total of 23-25 viewing opportunities, and many of these
were photos. Several times wolves coursed close to the road and
crossed it, giving us frame-filling opportunities. Not that the
shooting was easy - we had to position a bus with 7 shooters inside,
following an animal that was constantly on the move. But we did
well, in addition to seeing several endemic species of birds of
the Ethiopian highlands.
We concluded the shoot by staking out the wolf den where the mother
eventually returned and was greeted by two enthusiastic pups that
mobbed her until she regurgitated two rodents. This was a visual,
not a shooting opportunity, but it was a fine way to … almost
… end the day. As we drove off the plateau a striking rainbow
framed a distant cliff and we spent some time shooting some landscapes,
and then some cooperative kids, with the rainbow. It started raining
and hailing as I ended, so I drove back to town fairly wet.
We had, without question, a spectacular day, and one that is rather
ironic for here we were, photographing one of the rarest mammals
in Africa, the world's most endangered Canine, with less than
400 in the total population, and we now had better shots of these
wolves than we ever made of our own North American Gray Wolf.
Our shots of the latter species are fairly poor, but this! What
a country!
Day 6 - Bale Mountains
We left at our usual time, driving about 1.75 hours to a lowland
extension of the Bale Mountains National Park where we sought
Nyala, a large, elk-sized antelope that resembles a stout-horned
greater kudu. We were met by a park scout who led us up the steep,
juniper-covered hillside and within minutes we had our first bull
Nyala, sitting calmly in the shade of a large juniper tree. We
shot it from several angles before the scout moved in, possibly
to push it up, because it did get to its feet and wandered downhill.
Over the course of the morning we filmed several bull nyalas,
as well as cows and some older calves. It was easy to get close
enough for 'bust shots,' and actually a lot of fun, reminding
me of a shoot in Yellowstone where we would spend hours working
a single subject, exploring big horn or pronghorn from several
angles. There are two other species of antelope here, the Bohor's
Reedbuck and Menelik's Bushbuck, which I didn't have luck with,
but Mary did quite well.
Towards the end of the shoot our scout led us to a rock escarpment
where he pointed and said, "montane nightjar," but the
area looked barren. After repeated pointing I thought I could
vaguely see where he was pointing, and aiming my lens, I discovered
the incredibly cryptic bird. We shot it from several angles as
well, easily getting close enough for frame-filling shots. The
most effective shots were 'birds in habitat' where we backed off
and closed down the aperture for great depth of field, effectively
losing the bird in plain sight.
Afterwards we looked for Abyssinian long-eared owls, but the birds
were at neither of the two roosting locations the scout normally
finds them, and the group headed downhill. I had a nice cow Nyala
and a bull I hoped would reveal itself from the brush, and I was
successful with the cow. Meanwhile, Mary returned to the vehicle
and then backtracked to retrieve me.
On the way back to Goda we were all tired, and all of us napped
at some point during the trip, and in doing so passed by some
nice farming shots as herdsmen corralled cattle in a tight circle
as they thrashed wheat. Had we stopped, our 2PM lunch would have
run even later, but we planned to do similar shots in the afternoon.
Our guide, Yilma, took us to a local bar/restaurant that, at night,
is a hopping place for hookers, but he said the food was good
and traditional. He ordered 3.5 kilos of meat - sheep, as it turned
out, that was actually quite tasty. The local rubber-like pancake,
Njera, normally made from Tef, the lowland grain grown throughout
most of Ethiopia, is mixed with another grain and, our guide informed
us, not nearly as palatable. He was right, and fortunately the
meat was served with bread, too, and everyone enjoyed the meal
immensely.
After lunch, and quite stuffed, we headed out to look for farm
scenes but the area around town was too settled and after a few
attempts on side roads we decided to head back and take the afternoon
off, with most of us filling that time with editing. Mary had
passed on lunch and the drive, having caught a nasty flu-like
bug that kept her down for the afternoon.
Day 7 - Bale Mountains to Omo River Delta
Our flight to the Omo was an hour late - not unusual here, and
we arrived in the desert-like Omo region around noon. From the
air the area looked tree-covered but grassless, virtually denuded
of ground cover and absent of game. It looked inhospitable, and
I had to wonder how several tribes could survive here.
We were met by our two local guides/camp managers, Joseph and
Lolly, and we proceeded on a 45 minute, bumpy drive through the
bush to camp. En route the barren woodlands came alive, with carmine,
little, and white-throated bee-eaters, Vitteline's or Riechenaut's
masked weavers, various doves, lilac-breasted rollers, brown snake
eagles, bateleur eagles, and various doves. We passed cattle that
Joseph said were starving, and understandable as there was no
grass visible, and several herds of sheep that were probably the
source of the devastation.
At camp the local Karo (they call themselves Kara) men greeted
us and carried our luggage to the tents, men with no body fat
- literally, and quite strong. One man carried both our rather
heavy gadget bags and for the first half of the walk he carried
the bag bent-armed, as if in a curl. I wondered if he'd fatigue
at some point and drop his arms to his side, and he did, somewhat.
These were tough people.
The camp is simple but nice, with the singles having plenty of
room. Doubles, like Mary and I, and Bill and Sarah, are a bit
cramped but the staff put up an equipment tent between us to store
excess luggage - all the stuff we needed in the highlands which
we certainly won't need here. Behind the tent is a drop toilet
and a separate shower tent, and the beds are thick and comfortable.
Lunch was great - salads, vegetable lasagna, shish-ka-bob chicken-gizzards,
and afterwards we used the dining tent for our computer work -
which I'm doing now.
The village of the Kara people (the fish people) was just a short
drive from camp, an open, grassland expanse with a variety of
buildings, huts, and a ceremonial structure of pillars, with a
heavy wooded platform on top. At first, the village was rather
over-whelming, not only because of the visual spectacle but also
our own discomfort, timidity, confusion, and sense of chaos, and
the very real invasion of personal space as kids, women, and some
of the men crowded around the visitors - us. Steve, our guide,
informed us it was ok to shoot whenever, and all of us started,
timidly at first, but we eventually warmed up.
The Kara (or Karo) were a bit aggressive, some, at least, in asking
for their picture being taken, while others went about their business
and some, remarkably, set themselves into key spots that were
great shooting locations - they knew what they were doing. Some
of the women were striking, bare-breasted and healthy, and the
warrior men were pleasant, almost sardonic or wry in their approach
to the photography.
The trick to shooting these people was to concentrate upon details,
or to work with the folks to coax them into poses, or in continuing
their activities, like millet grinding or flensing a hide. At
the end of the day we headed to a small rise by the river where
two women and several men, most carrying automatic rifles, posed
against the western skyline for sunset silhouettes.
Day 8 - Nyandatom
We had breakfast at 6:30 and headed out around 7:15, driving a
short distance before taking a bushy track that wound through
the riverine forest to the river's edge, closer to the village
we were going to film. The camp had borrowed a German missionary's
boat for our crossing of the now-shallow Omo River, with two men
functioning at 'polers' as they stabbed long poles into the river
to propel us across the river and cross-current. When we reached
mid-stream we started drifting, and it was a bit comical to see
the 'polers' rowing with the straight poles to get us across.
After climbing the steep river bank, about a 50 foot incline that,
during the wet season has the river lapping at the top, we started
shooting. The people were adorned differently, with many of the
women having thick necklaces of beads, and the men with more prominent
scarification. The Nyangatom people are not visited as frequently
- basically only by this camp, but we didn't find them any shyer
although one old hag was a master haggler at negotiating the photo
price, adamantly refusing 4 bir and demanding 5. She was a great
actor, slapping the ground with her fist, yelling, turning her
back to me or to the guide who was trying to give her the money.
Eventually I relented and gave her 5 bir, and suddenly the angry
crone smiled, shook my hand, and we were friends. Later, Rick
took some more distant shots of the same woman and he tried paying
her 4 bir. She went through the same act but I was there, carrying
on with her, and pantomiming that he only took a few shots and
he wouldn't pay it. Eventually Rick walked away, having given
her 4 bir!
Later, still, Mary and I filmed another girl nearby, and the old
woman looked on, calling over to our model to get 5 bir. When
we went to pay she refused, and I started wagging my finger and
yelling at the old woman for causing trouble. She yelled back,
but between displays she smiled and laughed, knowing the entire
performance on both our parts was just an act.
We ended the shoot at a riverside tree where we had some beautiful
models, then headed back to camp for a very needed shower before
lunch.
In the late afternoon we again crossed the river, then walked
upstream to a meeting point where a community dance had been arranged.
As we arrived, men and women were still milling about, the men
still fresh in newly dabbed mud, the women dressed in leather
and many, as usual, bare-breasted and bedecked in cowry shells.
The men were dressed in a variety of costumes, from cloth loin
cloths and sandals, with their bodies covered in mud designs,
while others had T-shirts and sneakers. Several men wore caps,
army fatigue hats, and camo shirts, and some of these, perhaps
because their clothing reflected their aggression and might, proved
to be the most powerful dances. Soon, the men gathered and began
a deep droning song, quite melodic and musical, and spread out
into a line to dance. Within minutes a circle formed, with the
women facing the men and the men arranged by age group, creating
an ox-bow horn that encircled the women.
The dances had three themes - the first, a war dance that replayed
past great deeds, with men pantomiming using their AK47s or a
bow, dancing in a loping stride in a broad skipping motion, while
the other two dances involved their prowess as cattle men, and
stealing cattle, and the other as their prowess as lovers and
how beautiful the women were. In the cattle dance individual men
would enter the ring, striding and leaping in time with a beat.
It was quite dramatic. The air resounded with the crowd's clapping
beat, which hit a crescendo in synch with the landing of a great
jump. While I didn't notice it , Mary and Rick noticed the syncopated
footwork, with the women's feet up when the men's were down, and,
of course, vise versa. For their last dance the women were quite
interactive, grabbing men and taking them out into the circle,
where they hopped and bobbed. Men, it seemed, were more reluctant
than women to dance, with some being pulled out, then laughingly
shrugging the woman off and retreating back into the circle of
their friends. By the end of the dancing everyone, men and woman
alike, were covered in sweat, the women's bare backs, or completely
bare torso, glistening and beaded, dripping in streams that soaked
their leather skirts. The face and body paint of the men was now
a featureless smear, all pattern lost by the sweat and exercise.
At the end, some men wanted to continue dancing, while others
were ready to quit, and tensions rose. Steve decided it was time
for us to leave, and as is the custom with these people we did
so without fanfare, disappearing down river on the trail that
snaked through the riverine forest.
Day 9 - Hamar
Today we witnessed one of the most bizarre displays of courtship,
loyalty, or love that may still exist on this planet. While tourists
coming to the Omo are lured by the fearsome and grotesquely decorated
Mursi women, the bull-jumping ceremony, and attendant rituals,
of the Hamar people seemed almost incomprehensible. Coupled with
that, we had the chance to watch a photographer on assignment
for the National Geographic at work, and that demonstration of
rudeness, self-importance, and callousness could create an unfavorable
impression for any serious photographer, and certainly epitomized
the sense of 'the ugly American.'
We left at the usual time, driving through the bush country we
passed after our flight here, and in route spotting Kirk's dik-dik,
pale chanting goshawk, four species of hornbill, including a new
bird for us, the Abyssinnian Ground Hornbill that was fairly tame
as it walked across the grassland and the road in front of us.
The route wound through various hilly country on tracks and trails
that eventually merged into a rather passable road which led past
the Hamar village.
The village was similar to that of the Karo, conical huts, wooden
stockades, and vegetationless, dusty courtyards. The village was
mainly women, kids, and old men - I didn't see any young men,
which I'll presume were out herding stock. The women were particularly
beautiful, with great teeth and some with wonderful smiles and
fit bodies, and although they were mildly aggressive about earning
fees by posing, they posed cooperatively and were quite adjustable.
We spent nearly two hours at the village before heading on to
the Hamar market, where Steve told us most tour groups only go
as their Hamar experience. If so, what a loss, as the women were
sitting in the shade of their little kiosks, selling grain or
wares, in an environment that lacked dignity and symbolized squalor,
nothing like the life we saw when visiting their village. We didn't
stay long, just long enough to buy some cokes and headrests -
the wooden, T-shaped stands the men carry everywhere, using as
a neck/head support when resting or sleeping, and as a stool when
sitting.
After lunch we headed to our next destination, an event that in
the Hamar community may occur only several times a year - the
bull jumping ceremony where an adolescent boy is reborn as a man.
We hadn't expected to see this - although it may occur weekly,
depending on age group and location, a given area may not see
this event occur for months. The bull-jumping itself is merely
the climax of a rather involved, afternoon-long event, and consists
of a naked boy, or several, jumping onto the back of a row of
cows or bulls and running across their back and jumping off on
the other side. Men hold the heads and tails of the cattle to
keep them in place, so there's little danger, except for potential
embarrassment if the boy loses his balance and falls. However,
it's not a test of manhood, there is no failure, it is simply
a rite of passage and a community event that marks it. That, however,
is not what makes this ceremony unique.
To get to this ceremony we drove nearly an hour on a vehicle track
that wound through hills and brush country, virtual wilderness
to our eyes until we rounded a hill and overlooked a few scattered
huts. En route, various walkers added directions, but exactly
how our guide, Lolli, found the spot defies me. As we neared we
passed a woman plowing a horn, drawing other's attention that
an event was about to occur. Reaching the destination, we had
to wait while our guides negotiated an entrance fee for our presence
- regardless of what our National Geographic friend might think,
no white man enters this area without paying for the privilege,
even if his local guide does so on the sly. That business passed,
we started the uphill hike to the ceremony.
Muted by distance, the clanging, banging clatter of ankle bangles
reached our ears, and another noise which Mary mistook for the
snapping pop of a small fire-cracker. It was not, it was the snap
as an eight-foot switch met the flesh of a woman who stood, placid
and accepting, of the lash. Warriors were gathered beneath a tree,
preparing themselves with face paint for the ceremony, but before
we could start shooting our guide had to again explain, and then
display, the wads of bir that he had paid for our entrance here.
Eventually, that hurdle was passed.
Around the tree men painted themselves, or took turns accommodating
the women who approached them, a pile of switches in hand, to
deliver one or several whippings. The woman would dance about,
stomping her feet and moving in a circle, then stop and wait,
facing the man and awaiting the strike. Some women wore Tee-shirts,
others the traditional leather apron which exposed bare flesh
on their backs, but either way, arms, shoulders, and backs were
smacked with a resounding smack that made me physically wince.
Afterwards, the woman would bow, sometimes attempting to solicit
another strike, and more often the man would just walk off and
return to whatever he was doing.
Meanwhile, the Geographic photographer, XXXXX, moved in close,
using either a wide-angle or short zoom and fill flash, and shot
away. I couldn't see the logic - the contrast between sky and
subject was great and unless the flash was really doing a terrific
job wide-angle seemed, to me, self-defeating. But hey, I'm not
a Geographic photographer.
As our group attempted to set up it was soon clear that XXXXX
had no interest or concern about where or how his position affected
anyone else's photography. As it was later explained to us, he
was not only trying to document the ceremonies and activities
involved with the bull-jumping, but also the tourist interaction.
The forthcoming article was to involve the impact a hydroelectric
plant would have on the Omo peoples, and likewise the effect of
tourism, so he wanted white tourists in his shots. For some unpleasant
reason he seemed to key in on me, as I was filming close, using
flash, and, more significantly, I was actually interacting with
the people, and showing my interested subjects the shots on the
back of my LCD. XXXXXX, just feet away, shot away, and I was quite
self-conscious and uncomfortable, faced with the decision to either
make faces at him, stop what I was doing, and, significantly,
cease showing my subjects their fascinating shots. So I ignored
him, feeling very much like I was posing for this guy and not
liking it one bit.
One could say then, what was the difference between what he was
doing with me and what I was doing with the Hamar, Nyangatom,
Karo, or, soon, Mursi people we photographed. While some tourists
may indeed act just like XXXXX, not interacting, not talking to
his subject, and generally just recording images, Mary and I actively
interact with our subjects. We laugh with them, tease them, touch
them, and hopefully make them feel as if we are indeed working
with them, and not just using them like inanimate still lifes
- human carrots, if you will. With XXXXX, I felt like a thinking
carrot.
While XXXXX eventually became almost part of the scenery, which
I'm sure he felt he was achieving his objective of 'disappearing'
and being unnoticed, he became so with about the same effectiveness
as a Tsetse fly that hovers about, biting and making a nuisance
of itself but impossible to swat or kill. You know the bastard
is there, but what can you do? So you ignore it until it really,
really gets you annoyed, then you get mad and try to kill it,
or hope somebody will. As it turned out, XXXXX's later behavior
at the actual bull-jumping ceremony could have possibly done just
that.
In that event, a huge crowd of people had gathered in a semi-circle
around the cows. Tourists were interspersed throughout, especially
around the two ends where the boy would enter or leave, where
the best views were to be had. XXXX, alone, moved throughout the
cows, standing among them and, of course, being in everyone's
picture regardless of what one could try to do. As the jumps were
about to begin he moved to one end, and in doing so blocked the
view of over a dozen other photographers. This annoyed everyone,
and two Italian tourists approached him, nicely but obviously
annoyed, and tried to explain to him that he was ruining everyone
else's experience and shooting opportunity. XXXXX shrugged them
off, saying he was working, that he was a Geographic shooter,
and he deserved to be there. Although I didn't see it, others
said he actually shoved people out of his way. No one else bought
it, and while they argued the first jump took place. XXXX started
shooting again, and continued to muck up the shots.
When the event ended and the cows were beginning to be pulled
away, XXXX approached the tourists again and while our guide expected
that was to apologize, his impression was that instead he was
simply reasserting his aggressive position, literally starting
a fight. The Italians guide came over to add his annoyance, and
a few fists were swung before others jumped in and interceded,
pulling the Ethiopian guide away. XXXX disappeared from my view,
apparently heading back to his vehicle, and we never saw him again.
Needless to say, his behavior was more a part of our drive home's
conversation than the actual bull-jumping ceremony, and it was
not complimentary. In short, he left a very sour taste in our
American mouths, and I can just imagine how the Italians viewed
him, the 'big magazine' he was shooting for (the Italians almost
exact words), and, sadly, perhaps, all Americans in general.
Pretending XXXXX the tsetse fly wasn't there, we tried shooting
the event. The warriors used a small compact mirror to self-apply
their face paint, then having an assistant using a daub stick
to make their final, fine-tuned designs. In the background, sometimes
in the shade, sometimes in the open sun, a woman would drag a
man out, dancing her foot-stomping solicitation, and then getting
a sharp crack with the whipping stick. In most cases the branch
snapped afterwards, whereupon she'd offer another which he accepted
or declined, walking back to his friends.
Periodically the entire band of women would dance off, leaving
the men and the tourists behind, but eventually they, or a new
group, would return. I wandered uphill to where the majority of
the community seemed to have gathered, many clustered behind a
branch and leaf pavilion where they waited in the shade. We photographed
their tea-brewing, drinking, and, of course, more whipping. While
I sat near the pavilion one of the bull-jumping boy's relatives
moved about serving the tea, offering it like a communion chalice
to each person in turn. I watched with some amusement as he offered
it to two young European men sitting nearby, and noted that they
brought the gourd to their mouths and pretended to sip, but not
bringing any fluid to their mouths. My turn came, and the man
rotated the gourd to a dry, unused spot, and I took a sip. It
tasted like tea - it is actually a weak brew of coffee made from
the husks shucked from the coffee beans that are harvested, but
I must confess I didn't swallow. Holding the warm fluid in my
mouth I waited a few minutes and covertly let it spill out. I
was probably safe, regardless, as the water had been brewing and
was probably boiled.
Near the pavilion another, smaller pavilion hosted several young
men that were obviously the warriors and the object of the women's
whipping solicitations. By this point, about 1.5 hours into the
festivities, the women who had been beaten were clearly showing
the effects. Those with bare backs had open wounds, and while
most had only a few cuts, some were cut sharply in several places.
Invariably, these fresh wounds were interlaced with the scars
from previous whippings.
One woman was particularly adamant about being whipped. Wearing
a tee-shirt instead of the traditional leather apron, she had
one side of her front jacked up to expose her right breast, but
by wearing the shirt she protected her left - the side that would
receive the strike of the whip. She carried and continued to toot
a small horn, creating a honking, carnival like atmosphere that.
Coupled with the sounds and honking blasts of other women, sometimes
was almost deafening. She'd bend and toot in front of her prospective
whipper, pausing if he didn't respond to argue or plea, sometimes
grabbing a hand or arm to draw him out, and occasionally being
successful. Other women, less aggressive, seemed to have more
luck, and would approach and draw out a man, and seconds later,
while she stood facing the man, receive a resounding whack. The
sound of a whip - the eight foot switch striking flesh - made
me wince each time, but the woman didn't flinch. She smiled, perhaps,
and bowed, and began stomping or tooting her horn again, trying
to draw out another whipping.
A whole contingent of people started a running parade up the hill,
and we heard that something significant was about to occur. Several
of us followed, up and up, and wondering where the hell we were
going. The parade ended at a small corral where they brought the
boy to do the final leg of the ceremony. This involves a symbolized
mating and birth, where the boy is placed sitting upon the ground,
another boy holding him in place either for reassurance or as
a precaution, while another waved a large, wooden phallus was
pushed toward him, simulating intercourse. The phallus was then
reversed, and held by the boy as if he now had the erection, and
soon afterward that was removed. Although I couldn't see what
followed, the next step is said to be the birthing where gestures
mimic the drawing out of a baby. Shortly afterwards, the boy ran,
naked, down the hill towards the cows, and the entire mob - all
of us, started racing down hill to see the ceremony.
It was an amusing, chaotic run. Several girls, whom Mary had befriended,
helped Mary run, holding her hands and one, her camera, but she
fell anyway. She got up immediately and continued, and all of
us got into our position. The jumping soon started, with the men
coaching the boy and giving him reassurances, and then the jumps
began. He did three runs in total, and on completion of the last
one a wreathe of vine was removed and the ceremony was over. The
arguments with XXXXX continued, and we headed downhill to our
vehicles.
We ate dinner en route, under the stars in a dry wash, and returned
to camp at nearly midnight.
Day 10 - Everyone slept late, caught up on our journals and editing,
and had a great time just relaxing and discussing XXXXX and his
awful behavior. While he may have thought he was not paying to
be at the ceremony, or any shoot, he was - as is guide paid without
his knowing. However, the irony to this is that he thought he
wasn't paying, and therefore was not playing by the rules the
Hamar, and all the other people of the area, impose, and by doing
so he consciously cheated them of revenue. While the tourists
are supposedly exploiting the natives, it was he, indeed, that
did so by attempting to shoot pure by cheating them of much needed
cash. Perhaps even worse, none of us ever saw him interact with
anyone - as the exploiting tourists did constantly, showing the
people images of themselves, talking with them, and having pleasant
interchanges. The only interchange I saw with XXXXX was when he
would be caught shooting someone who did not want it, then, he'd
smirk apologetically, shrug his shoulders, and put up his hands
as if in surrender … until they looked away. It was very
slimy behavior.
In the late afternoon our camp manager, Lolli, set up a traditional
dance with his tribe, the people who live near the camp. Although
someone said it might be a bit contrived, it was not --- once
it was organized, the people fell into what they did naturally,
having a dance and a party to which we were invited. It was wonderful.
While we started on the outside, photographing the people as they
stomped and paraded to their dance site, kicking up dust and chanting
resoundingly, once the people gathered in their circle we moved
closer. Soon, I was squeezed in between the legs of some dancers
to shoot inside the circle, at knee level, and soon after I just
joined the group. The people greeted me with handshakes, encouraged
me to bob and clap along, and simply could not have been more
gracious.
Later, I squatted down again, and the men encouraged me to move
inside the circle, where Rick joined me. It got interesting then,
and kind of funny, as two old women - not nubile babes -- approached
me, pointed their elbows at me, or Rick, to indicate an interest.
Later, one woman repeatedly went even further, coming forth, rubbing
her forearm bracelets together in a clacking gesture - that, I
was told, meant she was willing and ready. No thanks.
The dance lasted until shortly before sunset, and it was fun,
filled with fellowship, and truly the highlight of our people
photography, to date and, as it would turn out, for all the shooting.
We were welcomed, we became a part of the event, and we, and they,
had fun. Several times, both by men who told me to go in there,
and by the women who tried to entice me into the ring, I was asked
to dance, and Mary went in several times with one older man who
was having a great time. Finally, during one of the dances, Mary
and I went in and I proved, definitively, that white men can't
dance. The Karo, however, enjoyed the spectacle.
Day 11 - Our last full day of shooting was one we looked forward
to the most, photographing the iconic people of the Omo Delta,
the Mursi People, who are famous for the female mutilation that
results in the insertion of clay plates into their stretched and
cut lower lips. The adornment is, by any definition, grotesque,
stretching the women's lower lip but also their upper, creating
a hang-dog face. The Mursi, perhaps because of tourist exploitation
and tourist rudeness, or perhaps because of their own nature,
are aggressive, pushy, hostile people, and we were warned that
the experience could be stressful, taxing, and perhaps short-lived.
It was a fitting climax to the trip, and one where, if there was
any danger here in Ethiopia, we would be in it here.
The drive took hours. We left at 7 and didn't arrive at the tiny
Mursi village until 11:30AM. En route we passed through Mago National
Park, that hosts elephants, lions, cheetahs, two species of kudus,
and more, although we only saw a few timid Lesser Kudu that jumped
across the road and disappeared into the thick brush, a group
of oribis - seemingly out of place in the grassland/scrub habitat,
and baboons, and several species of birds. Near Mago Headquarters
we encountered a group of tourists that were on a 'nature walk'
of some sort, ironic because this area is most likely to host
elephants, and the thick brush could easily hide lions. The people
were scattered over nearly a half mile stretch of road, and it
was only by luck that an ele or a lion wasn't nearby and angry,
or hungry, while they walked the road.
The village we visited was on the end of a long dirt track, off
the main route that led, we were told, to a larger, and potentially
more chaotic, village most tourists visit. As we entered Mursi
country we were stopped at a 'toll booth' where both vehicles
had to pay a $20 fee, which hurts the tourist experience since
the headman of a given village usually received that fee and now
misses out. Not getting cash, he, and the other villagers, are
a bit more hostile, since immediate cash is not at hand.
When we stopped at the village we were immediately met with hostility.
We expected that, and figured that after a few minutes things
would settle down. We kept our cameras inside the vehicles and
simply roamed around the village for a few minutes, looking for
shady areas where we could set up a 'studio' for doing portraits.
Meanwhile, the guides were attempting to negotiate a photo price,
but a few teenage bucks, or just a bit older, were very hostile
and were trying to push us off. Eventually, Bill got the OK to
shoot and started, and I was told it was OK. I made the mistake
of photographing one of the bucks soon after, and got into a real
macho match with him as he refused the 4 bir notes the village
had agreed on. Several times, as I ignored him, he tapped me on
the hip or shoulder with his walking stick - an aggressive act
- and I responded by dressing him down, in English, pointing my
finger and giving him the mean eye, trying to let him know I wasn't
going to be intimidated.
The Mursi were indeed a difficult people, grabbing people to solicit
photos, yet being very impatient once a shoot began. After a bit
the shoot took on a rhythm as models realized we were not going
to shoot just one click, but a half dozen or more, and eventually
I'd make weird clicking noises to mimic firing several frames,
not just one. Actually, the 6 shot or so limitation kept us from
shooting needless repetitious shots, and we moved through a lot
of subjects rather quickly. Rick, Mary, and I all had various
assembly lines going on, as people gathered around, poking us
to get our attention, but waiting for their turn to get photographed
and earn some money.
In all, we spent nearly 2 hours shooting, and the shoot went pretty
well. Some of the young men that were real pains lined up for
shooting, and one ended up to be a real nice subject, and a real
ham. One older man, probably just in his thirties or less, was
fun - he and I had a High Five hand slapping contest where we'd
smack our palms, hard, and I know my hand was stinging. After
four or five whacks we'd shake hands, laugh, and go on. Some of
the others tested me with firm handshakes and we'd squeeze each
other's hands, looking into each other's eyes and laughing. It
was a fun sorting out of a pecking order.
Our Mago guide was a Hamar, and created more trouble than he was
worth. First, he gave the Mursi the impression we'd just do a
snap, but worse, he was cruel and bossy with the people. Rick
shooed him off after he struck a dog with a stick, and although
I didn't know it was him, his was the hand that twisted a young
boy's head into extreme positions when I tried getting a slightly
different angle. I could see why the Mursi may not get along with
other tribes.
We left close to 2PM, had lunch around 3, and started home at
nearly 4. We arrived back to our camp near to sunset, tired after
another very long day.
Day 12 - Return to Nairobi
We had a 7:30 breakfast and headed out for the several hour drive
to the Kenyan air strip near Lake Turkana, and Leakey's fossil
camp, where our charter would meet us. One of the vehicles broke
down near the customs office for Ethiopia, but we got it started
again, getting all of us to Customs before quitting for good.
After several attempts to get the vehicle working - they think
the fuel pump died, we all piled into one vehicle, stuffed the
luggage around us, and headed on.
Soon we were in complete desert, crossing several sandy dry washes
- river beds now dry, and scattered remote and sparsely populated
villages. Down to one vehicle, I worried about another breakdown,
not only because we'd miss our charter but, more importantly,
we'd be in serious trouble waiting for rescue. We had enough liquid
with us for a lunch or dinner, but in this 100 plus degree heat
we'd go through that before nightfall. Our guide, I learned later,
had a satellite phone with him, so rescue could be called, but
it was remote, inhospitable, and potentially scary. I mused how
ironic, we, citizens of one of the richest and most powerful nations
on earth, could be the poorest if marooned, and the lonely, skinny
women we'd see occasionally walking, sack on head, in the middle
of no where were, in this environment, far richer. They could
survive here, they knew how to, and to thrive, while we, if marooned,
would be hard-pressed to last 48 hours.
We arrived at the air field on time, at 2PM, and easy 5 plus hour
trip, the plane flew in shortly afterwards, and we continued on
our 2 hour plus flight to Nairobi without incident. As we left
the deserts the green of Kenya's southern half created a striking
contrast with the dry barrenness of the Omo and environs.