Our guide’s name, Shigo, means “transition” in the local Bana language, which feels remarkably fitting for our journey through the Omo Valley, a region on the precipice of change. Omo Valley sits in southwest Ethiopia, nestled between the South Sudanese and Kenyan borders. It’s most widely known on the tourist circuit for the strength of its cultural preservation - a compilation of tribes that have withstood and outright rejected the pressures of modernity. Tribes in Omo have preserved their pastoral livelihoods, their coming of age rituals, their dress, their measures of wealth, and their moral code of conduct. Of course they catch glimpses of the modern world - tourists jaunt in and out, and nearby towns serve as gateways for those (like our guide) who yearn for a more modern life. But still, without a doubt, this is the most remote place I’ve ever been. When we asked Shigo if the tribespeople knew what Coca Cola was, he said that he thought the ones who attend the market will have heard of it. To highlight the point, he adds that no one here will know the name of their country’s president, and many will neither understand, nor have heard of, the concept.
But Omo is changing, and we spent four hours in a Hamar village on our second day in the Valley witnessing the raw and very real tension of a region in transition. We were in the Hamar village to witness a bull jumping ceremony. A bar mitzvah seems like an easier coming of age ritual, but here, a boy transitions to manhood by engaging in a three day ceremony that culminates in running across the backs of a line of bulls.
The ceremony is extensive, requiring months of planning and preparation, and involving the participation of the entire community. We arrived at about 2:00pm and the Hamar women were dancing - their hair (their most defining feature) was twisted into small matchstick dreadlocks and dyed earthen red using a paste of honey, goat fat and clay. The rows of silver bells fastened to their ankles and thighs provided a soundtrack to every step - the discordant jingling could be heard throughout the village. Most were bare breasted and those who wore shirts had clipped the top and bottom together from behind to reveal their bare backs. Stacks of brightly colored necklaces filled every crevasse between their breast bones and chins. They danced in circles as some of the women chanted and others blew loud brass horns.
The ceremony is extensive, requiring months of planning and preparation, and involving the participation of the entire community. We arrived at about 2:00pm and the Hamar women were dancing - their hair (their most defining feature) was twisted into small matchstick dreadlocks and dyed earthen red using a paste of honey, goat fat and clay. The rows of silver bells fastened to their ankles and thighs provided a soundtrack to every step - the discordant jingling could be heard throughout the village. Most were bare breasted and those who wore shirts had clipped the top and bottom together from behind to reveal their bare backs. Stacks of brightly colored necklaces filled every crevasse between their breast bones and chins. They danced in circles as some of the women chanted and others blew loud brass horns.
The women were dancing to send a specific message to a specific group of men. Shigo translated the simple message: whip us. Shigo explained that the whipping is the first traditional act of the final day of the bull jumping ceremony. The women were speaking to the Maza, a group of men who have transitioned out of boyhood by completing the bull jump, but who are not yet married. During this purgatorial phase, the men follow strict rules: they are only allowed to eat meat, milk, honey and coffee; they are forbidden from wearing shirts, must shave their heads, and anoint their skin with glossy butter; they do not live in their tribal village, but rather, live together as a group wandering from village to village in search of wives; and they cannot communicate with their families except through the head Maza. At a bull jumping ceremony, the Maza carry significant responsibility, including leading a ceremonial prayer, holding the bulls by their tails and heads during the actual bull jump, and of course leading the whipping that commences the day’s events.
On this particular day, the women had been dancing and chanting for a particularly long time. In fact, an hour into the orchestrated madness, Shigo pointed to a man in the crowd and explained that he was the cause of the delay. The man was tall and thin and stood out against the other men dressed in tribal attire because he wore a collared shirt with small blue and white checkers, nicely creased pants and a red tie. Shigo explained he was a government representative and he was there to petition the elders to cancel the whipping. For the last five years the government has tried to end harmful tribal traditions like female circumcision and whipping. The government had visited the elders in this tribe prior to the event to share their request and outline the repercussions if not obeyed. But the family had no warning that the government official would show up at the ceremony and had planned to carry on with their traditions intact. But today the demand was clear and a threat loomed heavily over the celebratory spirit. The elders had a choice: they could proceed with the whipping and in return be denied essential government aid, or they could cancel the whipping, and face punishment from the group of young Maza, including their refusal to hold the bulls for the jump and their demand for compensation in the form of prized cattle.
The elders sat on small wooden stools in a shaded patch under a tree, their faces looked deliberate and powerful. The Maza were sitting with them, debating. They were more animated, their emotions shining through their attempted stoicism. Shigo translated for us. The elders, like the rest of the community, wanted the whipping to occur, but they understood the complexity of the situation. They tried reasoning with the Maza; they explained that they didn’t know the government official would turn up at their event and threaten to cut off their government support. The Maza seemed to understand, but reason wasn’t necessarily enough to overcome their emotion.
Meanwhile, the women continued to sing and dance. Even though no decision had yet been made, one of the Maza began distributing the long whipping sticks, probably 5 feet tall, freshly picked from a nearby tree. As soon as he presented them, the women ran to him, fighting each other for custody of the best sticks. The more sticks a woman had, the more she would be whipped. The women look earnest in their desire to gather these sticks, and excited to participate in the ceremonial event that would end in their bloodshed. The scarification that results from the whipping was a sign of pride and respect. To be whipped was to build up the capital of their own beauty.
The juxtaposition was striking - the women singing, dancing and fighting for sticks. The men contemplative and tense. Finally they reached an agreement - the elders had convinced the Maza to forgo the whipping but continue the rest of the ceremonial affairs. Respect for one’s elders prevailed.
I was curious to see how the women would react - my assumption was that regardless of their airs and graces, deep down the women would be pleased with the news. Instead, they exploded into even louder song and dance in an act of defiance and disapproval. They were either genuinely dejected or their mascarade of joy remained unbroken.
The government representative left after reaching an agreement with the elders, before any ceremonial activity began. When we asked Shigo why they didn’t just carry on with the whipping once the official left, he looked confused by our question. The elders had given their word.
It was nearing 6:00pm and the village was finally ready to proceed with the ceremony. The honorary boy sat nearby the Maza as they engaged in a coffee ceremony. The boy was about 20 years old, a tall man with thin legs and a slender, boney face. He had been circling the group of elders and Maza but had not participated in the debate. I often caught him wandering alone, walking aimlessly towards the mountains. He wore nothing except a purple cloth around his waist. His hair was a big afro, but his head would be shaved as soon as he successfully completed his bull jump. He never smiled at us.
After the coffee ceremony the Maza stripped the boy naked, fed him milk and honey and prayed for good fortune in his future. Then the Maza gathered the bulls which had been casually roaming in the village compound. The bulls were difficult to organize, and you could see the Maza working hard to wrangle them into a tight line. Finally eight bulls stood at attention, ready to be jumped upon. Then, as if it was no feat at all, the boy took a short running start and lept onto the back of the first bull and jumped from back to back until he had run across all eight bulls and dismounted on the other side. He did this again, and again, running up and down the bulls. The more times a boy runs, the more confidence he displays to his community and it was clear this guy was confident (or trying to undo the shame cast on the event due to the cancellation of the whipping).
The elders sat on small wooden stools in a shaded patch under a tree, their faces looked deliberate and powerful. The Maza were sitting with them, debating. They were more animated, their emotions shining through their attempted stoicism. Shigo translated for us. The elders, like the rest of the community, wanted the whipping to occur, but they understood the complexity of the situation. They tried reasoning with the Maza; they explained that they didn’t know the government official would turn up at their event and threaten to cut off their government support. The Maza seemed to understand, but reason wasn’t necessarily enough to overcome their emotion.
Meanwhile, the women continued to sing and dance. Even though no decision had yet been made, one of the Maza began distributing the long whipping sticks, probably 5 feet tall, freshly picked from a nearby tree. As soon as he presented them, the women ran to him, fighting each other for custody of the best sticks. The more sticks a woman had, the more she would be whipped. The women look earnest in their desire to gather these sticks, and excited to participate in the ceremonial event that would end in their bloodshed. The scarification that results from the whipping was a sign of pride and respect. To be whipped was to build up the capital of their own beauty.
The juxtaposition was striking - the women singing, dancing and fighting for sticks. The men contemplative and tense. Finally they reached an agreement - the elders had convinced the Maza to forgo the whipping but continue the rest of the ceremonial affairs. Respect for one’s elders prevailed.
I was curious to see how the women would react - my assumption was that regardless of their airs and graces, deep down the women would be pleased with the news. Instead, they exploded into even louder song and dance in an act of defiance and disapproval. They were either genuinely dejected or their mascarade of joy remained unbroken.
The government representative left after reaching an agreement with the elders, before any ceremonial activity began. When we asked Shigo why they didn’t just carry on with the whipping once the official left, he looked confused by our question. The elders had given their word.
It was nearing 6:00pm and the village was finally ready to proceed with the ceremony. The honorary boy sat nearby the Maza as they engaged in a coffee ceremony. The boy was about 20 years old, a tall man with thin legs and a slender, boney face. He had been circling the group of elders and Maza but had not participated in the debate. I often caught him wandering alone, walking aimlessly towards the mountains. He wore nothing except a purple cloth around his waist. His hair was a big afro, but his head would be shaved as soon as he successfully completed his bull jump. He never smiled at us.
After the coffee ceremony the Maza stripped the boy naked, fed him milk and honey and prayed for good fortune in his future. Then the Maza gathered the bulls which had been casually roaming in the village compound. The bulls were difficult to organize, and you could see the Maza working hard to wrangle them into a tight line. Finally eight bulls stood at attention, ready to be jumped upon. Then, as if it was no feat at all, the boy took a short running start and lept onto the back of the first bull and jumped from back to back until he had run across all eight bulls and dismounted on the other side. He did this again, and again, running up and down the bulls. The more times a boy runs, the more confidence he displays to his community and it was clear this guy was confident (or trying to undo the shame cast on the event due to the cancellation of the whipping).
We left after the ceremony finished and headed back to our hotel. My head cloudy with memories of Anthro 101 that I had left on Walnut Street a decade ago. But there I was, forced back into discussing the merits and pitfalls of cultural preservation as I bore witness to a small success for women’s health amidst a small(er) loss for cultural conservation.
A few days later we visited a Mursi village - a small nomadic tribe living within the Omo National Park. Unlike the other tribes, the Mursi are not adorn with brightly colored beaded jewlery. Rather, their arms are filled with stacks of metal bracelets, the warped remains of AK47 bullet shells. The Mursi women are most recognizable for the large disk they wear in their overstretched bottom lip. The disks are made of clay and can reach 6 inches in diameter. The women look like they could be the prized center-fold of any national geographic cover story.
When we arrived at the village, none of the women were wearing their lip disks, their bottom lips were left to flap in isolation in the light breeze. The Mursi have a longstanding tradition of lip stretching, ear stretching and scarification. The art of lip stretching starts by cutting a slit below a woman’s lower lip. The slit is first filled with a wooden stick and then slowly stretched over time, gradually graduating to larger sized lip disks. Predictably, the wound is prone to infection. Shigo explained that, much like the whipping tradition in the Hamar tribe, the government has also been cracking down on lip stretching among the Mursi.
The Mursi village was smaller than the other villages we had visited and their poverty was apparent. Their small huts were made from dried grasses and some were barely big enough to fit a family. We sat in the center of the village on a thin dried cow hide and sipped on chili-spiked coffee (my preference over salt spiked coffee, which we’ve had at other tribes. Both chili and salt are used as a more economical substitute for sugar). Naked children ran around us, their coughs were filled with flem and flies sat in the corners of their eyes. The women were constantly spitting, which I soon realized was the result of their nearly detached lower lip which prevented them from swallowing properly. As I looked around I noticed that, while all of the older women had stretched lips, many of the young women did not. Shigo explained that the Mursi women now have a choice as they reach adulthood, a lip disk is no longer a mandatory coming of age ritual. Not all rites are created equal I suppose. Yet while we spoke with many lip diskless women, we were hard pressed to find a single woman in the village who was not scarified on her arms or stomach. The scarification takes on different meaning depending on where it’s placed on the body. Scars on the arms connote beauty, while scars on the stomach are designed to bring good health and fertility. We spent time talking with one woman in particular who’s arm scars were raised higher than any others. In order to improve the height of the scar, women often fill their wound with ash to hinder the healing process, resulting in a more visible scar. The government still has battles to fight.
A few days later we visited a Mursi village - a small nomadic tribe living within the Omo National Park. Unlike the other tribes, the Mursi are not adorn with brightly colored beaded jewlery. Rather, their arms are filled with stacks of metal bracelets, the warped remains of AK47 bullet shells. The Mursi women are most recognizable for the large disk they wear in their overstretched bottom lip. The disks are made of clay and can reach 6 inches in diameter. The women look like they could be the prized center-fold of any national geographic cover story.
When we arrived at the village, none of the women were wearing their lip disks, their bottom lips were left to flap in isolation in the light breeze. The Mursi have a longstanding tradition of lip stretching, ear stretching and scarification. The art of lip stretching starts by cutting a slit below a woman’s lower lip. The slit is first filled with a wooden stick and then slowly stretched over time, gradually graduating to larger sized lip disks. Predictably, the wound is prone to infection. Shigo explained that, much like the whipping tradition in the Hamar tribe, the government has also been cracking down on lip stretching among the Mursi.
The Mursi village was smaller than the other villages we had visited and their poverty was apparent. Their small huts were made from dried grasses and some were barely big enough to fit a family. We sat in the center of the village on a thin dried cow hide and sipped on chili-spiked coffee (my preference over salt spiked coffee, which we’ve had at other tribes. Both chili and salt are used as a more economical substitute for sugar). Naked children ran around us, their coughs were filled with flem and flies sat in the corners of their eyes. The women were constantly spitting, which I soon realized was the result of their nearly detached lower lip which prevented them from swallowing properly. As I looked around I noticed that, while all of the older women had stretched lips, many of the young women did not. Shigo explained that the Mursi women now have a choice as they reach adulthood, a lip disk is no longer a mandatory coming of age ritual. Not all rites are created equal I suppose. Yet while we spoke with many lip diskless women, we were hard pressed to find a single woman in the village who was not scarified on her arms or stomach. The scarification takes on different meaning depending on where it’s placed on the body. Scars on the arms connote beauty, while scars on the stomach are designed to bring good health and fertility. We spent time talking with one woman in particular who’s arm scars were raised higher than any others. In order to improve the height of the scar, women often fill their wound with ash to hinder the healing process, resulting in a more visible scar. The government still has battles to fight.
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Our trip continued to one of my favorite tribes - the Danasaach. Along with the Mursi, they are one of the poorest tribes in Omo. When we arrived it looked like we had entered a refugee camp on Mars. The land was arid and the sun was scorching. The area where they live is prone to tornadoes so even amidst the heat, their homes are constructed from unbreathable metal scraps that can withstand the wind. The metal incubates the heat and I could see the sweat dripping down Tom’s face as we sat on the floor of a hut sipping hot coffee from a hollowed out gourd. The poverty of the Dasanaach is particularly obvious when you look at the kids who were caked in dirt, white ash-covered bodies. Yet though the Dasanaach were poor, those kids were fun. They didn’t care about our cameras, or what they could get from us, it seemed like they just wanted to play. A group of kids trailed behind me singing and stomping their feet until I’d turn around and send them scattering while they screamed, “farangi!”. I’d turn around and begin to walk again and they’d repeat the game, sending themselves into hysterics all over again like it was brand new. I watched one kid pull another across the compound in a sled made from a halved gasoline canister, leaving a wake of dust behind. They’d topple over, laugh or cry, and do it again. I never had a free hand with the Dasanaach, each finger was always held by a different child as they shared the valuable real estate of my extremities.
We left the Dasanaach dusty and sweaty and wishfully thinking of a shower. Just before sunset we found our way to a Hamar village where we’d spend the night. The village was beautiful and the contrast in wealth between the Hamar and Dasanaach was stark. Their huts were made out of manicured thick grasses and many homes had fences around the compound built from a tapestry of wooden sticks. We were graciously invited into someone’s hut for coffee and conversation. The tribes here subsist largely off of a diet of porridge and coffee. The porridge, made from sorghum, was thick and pasty, and the coffee, made from husks not beans, was translucent and tasted like tea. Back outside the kids chased after us and I did cartwheels and handstands with the boys while a two year old child latched on to Tom and fell asleep in his arms. Once the sun went down we sat outside under the glow of the moon. We were surrounded by swarms of kids, cows and goats. The kids sang and danced for us and in return we sang Old McDonald for them, thinking they’d understand the animal noises, though I think they’d never heard those sounds before. After our concert, and as a sign of gratitude, a man brought us a gourd filled with warm milk straight from his cow’s udder. The milk was thick, creamy and sweet. I drank the first sip out of politeness, I drank the subsequent sips because it was delicious.
The kids slowly started trailing off to bed. A different man brought over a different gourd, the content this time was the local fermented alcohol. We’ve had this chunky moonshine before and each time it’s as pungent and foul as the first. I let Tom drink this one on his own. Soon our attention turned skyward and Tom began answering Shigo’s questions about stars and planets and the galaxy. I laid back on a cowhide rug, washed over with contentment, and listened to Tom point out Mars and Saturn and explain how to measure a star’s distance from earth. I was absorbed in the moment when a small girl, no older than seven, tapped me on the arm. I sat up as she uncurled my hand and put a pinch of powdered tobacco in the center. When I wagged my finger at her indicating that I didn’t want it, she bent her head down to my hand and promptly snorted the line of tobacco straight off the center of my palm. In that moment I could still hear Tom explaining celestial matters to Shigo, but I already felt like I was on a different planet.
I don’t think I could ever quite process that I was on earth for the entire trip through the Omo Valley. We spent the next evening in Turmi, the third largest “town” in Omo, and I still found myself lost in moments of bewilderment, enchanted and shock by my surroundings. We walked into town through a spaghetti western landscape, a wide and expansive valley (the Rift Valley, to be exact) encircled by a bowl of distant mountains. We grabbed two empty seats outside a crowded small store selling beer and watched the town pass by along the wide dirt promenade. Men walked through the village wearing loin cloths and were adorned with ornate metal jewelry. One man was carrying a machete, swinging it mindlessly as he walked to a nearby restaurant. Another had an AK47 tossed nonchalantly over his shoulder, a belt of bullets around his waist and a head dress; he sat near us with some friends and ordered a beer. Among the crowd there were also men and women dressed in Western attire, t-shirts with American sports logos, acid washed jeans, and baseball caps. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were on a TV set, maybe the sequel to Westworld, watching android hosts and guests intermingle.
Tom and I began playing cards and after a few animated rounds of spit, we had attracted a crowd of local men. They pulled up chairs and we taught them how to play. For the next two hours we played cards as the crowd grew and the rules dissolved. It was clear that the men both understood the rules of the game, but failed to follow the instructions when it was inopportune for them. I kept thinking back to Francisco, on the coast of Tanzania, telling us that in Africa, one plus one is always eleven, never two. A man named Che, named after Che Guevara, won the card game and celebrated his victory, while we quietly celebrated our victory as well: getting charged local prices for our beers.
The kids slowly started trailing off to bed. A different man brought over a different gourd, the content this time was the local fermented alcohol. We’ve had this chunky moonshine before and each time it’s as pungent and foul as the first. I let Tom drink this one on his own. Soon our attention turned skyward and Tom began answering Shigo’s questions about stars and planets and the galaxy. I laid back on a cowhide rug, washed over with contentment, and listened to Tom point out Mars and Saturn and explain how to measure a star’s distance from earth. I was absorbed in the moment when a small girl, no older than seven, tapped me on the arm. I sat up as she uncurled my hand and put a pinch of powdered tobacco in the center. When I wagged my finger at her indicating that I didn’t want it, she bent her head down to my hand and promptly snorted the line of tobacco straight off the center of my palm. In that moment I could still hear Tom explaining celestial matters to Shigo, but I already felt like I was on a different planet.
I don’t think I could ever quite process that I was on earth for the entire trip through the Omo Valley. We spent the next evening in Turmi, the third largest “town” in Omo, and I still found myself lost in moments of bewilderment, enchanted and shock by my surroundings. We walked into town through a spaghetti western landscape, a wide and expansive valley (the Rift Valley, to be exact) encircled by a bowl of distant mountains. We grabbed two empty seats outside a crowded small store selling beer and watched the town pass by along the wide dirt promenade. Men walked through the village wearing loin cloths and were adorned with ornate metal jewelry. One man was carrying a machete, swinging it mindlessly as he walked to a nearby restaurant. Another had an AK47 tossed nonchalantly over his shoulder, a belt of bullets around his waist and a head dress; he sat near us with some friends and ordered a beer. Among the crowd there were also men and women dressed in Western attire, t-shirts with American sports logos, acid washed jeans, and baseball caps. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were on a TV set, maybe the sequel to Westworld, watching android hosts and guests intermingle.
Tom and I began playing cards and after a few animated rounds of spit, we had attracted a crowd of local men. They pulled up chairs and we taught them how to play. For the next two hours we played cards as the crowd grew and the rules dissolved. It was clear that the men both understood the rules of the game, but failed to follow the instructions when it was inopportune for them. I kept thinking back to Francisco, on the coast of Tanzania, telling us that in Africa, one plus one is always eleven, never two. A man named Che, named after Che Guevara, won the card game and celebrated his victory, while we quietly celebrated our victory as well: getting charged local prices for our beers.
Gallery
