TO SNAP OR NOT TO SNAP?
ONE TRAVELER’S CULTURAL DILEMMA IN OMO VALLEY
The sun is just setting over Omo River when my boat glides to the fig-treeshaded shore at Lale’s Camp. I’m barely two steps onto the riverbank before four Karo children have latched onto my hands.
They escort me to their village, where about 50 women and men are clustered in separate semi-circles, painting each other in ochre dots and charcoal stripes. The men wear clay caps studded with ostrich feathers, and the women are adorned in stacks of colorful beaded necklaces and bangles molded from bullet cartridges.
“We’ve arrived ahead of a ceremony,” says my guide, Graeme Lemon, excitedly.
When I told well-traveled friends that I’d be visiting the tribes of Ethiopia’s Omo Valley, they warned me that I’d be surrounded by camera wielding tourists and harassed by tribespeople demanding money for photos. But I’m traveling with Wild Philanthropy, a new offshoot of Wild Expeditions that aims to build a tourism experience mutually benefiting visitors and the people and the land they visit.
Most tourists take the same road into Omo villages, snap a few photos, exchange a few bills and go on their way. Wild Philanthropy is the only outfitter in the Omo Valley with a boat and a permanent tented camp, not far from the Karo village. This unique arrangement creates an incredibly intimate and rare cultural experience.
Other than the curious children, the Karo seem oblivious to my presence. I sit alongside the women, who balance cherubic babies on their laps, watching as they paint each other’s shoulders. Instinctively, I reach into my pocket for my iPhone — but something makes me pause. In our Instagram-obsessed world, I feel a constant need to document every moment. But I know the minute I take out that phone, this moment will change.
And so I remain an observer, which soon leads to me being a participant as women tie beads around my wrists. That experience is worth more than any photo I could have taken.
Throughout the week, I find myself in similar predicaments. I overnight an hour upriver with the Mursi, a tribe known for scarification. The women wear enormous lip plates, something I thought I’d only ever see in the pages of National Geographic. I sit back that evening and watch as the men and women circle a fire, chanting and dancing.
A young woman notices me and drags me into the circle. The next thing I know, I’m hopping around the center dancing with a tall tribesman carrying an AK-47. My dance moves are terrible, which makes me the dance partner of choice for the men.
The next morning the women giggle and mimic my embarrassing moves. A barrier has been broken. I cautiously hand my iPhone to the woman who invited me to dance, setting it on selfie mode. She shrieks with shock and motions over her friends. We snap selfies and a photo of the two of us before I wave goodbye.
Cultural interaction is at the heart of Wild Philanthropy’s mission. Guides don’t prohibit cameras, but they strongly urge guests to keep cameras away until a rapport is built.
This isn’t a human safari, emphasizes Lemon: “A photograph should be a pleasant memory with the villagers rather than a trophy to be displayed back home,” he reasons. The result has been positive on both sides. “Spontaneous jollity and genuine warmth is becoming the norm.”
And that, I learn, is something you could never share from behind a camera lens.