For an extremely long period of time, the Omo Valley of south western Ethiopia provided a home to some of the most remote, colourful and interesting cultures found anywhere in the world. 

Within the past decade, however, camera-toting tour groups have left a path of rudeness, garbage and resentment in their tracks, drastically changing an area that for so long remained untouched. 

Visiting the Omo Valley as an independent traveller was next to impossible, or so I was told, as it was dangerous and there was no transportation bar the tour group buses. Taking my chances I went headlong (some may say headstrong) into the most phenomenal experience of my life. 

My destination was village of Turmi, home of Ethiopia’s Hamer people. With no buses, I put my fate in the hands luck. After a six hour wait, as night was about to fall, a four-wheel-drive stopped and for an extortionate price, I ‘hitched’ a ride. The driver, a Catholic missionary from Addis Ababa, ranted endlessly about the 'godforsaken ways of the pagans' of the Omo Valley and how their cultures were 'wrong' and 'bad'. He condemned them consistently for their evil ways and practices, as he would press down on the accelerator of his Land Rover and run over every rabbit-like animal that was unlucky enough to pass through the headlight beams.

 'These people, bad people, Melissa!' he exclaimed.

'Why is that?'

'They do not believe in Jesus Christ! And many of them wear no clothing; the women wear no tops.'

'And that makes them bad?'

'Yes, and they circumcise the women. These are bad people, very bad people.'

I fell silent, knowing that there was no point in arguing with a man devoid of cultural reasoning.

Arriving at Turmi late in the night, I found myself in a mud walled, dirt floored rest house. The next morning I arose early and explored my surroundings. A young boy led me to a place where I could buy tea and bread. It was there, buying 'dabo' for my breakfast, that I befriended a boy by the name of Gele. 

Gele is a Hamer boy who epitomises the clash of ancient tradition with western expectations. Pursuing a higher education, Gele has been forced to abandon traditional clothing, remove his jewellery and leave home. He no longer fits in with the Hamer people or Ethiopian city folk. 

 Teachers sent from the large cities refuse to teach Hamer people who dress in their traditional ways of skins and beads. When I met Gele, he was dressed in suit pants and a nice button down top. His hair was cut short; quite a contrast to the traditional male Hamer hairstyle of hair slicked back with painted clay and ornamented in ostrich feathers. 

Gele, true to African hospitality form, invited me to be his guest at a ‘cow jumping’ ceremony that was to happen the next day. A cow jumping ceremony? How could I resist? In the morning we walked to the dry river bed where the ceremony, together with my disgust of fellow tourists, was to begin. 

Dozens of Hamer girls sat beneath the shade of large trees while others, ornamented in their beaded skins, jumped in unison, creating a myriad of metallic sounds as their bracelets clinked together. These girls, breasts bouncing freely in unison with their heads and shoulders, would jump up to a few chosen men, marked by feathers behind either ear. In great ceremony, they handed the men a green stick and while continuing to jump, the men would whip them, drawing blood. As the blows reined, the girls, without flinching, would bow their heads and jump away only to return in a matter of moments with another green stick, to repeat the whole procedure. 

I sat in awe, under the shade of the trees with the others. Gele explained to me that the girls were friends of an adolescent boy who, as the focus of the gathering, was to jump over cows. In the Hamer tradition, a boy can only become a man and therefore be eligible for marriage, by running over eight cows three times. In order to show their happiness for the boy, who is to become a man, they perform the whipping ceremony. 

As the parade continued I suddenly found myself surrounded by a large group of tourists who had paid a tour operator to see the ceremony. They walked amongst the people, flashing cameras, handing out buttons and pins with slogans such as 'Shopping is good', to people who a matter of years ago had no interest in money, and still have no concept of a supermarket or mall. 

I watched in disgust as an Italian shoved his camera in a young girl’s face and snapped away. Furious, she gave a loud cry and grabbed at the camera, her hand outstretched asking compensation for this intrusion. Belligerently, the man shook his head, waved his finger in the air and walked away. 

 The group would try to wave me out of their photos as I sat with my new found friends, who in turn were being treated like zoo animals. Refusing to move they quizzed me: 'Are you an anthropologist studying the Hamer people?' 

'Aren't these people so inhumane with this whipping?' they proclaimed to me as they shuddered to the sound of sticks ripping flesh. Their ethnocentricity and ignorance cast a shadow of shame on my own kind.

'No, I’m not an anthropologist,’ I answered, 'and to the Hamer girls, the scars they receive from these whippings are beautiful, and it is something they are proud of.'

In the meantime, my newfound friend, Gele, had discarded his shirt, grabbed a spear and painted his chest in great strands of blue. A huge smile on his face made it clear where he was happiest. 

The whipping ceremony came to a close as the ceremonial group moved on to the focus: cattle jumping. Up to fifty cows were rounded up in a circle. A group of men stood in the centre of the great beasts, surrounding a naked teenage boy. A large group of women surrounded the cattle, jumping and dancing in unison. Of course, making their own presence felt were dozens of tourists trying to get a 'good picture' of a ceremony they had not taken the time to understand. 

The cows tramped, dust filled the air and the women kept with their dancing and singing. As I too, was wearing my hair in the traditional Hamer girl style, dipped in red clay, ochre and butter, they grabbed my hands convincing me to join as one of them, to experience. There was a cry, and a few of the biggest bulls were lined up side to side. The tourists inched in further; the Hamer people looked at them with disgust and annoyance. Only a few years ago, this was their ceremony, not a spectacle for the uninitiated. I began to wonder, as the naked boy stood up, and cheers went up, if this tradition, like in so many other places, will begin to remain solely in order to capture the sorely and sadly-needed tourist dollar. 

The boy jumped up, and lithely ran across the backs of the cattle, three times. Back and forth he went, and became a man. 

The show was over, the tourists left as though leaving a movie theatre. None of them seemed to realise that what they had just seen was the real world. 

The father of the boy who was now a man looked at the tourists as they left and simply, but poignantly shook his head. His gesture, his moment of despondence at a time reserved for fatherly pride said it all. 

Walking back to the village of Turmi, holding hands with the Hamer friends I had made, listening to the melodic jingle of their bracelets as they went, I could smell the tourist-carrying Land Rovers as they clouded up dust on the road home. It was the pungent smell of disrespect.

© Melissa Lunstead – 2002/3