A Journey to Omo

It was over 40 degrees in the shade, and my companions and I had been waiting in Weyto for over 15 hours. Weyto, a small collection of huts and truck stop cafes, lies on the Konso-Jinka Road in the far corner of southwestern Ethiopia. Weyto hosts a weekly open air market for the Tsemai tribe, inhabitants of the region, and also happens to be the lowest, and therefore hottest point in southern Ethiopia. But its main claim to fame is that of being the junction for the sand tracks that lead off into the Lower Omo Valley, one of the most remote spots on the planet.

My guidebook described the Lower Omo in glowing terms: road conditions rough, thick black oozing mud, malaria endemic, with hostility between neighboring tribes high and internecine warfare common. Just the place for a relaxing vacation!

Actually, visiting the Omo during the dry season (July-August and December-March) eliminates most of the malaria, mud, and road problems, and thus makes for a fascinating visit to one of the least explored and most untouched places left in the world.

The Omo River travels for roughly 1000 kilometers, coursing from southwestern Ethiopia into Kenya, and draining into Lake Turkana. Its banks support both forest and savanna, home to populations of lion, buffalo, elephant, leopard, lesser kudu, gazelle, hartebeest, eland, zebra, giraffe, colobus and vervet monkeys, as well as other primates and mammals.

However, the main attraction of the Lower Omo is that of the people who inhabit the region. Dozens of tribes, descended from Omotic, Semitic, Cushitic, and Nilotic ethnic groups, inhabit a tiny space, still living a pastoral existence more or less as they did one hundred years ago.




The largest groups are the Surma, known for their white body painting (meant to intimidate rivals during battle), and the Hamer, pastoralists who have some of the most elaborate body decorations in the world. There are also the Mursi, famed for the lip plates that the women wear, as well as the Karo, Ari, Banna, Bodi, Bumi, Tsemai, Arbore, and Oromote, to name but a few.

There are several tour companies in Addis Ababa that will get one into the Omo in the relative comfort of a four wheel drive vehicle, and Ethiopian Airlines makes a daily run into the provincial capital of Jinka with a De Havilland Twin Otter 18-seater, where one can look straight out the cockpit onto the magnificent terrain below. However, despite being told by tour companies that there was no local transport and that it would be impossible to get to the villages of the Omo without their services, my companions and I had decided to do it the hard way, traveling on public transport.

A bus had deposited us in Weyto, where we had been promised that we could find trucks heading to Turmi, a Hamer village where there was a weekly market the following morning. Market days were always supposed to bring the only transport of the week for locals, both in and out. Yet 15 hours in Weyto had not produced a single vehicle.

This really was not a problem, as the cafe owners were friendly, plying us with plenty of vegetable and pulse curries known as wat, served along with injera bread, Ethiopia's national dish, plus enough local beer to help beat the heat.

Additionally, the Tsemai were hosting their own weekly market, which for some reason was not noted in the guidebooks, passed over perhaps in favor of the lip-plated Mursi or decorated Hamer, or maybe it was just that nobody hung around Weyto long enough to have a look. At any rate, the Tsemai market was one of the best in Ethiopia, with hundreds of different clans gathered for a weekly meeting at which crops were being bartered, beads and body ornaments displayed, and whole lot of drinking and socializing going on.

As the market in Weyto was not on the tourist track, the Tsemai were initially quite reserved when we wandered into their midst, and weren't overly keen on posing for photographs. Yet curiosity got the better of them, and soon we had an eager group of young boys all wanting to look through the viewfinders of our cameras, laughing uproariously at what they saw, as well as a bevy of young maidens, all preening and trying to outdo each other for better poses. The older folks looked on in amusement, motioning us to come and sit in the shade and get inebriated with them.

By ten p.m. we figured we weren't going any further, which really wasn't a problem, as the truck stop was equipped with lots of outdoor beds to curl up on. But no sooner had we begun to make ourselves comfortable when a cry went up from one of the owners. “Turmi, transport,” he bellowed, pointing a long finger into the pitch dark night.




A gaunt man wrapped in a white shawl led us down the dark road, where sure enough, a large truck sat quietly idling its engine. To our amazement, on the roof of the truck sat over 100 people, laden down with goods headed for the Turmi market.

We initially were not sure what we were getting ourselves into, but the locals seemed quite thrilled to see some foreigners trying out their choice of transport, and soon a few spaces had been made for us, and we joined the sea of skin and smiling teeth gleaming in the dark night.

Traveling through the desert by night ended up being gorgeous, as the air was refreshingly cool, and we were bathed by the light of a harvest moon, which rose up over a ridge of sand dunes. Shortly thereafter, a meteor shower started, and we lay back on the bags of straw we were perched on, enjoying the show.

As we bounced along the sand track, I thought to myself that this was the roughest I had traveled since my days of vagabonding in my early twenties, and, minutes later, I thought to myself that this was also the most fun I'd had since then.

Morning found us in Turmi, a sandy village comprised of conical thatch huts. All the tracks leading into town were full of groups of Hamer men and women, hauling gourds, goatskins, and freshly made butter on their backs, bound for the market, chatting animatedly as they went.

The Hamer women were beautiful, decorated with cowry shell necklaces, chest plates, beads, and all sorts of homemade jewelery, including pins made from paper clips, bottle caps, and film cannisters! Their hair was dyed with ochre clay and animal fat, and many had signs of scarification on their backs, raised scar tissue caused by razor blades or knife wounds, which are seen as sensual in Hamer culture.

The men were not quite as elaborate, but they too had dyed coiffures, and many had chest scarring, noting that they had killed an enemy in battle. They walked hand in hand, brandishing spears, the occasional rifle, and handmade wooden headrests. These fellows didn't look like the kind one would want to have as a rival, but like everyone we had encountered on our journey, they greeted us with warm smiles, offering to sell or barter their headrests.

Several tourists in Addis had warned us that the Hamer were very aggressive, and that they would leave us with a bitter experience, but we ran across nothing but kindness, and the hospitality got better the longer we stayed.

During the entire market day, only a handful of other foreigners showed up, pausing to get out of tour vehicles for all of ten minutes, during which time several Hamer girls came over and posed for photos.

Taking a break from the market festivities, we wandered out into the desert, guided by one of the girls, Toro, who had decided to become a steadfast friend now that the photo session was over. While wandering through the sand and scrub, a young boy who knew Toro approached and invited us to come and meet his family. He led us into a compound of about fifteen straw huts, and directed us into one of them. The hut was dark and a bit smoky from a small cooking fire that had been lit, but the cool shade from the glaring sun made it a welcome respite. The boy's mother lay propped in a corner, breastfeeding a beautiful baby.

Toro, who had learned a fair amount of English in the village school, asked questions and translated for us. The baby was only one week old, and was the mother's third child, successfully delivered by a midwife. Looking around the hut, I marveled that there were almost no signs of the 21st century around, other than the odd plastic bag, and even more that this woman, with a brand new infant, was seemingly so relaxed by the sudden arrival of complete strangers.

The mother informed us that her name was Keske, named after the nearby river, and she soon had her sister roasting coffee beans in a pan, letting us take in the fresh aroma, and beginning the process of a timeless Ethiopian tradition, the coffee ceremony. I knew it would be impolite to leave until we had accepted at least three cups of the dark brew.

We asked most of the questions, Keske just happy to nuzzle her baby and smile, somewhat amazed when Toro told her where we had come from. We sipped our coffee in happy silence, and as the afternoon waned, prepared to take our leave.

As we stood up to go, Keske said she had one thing she wanted from us. We asked what that might be, and she smiled and whispered to Toro. Toro said to us, “she wants you to promise something. She says that you are her friends and that you must promise never to forget that.”

I looked at all the big brown eyes peacefully watching us around the hut, and I reflected on the long arduous journey we had taken to get here, and on the kindness we had received from a people living a million miles from our own lives, both in space and time. And I promised her we would never forget.