By Joe Van OS

“Ethiopia is the most efficiently mis-managed country in the world,” my pilot tells me as we wait on the tarmac by the chartered plane for my baggage and camera gear to clear Customs.  It’s taking more than an hour as five officials debate whether my 500mm lens qualifies me as an unwanted journalist bent on causing trouble by reporting on Ethiopia’s recent military incursions into Somalia and upcoming 2010 elections.  None of them want to be responsible for letting me in with my big “journalist” lens.

I’ve flown to Addis Ababa from Johannesburg after two wildlife shoots in Kenya’s Masai Mara followed by another in Botswana.   Since I’ll be photographing people here, the 500mm “wildlife lens” is an unnecessary piece of equipment—but there is no way I will leave it behind with these guys!  They ask me where I am heading and I tell them Tulgit, near the border with Sudan.  My pilot’s head nods in agreement.  I’m staying for 10 days to photograph the Surma tribe.  Eventually—since none of them has ever heard of Tulgit (or the Surma for that matter)—they decide that there is probably little trouble I can cause there and they finally clear my gear and the plane for departure.

The flight takes a little more than four hours, including an intermediate stop at Jinka to pick up my friend John, who is in the region photographing Karo and Hamar tribespeople.  The plane flies over billowing fields of teff grass, deeply-eroded canyons, and numerous small and isolated villages.  Jinka, with a population of about 22,000 people, is immense by comparison.  When we land it seems as if half the inhabitants have run onto the dirt runway to stare at the plane.

With John and his gear on board we take off for Tulgit, finally landing on an extremely remote dirt airstrip in the highland heart of Surma country.  We camp for the next 10 days next to a small regional police station for security and for access to well water for cooking and washing.  We pre-arranged for a small camp staff and guide to meet us in Tulgit (a tiresome 3-day drive over very rough roads from Addis Ababa) and, upon our arrival, two tents are already pitched and a tidy kitchen is set up in one of the police storehouses.  It’s good to be back!

The Surma are an amazing people who, living beyond most of the influences of the modern world and its technology, still maintain much of their traditional way of life.  We are here to photograph the fantastic and imaginative body painting, scarification and natural adornments the Surma (young men and women both) have developed into an astounding art form.  Generally naked (most women and girls wear shoulder-supported waistcloths or skins) their lean and statuesque bodies provide a remarkable canvas for the graphic clay designs and elaborate decorations they create from grasses, flowers, fruits, seed pods and other natural materials.  Older women wear huge (and unsettling to outsiders) ceramic or wooden plates cut into their lower lip and, after the harvest, men fight with traditional Donga sticks on a large battlefield.

By mid-afternoon it is raining, but we are out on the main road meeting people and being seen, taking a few photos along the way.  People are in all forms of dress (or undress depending on your perspective) and many are wrapped in locally-woven cloth against the damp chill in the air.  Those decorated with clay remind me of the tedious “MacArthur Park” song line “someone left the cake out in the rain” as designs droop and run as the rain increases.

Get complete details on the upcoming 2010 Vanishing Cultures of Ethiopia’s Omo Valley tour

It doesn’t take long for word to get out that photographers are in the area and in the following days we are inundated with an amazing array of beautifully adorned people lining up to get their photos taken.  The fact that we are paying for these images increases the excitement.  Over time we photograph almost 200 people—200 people wearing the most creative and graphic designs imaginable that, to me, rival some of the world’s most noteworthy modern artists.

In the late afternoon, along the Kibish River, a crowd of festooned and decorated people regularly develops.  They know we will be here.  The crowd swells to 30 or more people, but it is far too many to photograph well before the good light fails.  I manage about six or seven people each session by the time we get acquainted, allow them take a few photos of me and look at those images on the back of my camera, select the shoot background—and finally take some serious photos of them.  The background can make or break the shot so this type of portraiture takes quite a bit more time than you might imagine!  To a degree you have to match their body art to a complementary environment.

It is John’s idea to visit a nearby cattle camp—and the decision to do that pays off in a number of ways.  Three brothers own this herd of cattle—about 60 animals—and we drive out to meet them and arrange a photo shoot.  Though they live in a constant state of siege with one tribe stealing cattle from the other (all of these guys are armed to the teeth with AK-47s from Sudan and periodically conduct raids on their enemies) we find three seemingly gentle herders (in their mid to late twenties) with their two much younger brothers tending to their cows at their cattle camp as the sun is setting.  Cattle are regarded primarily as a source of wealth—though milk and cow’s blood are consumed by many on a daily basis.  Except for important ceremonies, cattle are generally not eaten.  Each cow can be bled once a month from the jugular—a renewable resource.

The herders build several smoky fires to keep the cows warm and biting insects off them during the night.  The cows huddle around these fires much as we would sit around a campfire.  The three men sing to their cows to calm them.  Their songs praise the importance of cows to the well-being of their lives, family and the tribe.  Aromatic herbs are rubbed over the cows, ticks and other parasites are picked off, and the biggest bulls are decorated with designs made of clay and dung.  One of the herders collects blood from a large bull.  The young boys milk some of the cows and the milk and blood gourds are passed around the group.  We pass.  The scene is amazingly bucolic and serene.  We “hang out” with these guys quite a bit and make numerous images.  One of the older brothers wears the shell of a baby tortoise around his neck as an amulet.  That shell and his broad smile make him the most photogenic of the bunch.

During our stay John spends much more of his time photographing the cattle camp and I spend more time with the decorated people closer to the village.  During all this time, rumors of a Donga stick fight reach us from the local police and passersby.  The time and date are fluid as this fight is not only an inter-village sporting event, but a grudge match—a serious vendetta between two men (and the reputation of two families from different villages) fighting over a woman.

Donga is fought with 8-foot sticks primarily to demonstrate masculinity, settle personal arguments and, most importantly, attract women.  The fighters whip these sticks over their heads and hit their opponents on the head and any accessible vulnerable areas like arms and legs—as long as their adversary remains standing.  It’s Darth Vader and Obi-Wan Kenobi with wooden lightsabers.  The sound of the stick whipping by and its connection with the opponent’s stick or naked flesh is unforgettable.  The Donga fight not only attracts women, it also desensitizes the young men to the bloodshed they will encounter with their peers in the face of inevitable enemy warriors.  Donga is part sport, part ritual, part social gathering and can be extremely dangerous.  It is a refereed event but deaths regularly occur—especially when flared tempers, AK-47s and copious amounts of sorghum beer enter the mix!

The Donga fight we are waiting for is repeatedly postponed as close to 1,000 people are walking from distant villages to take part in the event.  Part of this fight is a notorious grudge match between a guy in his mid-forties and a much younger rival who has insulted his honor, and that of his family, on numerous occasions—it also involves their mutual interest in the same woman.  The postponement is also due to the problem of procuring a large quantity of food and sorghum beer as these men have to raise enough money to provide refreshments to the attending masses.  Amazingly, John and I know the older fighter from his frequent visits to our camp on a previous trip and we get inside glimpses into the Donga workings.  Now, he repeatedly comes to see us as we are an obvious source of cash for beer money!

The Donga day arrives and there is palpable energy in the air this morning.  Donga fighters from distant villages march in following the flag bearer of their village colors.  There are photo opportunities everywhere.

The actual fight will commence in the late afternoon.  Because of the extreme chaos during the fight, John and I each hire a local policeman to literally watch our backs as the fighting—though “organized”—breaks out in all directions.  It is hard to push through the crowds and concentrate on photography while avoiding Donga sticks flailing everywhere.  The policemen will literally pull us back by the collar to get us out of the hottest battles if it gets too frantic!

We arrive on the Donga field—two white photographers in a virtual sea of Surma.  It’s hard to photograph incognito in this environment.  Heads turn.  The sky is dark, threatening, and a heavy rain seems inevitable.  Dozens of “friendly” sporting Donga fights between villages break out across acres of cleared battlefield (the same field our plane landed on at our arrival).  John and I split up with an agreement to “touch base” on occasion.  Within seconds he disappears into the multitude of fighters and onlookers.

Victory processions, with chanting village team members carrying Donga winners above the throng on shoulders and crossed Donga sticks, snake their way between fighters and pulsing waves of onlookers.  Some men looking to challenge others do a naked “rooster” strut taunting their adversaries and calling insults.  I can imagine them shouting, “My mother fights better than you do!”

Thunder rumbles from distant hillsides and leaden clouds drift towards the field.  The sky opens and a hard driving rain turns the field into a gluey mudhole.  The fighting continues.  Fighters are soaked.  I am soaked and worry that my camera electronics may short circuit.  My camera could only be wetter if I dropped it in a lake!  Amazingly, it keeps working and I keep shooting.  Who knows where John has gone?  But wet Donga sticks and mud create a very dangerous situation for the fighters.  A slip of a stick and someone could be dead—referees temporarily stop the fighting.  The crowd thins.  John and I reconnect and decide to go back to camp to dry gear and eat something.  At the edge of the field the spectators break open the stocks of sorghum beer.  It’s party time!

We return in the afternoon and our guide tells us the serious fights have started.  One area is packed with people so I head over to investigate.  People are lined ten deep waiting for a fight to begin.  A huge fighter, a threatening hulk of a man, steps into the amorphous Donga ring.  He is wearing traditional beads, a loose zebu skin, a tattered “ranger” hat, and makeshift shin guards.  The crowd is electrified.  Our guide tells me this is one of the tribe’s top Donga fighters.  I push through the crowd to get some shots.  He is doing the “rooster” strut with his Donga stick challenging all comers.  He turns my direction and says, “They are all afraid of me!”

I move the camera from my face and look directly at him.  There, around his neck is an amulet made from a baby tortoise shell.  We’ve been hanging out with the Muhammad Ali of the Donga world and not known it—the same man who in another setting gently sings to his cows!  He wins several fights but it is next to impossible to get a lens in between the crush of spectators.

Somewhere in this crowd the much anticipated grudge match is in full swing.  I can’t see it as there is too much going on around me in every direction.  Later I learn the elder referees shorten the fight before the older guy is hurt.  They call it a draw but it is clear to everyone who really won.  It is time our friend considers Donga retirement.

By now many of the onlookers have had quite a bit of beer and the scene is getting unruly.  This is the time when guns enter the fighting equation—and it’s time to make a hasty retreat back to camp.  It has been an amazing day both culturally and photographically—a true lifetime experience.  Downloading tonight will be really exciting.

As darkness falls, fires are lit in the local villages and singing and drumming resounds across the landscape.  It is just like being in an old adventure movie!

Laws passed by the Ethiopian government in 1994 to ban Donga fighting currently have no enforcement.  I’m very glad I am able to experience such an amazing spectacle before it is lost to history!

Days later our plane returns, parked in the same field that held the Donga a few days earlier.  The contrast is profound.  Dozens of Surma line the runway to see who or what has arrived.

John is heading to Gambella to photograph another tribe and I am continuing on to Addis to catch an international flight back to the States.  Landing at Gambella, efficient mis-management kicks in again.  An official is required to meet all arriving planes and no one is waiting at the airport.  We wait in the shade of the wings on a remote patch of tarmac for an hour and a half before a woman in a long flower-print dress drives up and allows John to leave the airport.

Landing at Addis Ababa I am the only passenger on the plane.  As I enter the terminal a policeman meets me and asks, “Where are you coming from?”  “Tulgit,” I answer.  “You must go through international customs,” he says.  “Tulgit is in Ethiopia,” I tell him.  “I’ve never heard of Tulgit—let me talk with my supervisor.  Please place your luggage on the conveyor belt for screening.”  He returns and says, “Yes, Tulgit is in Ethiopia—but I see you are bringing in a professional ‘journalist’ lens!”