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Burned in the Memory - A Story From the Omo Valley, Ethiopia
This time I wanted a trip with a difference, so I decided to visit the Omo Valley in Southern Ethiopia to photograph and interact with the indigenous tribes that live there. Later that month I met up with a group of seasoned explorers in Addis Ababa, packed and ready for the journey south to hot, remote places. We made our introductions and traded backgrounds before boarding a convoy of Land Cruisers for a rough three day journey across an alien landscape.
On the journey stayed in basic huts and grubby hostels, sometimes going without water and electricity for a few days. This is where I first experienced the notorious machismo that goes hand-in-hand with far-afield travel: You put up with hell and you don't complain. You stink, you starve, you feel ill, confused, frustrated, and lost, but you just get on with it. The greater the discomfort the better for telling the story back home.
Stopping off at the village of Key Afar, where the Banna tribe held their weekly market, we had our first introduction to tribal people. Wow! They were so warm and friendly, welcoming us with open arms. Painted bodies, and decorated with beads, it was everything I had hoped for. I reflected on an amazing day, thinking if we saw nothing else on this trip it had already been worthwhile. But luckily much more was to come.
The following day we were due to go deeper into the Omo Valley where roads became dirt tracks, and the terrain would be really difficult. But the weather had turned and the drivers weren't keen to continue the journey. It took a bit of cajoling to persuade them to take us further - and thank goodness they did, as we went on to have the most incredible experience of our lifetimes. Our next stop was at one of the Mursi tribal villages, a warrior tribe known for their aggression.
The first sight to greet us was a group of fearsome men brandishing Kalashnikov rifles. I expected spears or bows and arrows, but not loaded guns and weapon-savvy warriors. The men standing around the entrance to the village stared neutrally at us, fondly cradling their weapons with natural ease. They had obviously been around guns all their lives. I glanced at their intricately painted faces and lithe, muscular bodies and decided not to get into a row with anyone. It was a completely different world. Many of the men and women only wore loin cloths.
With faces wreathed in bright smiles, and lots of head nodding, our group were permitted to get out of the vehicles to take photographs. But the tribesmen stayed close by us, counting every shutter click and presenting us with a total number, demanding money for each photo taken. This tribe was shrewd, and knew how to make the most of their infrequent visitors.
Strangely, though, I didn't feel genuinely threatened by them. I was utterly absorbed in the moment, delighted to be amongst these strange, foreign people, and to be able to take their photographs.
One of the most striking things we noticed was the practice of lip slitting. When the girls were young they would slit open their lower lip, and insert as big a plate as possible inside, in order to stretch it out in a large oval. The bigger the plate, the greater the number of cattle the father could demand on her wedding day.
After this initial spate of activity we entered the village proper where I was awestruck by the site of little mud homes arranged evenly around a large central space, the odd tree dotting the landscape. It was like a film set, yet it was genuinely where people lived, got married, had kids, grew old, and died.
On the way out of the village the vehicles came to an abrupt halt. Looking out of the window I saw to my horror, two fierce and angry looking Mursi tribesmen. One was pointing a Kalashnikov at our driver, while the other held a boulder in upraised hands as if about to dash it through the windscreen of the car. With my heart in my mouth I watched as our guide tried to reason with the men, and after much gesturing and arguing our cars were finally allowed to pass unscathed.
Although I didn't think things could get much worse, that night we were forced to camp in tents amid torrential downpours of rain. The next day the drivers put their foot down altogether. They weren't going to go anywhere. However, after more discussion, and firm persuasion from our group leader who wouldn't take no for an answer, the drivers caved in and we set off slowly once again. But now the conditions were truly appalling.
We found that the river had risen over night and was truly impassable, so we sat and waited for the levels to recede. When the water level had ebbed back down to door-level, a number of men positioned themselves in the water to brace against one side of the car, while a brave lone driver attempted to drive the cars forward one by one. The men bracing managed to push the cars against the current to keep them upright, but not before two people (one of the drivers and one of the travellers) had been swept away. Luckily no serious harm was done, and they escaped injury to rejoin our party a while later.
When we reached our campsite at Murelle the rain was still pouring down! We had spent a day digging Land Cruisers out of ditches, sometimes as often as four times an hour, occasionally needing winches. The drivers now knew they had made it through nearly impassable conditions, and their sense of pride was well-deserved. We twelve travellers were all feeling crotchety and fed up, but somehow the irritations melted away when someone said there was beer in the camp! A good night's sleep and the problems of a difficult day were forgotten, even if the day itself would be remembered forever.
We arrived at Turmi, where we spent three days with the Hamar people. A tribe of beautiful women whose regalia made each member seem like a living museum. Another day that would be remembered forever featured bull jumping, cow bleeding and a hideous flogging ceremony.
The bull jumping ceremony was a rite of passage, involved a single man undergoing various rituals throughout the days, culminating in having to leap over the back of some tightly tethered cows. However they hadn't mentioned that first it included violently whipping some 'volunteer' local women in public. Although the girls carried a Kalashnikov in their hands it was only symbolic, to be handed over as a signal to stop the flogging when they could not longer bear the agony. Older women who'd already been through this hideous experience showed him their scars. The object of this activity was to create the deepest scars possible in order to prove that the girls were 'good women.'
After saying their goodbyes to the Hama people we continued our journey back towards Addis Ababa, stopping off at several other villages, one on the edge of Lake Turkan, recently featured in a BBC documentary called 'The Tribe' by Bruce Parry. Another village they visited privately became known as the 'Leopard Skin Village,' due to the source of the animal skin hats and loin clothes the villagers wore. This was probably the first time anyone in that village had seen a Westerner, and I couldn't help thinking it was exactly like a scene out of 'The Flintstones' Could these people really live on the same planet as us? The contrast was complete.
With fond memories, and some not-so-fond, we arrived back in the Ethiopian capital, relieved but deeply glad of our experiences. I will never forget what I saw in the Omo Valley. Events, people, and places have been burned on my memory: young tribesmen on stilts, painted bodies, semi-naked women with huge, distended lips, leopard skin clothing, violent rituals... And all the time I was taking photographs.
Written by senior freelance copywriter Jackie Griffiths for Freelance Copy UK