Crossbow

PHOTOGRAPHY

The Omo Valley 

A notoriously difficult place to travel, though still wild and tribal, the Omo Valley is also overrun with rich tourists, making the local people, who are often also heavily reliant on alcohol, extremely hostile towords westerners. There is also the assumption we are all literally millionaires with money to burn, which is a fair assumption when everyone they see comes and goes in air conditioned jeeps, but makes it tricky for shoestring travellers like me. It was without a doubt the most challenging trip I've undertaken, you can read more about my experiences in an excerpt from my journal below. 

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 This trip is more challenging than any I've done before. Each day is a struggle and an exercise in perseverance when all I really want is to go home. Yesterday they charged me an extortionate amount for a grimy room with a rotten shared toilet, a bin overflowing with shit stained paper and a shower flooded with brown water. Then an inedible breakfast with eggs so rotten I very nearly spat out the tiny slither I tried before forcing it down with water and coffee so as not to be rude, later Kusse confirmed that they were rancid, it wasn't just a western thing- "But they were eating them... How could they eat them?" He asked me. I'm glad I have him with me, my one friend. They think I'm made of money, they don't know that I wont be able to pay my rent when I go home, my phone's already been cut off... I don't know what I'm going to do...  


It feels like if I was hanging from a cliff they'd only reach for my hand if I was holding enough money. I saw them all as jackals on the bus, waiting to make their attack, no humanity, no kindness, they're so angry at me for no reason other than my skin, I am nothing to them, and it's a damn lonely feeling. A miserable way to feel, and ever since the little kids throwing rocks and swearing at us, those aggressive arsehole bus men and the boy who spat skilfully at me through the bus window, landing perfectly on my shoulder as he laughed at the sadness he'd created on my face, I have felt heavy despair, especially on Mother's Day. 

 

Kusse bought some khat, I felt reluctant to try it in my vilnerable state of mind, but he gently persuaded me to put the soft young leaves in my mouth. They tasted bad- dry and bitter, he gave me a little bag of sugar to sweeten the cud, and that felt better, and as we waited near on two hours for the mini bus to fill, we chewed more and more until a mellow calm fell upon me. My anxiety drifted away and I felt a soft quiet in my mind that let it drift slowly and sharply to new thoughts and considerations, and decided to take out my moleskine to draw a while, as a sweet young boy of eight watched over my shoulder. 

 

We kept chewing as the bus finally started rolling it's way towards Jinka, five hours long with heavy beautiful storms following us, shining golden light through the thick black cloud onto little huts and toiling people, a humbling sight, and eventually a deep sunset. Then the night sky lit up with lightening, illuminating the herds of cattle along the road, and a young herder in his pants, long legs striding down the asphalt. 

 

Somebody handed me a small pack of biscuits to still my growling insides. It was the first gift I'd been giving, with no need to repay or be asked for money, just a gift from one person to another, and it meant the world to me.

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