In November 2018, I traveled to the somewhat famous Omo Valley in southern Ethiopia. This valley is widely known as a photographer’s paradise due to its unique concentration and diversity of indigenous tribes, many of which still maintain their traditional lifestyles and ancient customs. I went there, believing such a culturally rich place would certainly offer unique opportunities for stories about young successors and their cultural heritage.

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After brainstorming the different cultural possibilities we could explore within the Omo Valley, my local fixer and I decided that the most suited culture for us to explore would be that of the Karo tribe. Visually distinguishable by their almost exclusive use of white colors in their traditional body painting, and known for being one of the last few tribes to actively hunt crocodiles in the Omo River. These were visual and cultural characteristics I was eager to explore as a photographer.

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It took us about four days of driving through the wilderness to reach Karoduss village, located by the shores of the Omo River. Karoduss is home to the majority of the Karo tribe, a name that loosely translates to 'The Fish Eaters,' given to them by other tribes due to the proximity of their stronghold by the river.

But this is where things took a turn. Originally, I believed that our tedious journey, which involved crossing harsh desert terrain and full days of off-road driving, would be enough to shield us from the influences of the (for lack of a better term) toxic local ‘Photography tours culture’ that is quite spread in Ethiopia. But as soon as I pulled out my camera, I got a clear wake-up call.

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Without fail, every local who saw me walking around immediately shouted, “Photo? Money! Money!” which, to say the least, was shocking. Now, please don't get me wrong — I always compensate the people I work with in my photography projects. As I see it, their hard work and willingness to introduce me to their culture to the world is extremely valuable, and I’m more than happy to compensate them for it. But this was something different.

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For the most part, due to my willingness to travel far and wide in search of unique stories, I never faced such a direct approach from locals, where the act of photography became only a ‘clean-cut’ business transaction. It might sound naïve, but… I was disappointed.

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However despite my struggle with the situation, as a creative, I knew I simply couldn’t afford to let my efforts and financial investment of traveling to such a unique part of the world - go to waste. I knew I had to figure out what story or images I could pursue within my time in this village.

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I kept walking around the village - trying to get a different ‘feel’ for the place. Eventually, I reached the village’s edge, where I found a series of old concrete buildings that seemed to be used mainly for storage. As I examined the peeling yellow walls, I thought to myself; “This would make a wonderful background for a portrait.”

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For better or worse, a young kid was trailing us from the village center, adorned with messed-up white body paint on his face. While I was eyeing these buildings, he kept tugging at my camera strap, saying; “Photo? Photo?”.

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Normally, I avoid such transactions in my photographic work - I honestly believe that building some sort of personal relationship with the people you photograph first is the key to making powerful portraits. But I could already visualize just how lovely and simple the combination of the young Karo boy and the yellow walls would be. It seemed like a fun way to finally get some shots and let my creative ideas flow. So I decided to give in.

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Before I could even get my camera settings right, I felt another tug on my camera strap. I turned around to see two more kids with white paint on their faces, both asking: “Photo? Money? Photo?” 

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For some reason — maybe peer pressure — I agreed. Thinking to myself: “The more the merrier… Right?”

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Within minutes, it seemed like the news I caved in spread and seemingly the whole village gathered around us. Young and old alike, many were already painted in the traditional Karo white patterns or were actively applying them to each other. All of them were constantly arguing their case as to why they should be photographed next to either myself or my local fixer. 

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I decided to go with it and see where this interaction would lead. I gave my local fixer a certain amount of local currency and said; “When this runs out, we’re done for the day.” 

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My strategy was simple: I knew that, while we had a wonderful opportunity for a simple portrait photography session with the villagers, it would be too ‘business-oriented’. Something that, based on my experience, wouldn’t lead us to either powerful images or unique storylines that I wanted for my Sucessors project. However, I hoped this interaction would allow me to meet a random set of characters from the village and a quick glimpse into their lifestyles.

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Throughout that afternoon, I had a series of quick conversations with a huge variety of villagers - almost like a session of speed dating :). A variety of characters like an old lady who was delighted to talk about her grandson who was trying to get into school in the nearby city. Or a young man who was completely camera-shy but admitted to being coaxed by his friends to be photographed as a challenge. While simple and short, each interaction deepened my understanding of what potential stories I could explore later on.

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For me, this was a bittersweet experience. While I got some decent portraits, I knew that if things continued this way, I wouldn’t be able to build a genuine relationship with the villagers or learn about their lives. I had to find a way to penetrate the well-established barrier of ‘Photo tourism’ between us.

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The next day, I went through the images and recalled the different stories I had heard. I also remembered that most villagers had their portraits taken, made sure they got paid, and returned to the village, showing no interest in anything beyond the exchange.

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But one character stood out. It was a young girl who, after her portrait was taken, decided to stick around. She somehow squeezed between the crowd and found a seat next to me. Whenever I put my camera down for a moment, she would gestured for me to show her the images I had taken - giving me thumbs up on portraits she liked and a thumbs down on ones she didn’t.

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Hoping her interest in photography might lead to a different experience, I decided to focus on her rather than attempting to tell the story of the Karo people as a whole. Following that, the local fixer and I set out to find that girl from the previous shoot and meet her family. 

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As soon as we found their hut, which was located on the edges of the main village, we were immediately recognized by the young girl. Her name was Turrgo. 

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Unlike other kids in the village, she was more interested in talking to us than letting us introduce ourselves to her family. Her family’s isolated location meant we were left alone, away from the villagers who constantly kept offering their ‘modeling services’ to the steady stream of tourists. 

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Needless to say, Turrgo’s family was extremely welcoming and happy to invite us into their world.

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Like most village kids, Turrgo’s lifestyle was simple, spending her days playing with other kids or helping with daily chores. Mornings were spent caring for her baby brother while her parents tended the goats.

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Later in the day, I followed Turrgo and her grandmother as the two ventured into the nearby forest to collect dry wood for fire.

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Later, I followed Turrgo and her grandmother into the forest to collect dry wood for the fire. While this was far from the epic images I had imagined of the Karo people hunting crocodiles, performing rituals, and guarding their village, I fell in love with the simplicity of their lives and the remarkable connection between Turrgo and her grandmother.

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Witnessing the intimate and remarkable intergeneration connection between them as they crossed different paths of the forest. 

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What I liked most was that everything was built on mutual interest. Unlike the rest of the village, neither Turrgo nor her grandmother demanded payment after every photo. Turggo would constantly look back at us to make sure we were still following them. Asking to see the images I photographed in every stop. 

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Despite my efforts, I couldn’t find a story of succession within Turrgo’s family that aligned with the cultural significance The Successors aims to present. But that’s not a bad thing.

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As a cultural photographer, I value the journey and challenges that come with encounters like Karoduss village. So often creatives tend to get hyper-focused on their initial ideas and miss out on wonderful experiences like the one that Turrgo and her family offered me. 

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When we arrive in situations that are completely different from our expectations, our natural tendency is to focus on what’s wrong, constentally imagining how perfect things would be if only ‘this’ or ‘that’ were different. 

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But as photographers and storytellers, we have to overcome these negative tendencies and shift our perspective. Often, the best thing to do is to just allow things to unfold and lead you into the reality of the situation in front of you. All you have to do as a creative is to constantly ask yourself: ‘What can I fall in love with here?’.

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It's important to remember that failure is always a part of the creative process, especially when attempting to find something unique and unexplored. I’m certain that, despite this unsuccessful part of my journey in gathering more storylines for the Successors project, it's the journey itself that matters. 

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And who knows? Perhaps in the future, I will be able to return to the Omo Valley and try again, continuing my search for successor stories that we all could fall in love with :) 

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This image series and storyline is part of my long-term project ‘The Successors.’ There are many unique and extraordinary cultures worldwide whose future lies in the hands of their modern-day successors—young individuals whose decisions and personal journeys will determine the future of ancient arts and traditions, shaping the world of their communities for thousands of years.

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While this pacticualr blog post told you the story of one of my failed attempts to learn about these successors, please join me as I explore more of these stories of succession and try to uncover the future of these relics of the human experience

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