Touristing in the Omo Valley

Tuesday 20th feb 

An army of land cruisers bouncing across the dirt track. 

Windows open a crack, protecting against the dust, creating a semblance of a breeze in the hot arid valley. Ten four wheel drive viewing boxes. The Omo Valley. Home to tribes of indigenous people, isolated from the rest of the country by hundreds of kilometres of scrubland. Open to tourism for the last 30 odd years. A new part of the TdA itinerary is a 3 day trip, minus bikes. We stop at a view point before descending into the valley itself. The vista emphasises the scale of the isolation. 

Falling away beneath us the uninterrupted acacia trees and yellowed grass of the Omo Valley span part of the Great Rift from one horizon to the other; meeting the borders of Kenya and South Sudan where the land meets the sky. There are about 16 tribes (I think), and 600 000 people living in this expanse. That is why we are here: the people of the Omo Valley. The Hamer Tribe. We arrive at a small village as raindrops begin to fall. Water pooling in large fissures of the dehydrated red mud. The rain is a welcome knife to the stifling heat. About 10 woman/girls congregate to form a line outside the branch fence dermacarting the village boundary. The tour guide stands to one side, explaining the dress and hairstyles the women and girls are supporting. We form a crowd facing them. No smiles, a real life exhibit. A one way exchange of information. These villagers know the routine but there is confusion in their eyes. A language barrier prevents complete comprehension, and dictates a feeling of exploitation. The narrative alongside the mute exhibit explains the culture and dress. Men can have numerous wives, but the number of wives they have is dependent on how many they can afford to support. I get the impression the majority have one or two. The advantage of numerous wives is that they can share the household tasks, and the childcare. Indeed they form one family unit. The original wife has two simple ring necklaces, and a third with a single large protuberance at the front, subsequent wives simply have the two rings. Parallels could be drawn to a dog collar. Hair is often worn braided and down the the shoulders. From what I could gather, married women would dye their hair red with a butter clay mix. Men marry from 18 years of age onwards. To be eligible to marry they must pass the bull jumping ceremony. An expense carried by the man's family. There is a four to eight week notification and preparation phase. The ceremony involves lining up a variable number of bullocks, the man then has to successfully run over the line and jump of the end. A dangerous affair. Women in the village will often whip themselves, or be whipped, as a symbol of respect and an act to grant luck to the men. Girls as young as seven can be betrothed to men who pass the ceremony, or men can take wives of age. Betrothed girls wear a beaded version of the marriage necklace. 5 birr for a photograph- about 15c. Less than the price of a postcard at home. Women who are prepared to have their picture taken move to one side. An exercise which reminds me of having my photo taken with Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. Moneyed white people pose with the villagers, handing over 5 birr to each photographic participant. Voyeuristic tourism. Evolution? A culture corrupted: a culture adapting? Capitalism driven embellishment of tradition: a community profiting from sharing their culture and history? The Dasanach Tribe. Scrambling up a mud bank we leave the carved out fig tree boats which carried us across the muddied river waters. 

Small children wordlessly take a hand to walk alongside you. Crossing the green cropped field the atmosphere differs from the Hamer village of yesterday. Interaction. A branch fence greets us at the village boundary. Children from the village intermingle with us. Some speak English and tell us their age and about their family. We halt at the hole in the fence. Some background information. No line ups. People continue their business. These tribes are nomadic. They shift their homes frequently to find food for their livestock. How frequently is not clear, I assume 6 monthly. Animals are kept within the village walls, in makeshift pens. Food is gathered by villagers, often the kids before school. In this way the animals will not destroy the villages surrounding crops. Women also wear braids in their hair, as the Hamer women. These women have an additional braid, a shorter one on the hairline which corresponds to the number of children they have. Two woman are called over- one with a single braid and one child, another with two braids and two children. They do not hang around and continue their business. Female circumcision is practised, at the age of 12. A woman who doesn't have it done is considered wild. Male circumcision happens too, but was not discussed. 100 birr for unlimited photographs. The majority of the group part with the cash. Contributing to the village economy. We enter through the hole in the fence. Village life continues. There is no embellishment for pictures. The kids surround us, and touch us. Alistair and his new found English speaking companion do a tour of the community, the half naked seven year old designated and loving commandeering Alistair's camera. Women building a new house- warped branches bent into a dome, thatch and corrugated metal lashed to the branches. Some others sitting in a doorway brewing the Sorghum beer. We ask to take pictures. The guide says 'No need to ask, you have paid.' An old woman calls from her seat on the ground of her doorway, a young child on her lap. The message and tone lost in the ether. She sounds annoyed, we assume she doesn't want her picture taken. We ask for a translation. It's the opposite - she is calling to have her picture taken, she says 'you have paid, take my picture I would like to see'! More kids gather, wanting to play. To be lifted up and spun round, thrown in the air and caught. They want to braid the farenji hair. There is little to no demand for birr, pens, caramello. Such a polar experience to the day prior. We reflect as we leave that engagement and understanding appears to be key to a positive experience, both on behalf of tourist and local. The unanimous theme is an attempt to profit from the tourists but the way in which it is executed has a huge part to play. A set fee for the village discourages competition between villagers; removes the 'selection pressure' for bigger and better embellishments of tradition, removes the need to interrupt your day to day life to chase your 15cents. So many issues have been raised by this side trip. The very nature of tourism in the developing world has been catapulted to the limelight. The people of the Hamer village we visited keep any photo money they earn, the village itself also directly received 3600birr which the tour guide suggested would be used for the villagers, for example if a woman in labour requires healthcare. But to what end? We feel ashamed to be standing looking directly at the people of the Omo Valley. Is this a fault of our own, or is that because it is innately wrong? We avert our gaze and simply listen to the words of the guide, we wander off when the opportunity arises to take pictures. Is this rude? Is this disrespectful? Villagers follow us around as we detract from our own awkwardness, admiring their ingenuity in construction and engineering, their thatched branch houses and village layout. Echoes of 'Photo? Birr?' follow us around as villagers etch out an 'easier' way to earn their crust. This is tourism. Tourism is an industry. Tourism is here to stay. We cringe that people are adapting to profit from the market, but it is a global theme. Perhaps the recency of tourism to the Omo Valley makes its' impact seem so raw. We see first hand a community in transition. Days previously spent in the fields, collecting feed for animals, walking to market, are now punctuated with influxes of villagers. What was once simply a ritual becomes a performance. We think this is bad. We think they are losing their values. Life has become a performance. And are we responsible? Take a step back. The global picture. Compare tourism in the developed world, to tourism in the developing world. After all, it provides a significant income for a large proportion of the world's population. Whole towns have been revolutionised by tourism but we don't cast judgement on this, we accept it. Edinburgh- the castle, the Royal Mile, men wearing kilts and playing bag pipes, street sales of tartan hats and fake ginger hair, whole shops dedicated to 'traditional' Scottish food and gimmicky bracelets and embroidered clothing. Queenstown-hillsides turned into ski resorts, forest areas cut down for a gondola, 'traditional' jobs replaced by guiding, retail and sales. Covent Garden - no longer the market it was originally. Why is there a difference? Why do we resist rather than support the change? Some believe we shouldn't be coming here. It is wrong. I beg them to reconsider. I too thought this when the side trip started however, I now feel this is potentially an arrogant and dictatorial philosophy. This philosophy removes their right to integrate with, and profit from, the global community. We assume that they have not chosen this path, that it has been dictated to them - perhaps by senior figures within the community or by the by drawer to make money. We cannot make this decision for them. We cannot force them back to their 'natural state'. What have I learnt from the Omo Valley? I have gained a lot from this side trip, not in the way I had hoped. I have a scant appreciation of a culture rich in history and tradition, a memory of beautiful vistas, an awareness of construction and ingenuity that would put the kiwis to shame and infinite memories of lean athletic bodies decorated ornately thriving in a harsh but beautiful environment. But the most striking thing I have learnt from the Omo Valley, is the importance of managing the incorporation of tourism into a culture and economy. We have to accept that tourism is rapidly becoming ubiquitous, and not run away from it. In accepting the transition, we can ensure those communities are not exploited, but supported. 'Fair trade tourism.' Knowledge that the whole community has willingly engaged in the activity, and that all who are involved receive benefit. Not simply those at the top. A role for a Cultural Anthropologist perhaps? The Omo Valley has so much to offer, and even more that can be lost. I really believe that with correct management the Omo Valley can carve a culturally sustainable yet profitable tourism experience which is enriching and educational for both the host and visiting communities. Poorly managed, a culture steeped in history is at risk of selling itself out to the highest bidder, profiting financially but losing its essence. An crucial and exiting time in The history of the Omo Valley. Tread with care. Personal Additions To prevent in breeding individuals must marry outside of their clan, and the woman moves to join the husband's clan. It's about 11am and the heat is intense. The only other place I have experienced this all encompassing and direct heat is Death Valley in the States. Currently not somewhere I would considering relocating to! A bizarre 'sightseeing' expedition in which the main attraction appears to be the people. An economically poor community now profiting from a demand. Where there's a market there will be a provider. On trip to the valley the road was lined with young children, like billboards on the highways. Boys with bottles of thick milky sorghum beer, herding cattle and goats along the roadside. Task in hand temporarily forgotten at the sight of tourist vehicles. Arms spinning, knees gyrating in a local dance. Some bob up and down, jumping from crouched to standing in a fantastic display of leg strength. Dancers culminate in a standing position, hand outstretched '- Birr?!'. The vehicles push through the meandering livestock, or barrel over the potholes; the moonlighters a snapshot of the Ethiopian experience. 

A conditioned response to positive feedback. The land rovers seated about 4 people. David called our truck the Oestro Van, most people who know me will know how much I hate this! Anything to do with humans, and hormones and bodily functions makes me feel a bit queasy! The name was very quickly changed- Chicks in Van Six, although David still hasn't adapted to the new name. Steph, Sophie, Jenna and I filled the 20 hours in the van very effectively. We caught up on camp gossip, analysed the impact and ethics of tourism, discussed female genital mutilation, and then had a session on relationships and the 5 love languages (Wikipedia has a whole article on it). Definitely an eclectic and enlightening three days! Apparently van 6 was a dud. We got slower and slower over the three days. Initially we were holding chronological order. We stopped on day 2 because there was steam from the engine. The driver popped the lid and there was a worn belt that was pulled out and thrown across the road. Obviously redundant. We motored on. Day three. Returning from the Mercy tribe, a big climb up and out the valley. Dropping back. The driver is getting more hesitant with every rut we hit. The temperature is rising. I am in the passenger seat. The windows handle is broken, snapped off and a bolt remains in its place. The driver hands me his windows handle. The technique is to place the handle on the bolt, apply even pressure to the bolt with the heel of your hand, continue to apply this pressure while turning. Every 180 degrees you need to reposition to continue the circular motion. Even with the window open you can smell the heat of the engine. Halfway up the hill we pull over. Given up the ghost. By now all the vans are ahead of us. The driver pops the lids. 

Heat radiates from the engine. The driver returns to the car- 'Phone. Phone.' Looks like we aren't going anywhere further in this van. We summon the TdA AA - within 15mins a black Land Rover has come to our rescue. We pile in, and leave van 6 and our driver with a jerry can and numerous bottles of water- he is to wait for it to cool and join us. This is how the other half live! Automatic windows, aircon, functional suspension. We had no idea how much we had been suffering until we jumped ship! Arriving in Jinka and he heavens opened. 

There was a rush to get backs and pith tents under the handful of shelters. Those who remained waited for an hour for the rain to pass. I took the opportunity to wash. Bikini on and body wash in hand I stopped under the stream of water Rushing of the corner of the canopy on the truck. A power shower, better than a lot of the dribbles we have at the hotels!