Exploring Ethiopia
Ethiopia’s Hamer tribe share their rites of passage
It’s almost dark when he jumps the first bull. Around him, the entire village swirls in a frenzy, dancing and singing and celebrating his passage.
Completely naked but wearing a look of dogged determination, he strides forward, the expectations of family and tribe and future bride weighing on his back. In a moment that will define the rest of his life, he leaps — the din behind him unchanged, a cacophony of cries and overall clamour, of homemade horns and timehonoured chants and bells worn on ankles that are in constant motion.
In a matter of seconds, it is done, his first traverse across the backs of15 bulls, greeted by a small, celebratory cheer from the crowd gathered all around. And while the rest of his life lays ahead, he turns and again sets his face, making it clear to all of us that he isn’t finished — not just yet.
I’m in the southern reaches of Ethiopia with a small group of fellow travellers, literally well off the beaten track, spending the day with the Hamer people. On this trip with Australia-based Peregrine Adventures, we’ve made our way to one of the remotest spots in Africa, all part of a two-week itinerary that features some of the most fascinating people on earth.
Ethiopia is a country on the rise; home to one of the fastest-growing economies on the continent. Ethiopian tourism is burgeoning, in part because of experiences such as this one. Packing into a Land Cruiser and riding over unsealed roads into the dusty heart of this country, we witness a truly special, and singular, moment. The day had dawned hopeful, as we made our way south into the heat of the Omo Valley, descending from the forested heights of Arba Minch, the largest city in the area that serves as a gateway to the region.
We zoom over paved two-lane highways, and every bend in the road seems to present a surprise — as we approach, children walking on the roadside begin to dance a jig, their legs swivelling and swerving like a 1920s Vaudeville act, in the hopes we will stop and drop off a few birr, the local currency.
At one straightaway, a group of young men on silts strides onto the tarmac, stripped naked to the waist, painted in white. While we at first attribute some cultural significance to their artificially increased height, our guide informs us their goal with the stilts is the same as those kids’ — to generate some extra income.
Turning off the highway, we make our way by dirt road to the village of Key Afer, a rooster tail of dust curling up in our wake. Here, we browse at the local market, rubbing elbows with those buying and selling sorghum and chili peppers and homemade beer, picking our way through a selection of handmade wooden statuettes brought here for us, the tourists.
Then as we sit on unsteady plastic chairs in a ramshackle local restaurant, our guide Gebre Egziabher tells us our most important find in this market town is actually a small piece of information.
“I’ve just been told that there will be bull jumping today,” Egziabher says as we sip Cokes from glass bottles.
Rare and organic, these ceremonies are not scheduled far in advance, and news of them is passed by word-ofmouth, through a network of guides and merchants. We had hoped to attend such a ceremony, and now, we learn one is taking place today. “But it’s far,” he continues. “We will have to eat while driving, and the village is at least 30 kilometres off the road. We won’t be back to our hotel until long after dark. Are you willing to go?”
After a vote — which renders universal consent — we drive. Loaded into the Land Cruisers, we rumble off the unpaved road (which was rough enough) onto a series of donkey tracks and dried creek beds, the hardy SUVs digging deep into the dry soil to spirit us along. After at least two more hours of hot transit, we arrive at the village — its name I never asked, and I will never know — and are greeted warmly, with smiles, despite the fact we are essentially aliens from a far-off, never-seen place.
Attending such a ceremony isn’t free for Westerners. For the privilege of being there, we are asked to pay about $30 (Canadian), money the young man’s family will use to help pay for the dozens of goats that will be slaughtered soon afterward, feeding those in his own village and that of his future wife. It’s a feast that will carry on for days, when — and if — he is successful.
The dancing begins soon after our arrival, accompanied by whipping with hand-hewn birch sticks — a Hamer cultural practice, where the women on his side of the family demonstrate their support for the young man.
Later, they can present their wounds, which are packed with ash and charcoal, as evidence. It’s as strange and foreign as everything else we see, shared by a people who number only about 45,000 and populate far-off corners of this country, their culture largely untouched due to their isolation.
And despite the barriers of language and culture, genuine exchanges take place. At one point, a woman in our group presents one of the tall Hamer warriors, with pink sunglasses pushed back on his shaven head and Kalashnikov rifle slung over his back, with a chocolate bar.
He gobbles it down, the look of wonder on his face evidence that it’s probably his first time tasting chocolate. Young women, shy at first, their hair and skin freshly coated in butter and ochre for the occasion, pose for photos, scrambling to see the images on our cameras afterward, before rejoining the dances.
As the light fades, we make our way to a flat, open plain, where the bulls are lined up. The young man, fortified with a local beer made from sorghum, makes his fateful jump. Successful on the first pass, he turns and takes several more, flagging but continuing in the ritual after stern en- couragements from his stoic father, who paces at the fringes of the ceremony. Another small cheer rises as he finishes his task — and becomes a Maza, now qualified to take his first wife (and more, if he can afford the dowry of cows and goats).
A night of celebration lies ahead for him, his friends and this village, but not for us. The light now almost gone, we hurry back to the Land Cruisers and commence the long drive back to our hotel, the sounds of feasting fading through our open windows. Tim Johnson was hosted by Peregrine Adventures, which didn’t review or approve this story.