Hanging On to Tradition

It is 2004 according to the Ethiopian calendar. Recently deceased Prime Minister Meles Zenawi's image appears on every television screen, on the back of rickshaws, and memorial cards in the streets. It is even displayed on the walls of the immigration desks in Bole International airport. There are unusually large crowds in the streets, gathering to watch funeral coverage of this man who oppressed the majority of the country's tribes while favoring the Tigray of the north.

Meanwhile, in a village tucked away in the southern Omo Valley, something very different is happening. I am in the good company of Toni, my new traveling companion, and Kalla, a twenty-six year old man from the Hamer tribe who speaks impressively proficient English, and is almost done with his high school education. He is wearing his hair in traditional Hamer corn rows, but his clothing is western. I inquire about this, and he explains that the government insists, “This high school is modern and students are required to wear western clothing, remove their tribal jewelry and cut their hair”. Girls are not allowed to wear their traditional goat skins, nor should their breasts be exposed. Kalla says he wonders what's next, and if the government will soon ask the Hamer to cut their own throats.

We walk for seven or eight kilometers down a dirt path created by the dried-out river, surrounded by trees. Occasionally we pass other Hamers, identifiable by their traditional dress, body painting and ornamentation. We stop under the shade of a tree to talk to three men who are preparing to head up to the village. They are painting their legs and we sit down to join them. Kalla paints his legs first, which only men do, and then paints our faces and arms. “Okay”, he smiles, “Now we are ready. Can you hear them singing?” We listen and nod as we begin to walk.

 

Whips, welts, blood and bells... breasts, body paint... goat skins, gourds, guns and horns. We are attending a Bull Jumping ceremony, and this is NOT intended for tourists. If a Hamer male wishes to be eligible for marriage, he must go through this passage first. He is to be the focus of the entire village starting very early in the day, and the women will start by gathering in a very large huddle and dancing. They wear bells tied to their legs, and as they all jump and flip their head and clay-covered hair from side to side, forward and back, the sound is deafening. They carry sticks, blow horns and chant songs that help prepare the jumper on his big day. These actions are repeated throughout the day until right before sunset when the jumping occurs.

Around 2:00, Toni and I see the women begin to rush away, all in the direction of a small group of men who are coming toward us from a distance. The whippers have arrived. These women bombard the men who arrive very nonchalantly, some of them smiling, others looking very serious. As the men separate, several women surround each of them, pulling on their arms, blocking their path, trying to force their switch into the men's hands...and it begins.

Each man singles out a woman who looks him boldly in the face as he slowly raises his arm behind him and lashes out hard and fast. The switch comes down so quickly on her back that it's over in a blink, leaving a bloody, five to eight inch mark across her back. These women do not yell. They do not cry out. They hardly blink. Friends circulate, putting a special butter on the gash, causing it to become infected and form scar tissue. As I watch this, I now understand why Hamer women's backs are covered in huge, inflamed welts.

We spend the next several hours finding a balance between participation and observation. Some of the Hamer women invite us to dance. I am more worried about saying “no” than about how ridiculous I feel. Later, we sit on a goat hide mat and share Parsi with a few others. Parsi is an alcoholic mix, passed around in a gourd, made of sorgum, honey, water and I don't know what else. It looks just like mud, and as I force my worried, western self to take a sip, I say a little prayer that the water was first boiled. I smile big at Toni and she returns the smile. We are silently laughing together as we know we're sharing the same thought, and pass the gourd on for others to drink.

It is past 6:00 when they round up the bulls. The women are still dancing and singing, horns blowing and bells jingling. There are hundreds of us standing in an expectant circle, and the bull jumper stands disrobed in the middle of it all, surrounded by about fifteen bulls. The other men gradually line the bulls up in one straight row, remaining one at the front and one behind to ensure that they do not run.

The moment is finally here. There is no hush as one might expect. The jumper takes a very short running start, and without using his hands, manages to climb right up the side of the first bull and run straight across all of their backs without missing a beat.

He must do this four times, and will take a beating if he shames his family by falling. He is on his second run when I realize I am holding my breath. I am so nervous for this perfect stranger that I almost cannot hold my camera steady. As he finishes the fourth run and his feet touch the ground, Toni and I find ourselves jumping up and down cheering as the men around him cover him up and congratulate him.

The sun is nearly down, and Kalla grabs Toni's hand and mine and leads us quickly through the crowd. Braids covered in clay, goat skin skirts, rifles, babies on backs – it all whooshes by as we head down the hill, knowing we have an eight kilometer trek ahead of us to do in the dark. Toni and I look at each other, eyes wide, still in disbelief at the day we have experienced. As we walk, I think to myself how fortunate we were to be a part of this Hamer ceremony. Ethiopia is changing rapidly. Just six years ago I visited the southern Omo Valley, and it was a very different place. Tourism is growing, the government is making demands of the tribes, and it is quite possible that in a few short years, the Hamer may cease to practice this custom the way they do today.

Suddenly, I find myself thinking to the future. I imagine myself a grandparent, telling my children's children about this age-old ritual that I witnessed with my own eyes, and I picture them shaking their heads in disbelief, just like Toni and I did. I sure hope I live to tell these stories for generations to come.