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ETHIOPIA - SOUTHERN TRIBES, DESERTS AND ORTHODOX CHRISTMAS

A 22 days trip in Dec 2025 / Jan 2026

By Beyond All Maps - Portraits of our Planet by Thorsten Mehret

May 16^th, 2026

Motivation - Why to Go?

Lonely Planet describes it the perfect way: "Ethiopia is an extraordinary place. It is the oldest independent country in Africa and the second most populous after Nigeria. It was the only African power to successfully resist colonisation and it endured as one of the last active empires in the world. It is also one of the world’s oldest Christian civilisations, second only to Armenia in declaring Christianity the state religion in 333 CE. And, it is one of the world’s eight fundamental and independent centres of origin for cultivated plants and the place from where anatomically modern humans emerged on their migratory journey across the globe."

Not much to add! I visited the northern part in 2013 and had a fantastic time. Unfortunately, the area has recently become embroiled in a civil war. This time, I plan to visit the south, which is famous for its many different tribes. I have also decided to visit the Danakil Desert, close to Eritrea, and Lalibela for the Orthodox Christmas celebration at the famous rock churches with thousands of pilgrims. It's quite a diverse itinerary!

Climate and Best Travel Time

In general, the best time to visit Ethiopia is during the dry season, roughly from October to February. Days are mostly sunny, roads are easier to use, and hiking or long drives are far more comfortable.

If your plan includes the extreme Danakil Depression, timing becomes especially important. This is one of the hottest places on Earth, and the most realistic and safe travel window is between November and February, when temperatures are still intense but at least manageable.

For southern Ethiopia, especially the tribal and rural regions around the Omo Valley, the best period is usually December to March. Roads are drier, village access is easier, and travel is less affected by heavy rains.

In the historic highlands, the climate feels completely different. Lalibela sits high above sea level and stays pleasantly mild for most of the year. The best time to visit is October to March, when the skies are clearer and walking between the famous rock churches is most enjoyable.

ETHIOPIA - SOUTHERN TRIBES, DESERTS AND ORTHODOX CHRISTMAS

Facts and Figures

Size: ~1,104,300 sq. km (≈ 3 × Germany)
Population: ~138 million (2025 estimate)
Capital and biggest city: Addis Ababa, with ~4 million inhabitants
Ethnic groups: Oromo ~36 %, Amhara ~24 %, Somali ~7 %, Tigray ~6 %, Sidama ~4 %, others ~13 %
Languages: Amharic (official national language), Oromo, Somali, Tigrigna and many more regional languages (over 80 spoken)
Currency: Ethiopian Birr (ETB)

Fun Facts

Highest Capital

Addis Ababa is one of the world’s highest capitals — sitting at about 2,355 m above sea level — earning it a place among the highest capital cities on Earth.

☕ Birthplace of coffee

Coffee was first discovered in the forested highlands of Kaffa – which is also where the word coffee is believed to come from.

🌍 One of the cradles of humanity

Some of the world’s most important early human fossils were found in Ethiopia, including the famous hominin “Lucy”, discovered in the Afar Depression.

⛰️ Spectacular highland landscapes

The Simien Mountains National Park is known for dramatic cliffs, deep valleys and rare wildlife – and is one of the most impressive hiking regions in Africa.

⛪ Rock-hewn churches carved into stone

The medieval churches of Lalibela were carved directly out of solid rock and are still active places of worship today.

🫓 A very unique food culture

Daily meals are traditionally shared from one large plate, using injera (a soft sour flatbread) instead of cutlery – making eating a deeply social and communal experience.

Itinerary

For the southern part of Ethiopia, I decided to join a small-group tour with DIAMIR Erlebnisreisen, which conveniently starts and ends in Addis Ababa. It felt like a comfortable and well-organized way to explore this culturally rich and logistically more challenging region.

After the southern tour, I continue independently and take a domestic flight to Semera. From there, I join a 2-night / 3-day expedition into the Danakil Depression with Aman Ethiopia Tours. While there are plenty of similar offers on GetYourGuide, I chose Aman Ethiopia Tours because they appeared reliable, had consistently strong reviews, and responded to my questions quickly and clearly.

After the Danakil tour, another domestic flight take me back to Addis Ababa and then to Lalibela. I booked my accommodation there via Booking.com and plan to explore the city and its surroundings independently, either on my own or with a local guide arranged on site.

Day 1-2: Flight Frankfurt - Addis and City Tour - H: Bentark Hotel
Day 3: Addis - Lake Langano - H: Hara Langano Lodge
Day 4: Lake Langano - Awassa - H: Aregash Lodge
Day 5-6: Awassa - Konso - H: Kanta Lodge
Day 7-10: Omo Valley - H: Emerald Lodge
Day 11-12: Omo Valley - Arba Minch - H: Mora Heights Hotel
Day 13: Hawassa - H: South Star International Hotel
Day 14: Addis Abeba - H: Bentark Hotel
Day 15-16: Flight Addis - Semera early morning and Danakil Tour - Camping
Day 17: Flight Semera - Addis in the afternoon - H: Lobelia
Day 18-20: Flight Addis - Lalibela, Orthodox Christmas - H: Hidmo Cozy Place
Day 21: Flight Lalibela - Addis and Frankfurt

Addis Ababa

Arrivial

Ethiopia welcomes me, but not hassle-free. The Turkish Airlines flights to Istanbul and further to Addis Ababa were on time, but I will never get used to the enormous and modern Istanbul Airport. The distances between gates, such as from F to B, feel like training sessions for a marathon, and the prices, even for a simple coffee, are ridiculously high. Fortunately, the layover was only two hours. Obviously not enough time for my luggage.

There is plenty of luggage on the belt in Addis, but no one seems to claim it. In fact, it looks like everyone has missing luggage, including me. I wonder if they loaded the wrong luggage. A huge queue forms in front of the baggage reclaim area. After 40 min of waiting I'm finally given a tracking number and told to come back tomorrow.

There are about a dozen ATMs in the arrival hall, but none of them seem to work, so I exchange some cash. Organising a SIM card is straight forward at the Ethio Telecom counter and quite cheap. Unlimited data for one month costs 15 US dollars.

My pickup is fortunately still waiting outside, and by 1:30 a.m. I’m finally in bed.

For today, I have booked a city tour via GetYourGuide. There are five of us in total: me, a couple from Switzerland who are stopping over on their way to South Africa, and a mother and son from London who now live in Saudi Arabia.

We visit the National Museum, home to the famous Lucy,....

...the huge, bustling merkado,...

...have dinner at a traditional restaurant and a coffee break later on,...

...visit Entoto Hill, which offers hazy views over the city which is already at an elevation of around 2,400 meters...

...have a look at the Holy Trinity Cathedral, which cost a whopping 10 USD entrance...

and finally relax at the Adwa Victory Memorial Park, which is full of locals enjoying their time.

In the evening, I meet the first part of the group who arrived this morning. Together with Frank, our guide, we have dinner at the Yod Abyssinia Traditional Restaurant, which is popular with tourists and locals alike for its dance performances.

I have a nap afterwards until my alarm clock rings at 11:30 p.m. Then it's time to go to the airport to pick up my luggage, which should arrive on today's flight. At least my Apple tracker shows that it has moved. I’m absolutely exhausted and I hate Turkish Airlines right now. The rest of the group has also arrived on this flight. While I can collect my bag, some of the newly arrived passengers' items are missing and will only arrive two days later. Shame on you, Turkish Airlines! Later, I hear from Frank that there is a rumour that Turkish drones for the Ethiopian military are given priority over luggage.

On the Way to the Omo Valley

Our tour of the south begins at 8 a.m. with four reliable Toyota Land Cruisers. There are 17 of us in total: 12 participants, four drivers and our guide, Frank. Our destination today is the Hara Lodge on Lake Langano, 235 km away.

The tarmac road outside the city is full of potholes, so we are making slow progress. Small villages with fields of harvested teff line the road. We share the road with the occasional bus or truck, as well as many people, herds of cows and goats, and tuk-tuks. After about three hours of driving, we reach our first stop.

The UNESCO World Heritage Site of Tiya is home to dozens of ancient stone stelae, some of which are adorned with mysterious symbols, including swords and abstract figures. The site exudes a sense of power and mystery, offering visitors a glimpse into the little-known civilisation that 700-900 years ago inhabited the area.

The site doesn't seem to get many visitors. A guide arrives by bike a couple of minutes later after being informed. The area is fenced off, but the guards' key does not seem to work. In the end, we sneak through a hole in the fence.

The scenery is greener now, with more trees and bushes alongside the road. We pass some lakes where roses are cultivated. We also see baboons and camels on the roadside.

We arrive at the idyllic Hara Lagano Lodge just in time to enjoy the afternoon atmosphere at the lake. The lake is considered free of schistosomiasis and is one of the few that are safe for swimming. However, the brownish water and the hippos next to the lodge do not make it too inviting for a swim, so we prefer to enjoy the surrounding scenery, which includes plenty of birds.

Sunset atmosphere at the lake.

After a light breakfast and some more hippo watching, we set off at 8:30 a.m. Frank sets up a mobile broadcast station so that we can listen to his commentary in all the cars. After two days of trial and error, it will finally work, although it takes some adjustments and lessons learned.

We stop at the Abijatta-Shalla National Park, not far away from the lodge, where we spot wardogs, gazelles and ostriches, including a breeding female. I’m surprised by the huge number of eggs and puzzled by how they fit into the body.

The lake, which is home to flamingos, and a hot, bubbling mud spring are also part of the park.

A stop close to Hawassa to bye some Melons. Yummy!!!

We stop for lunch in Hawassa at a park on the lake, and are completely blown away by the wildlife. We are greeted by the sweetest bunch of monkeys imaginable, who are posing perfectly, followed by a group of the biggest hornbills I have ever seen. Large marabou storks roam the area, and we even see colobus monkeys at close range. All within 100 metres.

Dark clouds on the horizon already indicate what's coming, and indeed, on the way to the Arregash Lodge, we experience some heavy rain, which fortunately doesn't last long.

A short village stop on the way reveals a surprisingly specialised economy: baskets. Not a few here and there, but what feels like the entire village has collectively agreed that the world’s most urgent problem is storage solutions.

Everywhere we look there are stalls piled high with woven baskets in all shapes and sizes—enough to equip several lifetimes of very organised laundry, picnics, and mildly optimistic shopping habits. It’s impressive, slightly overwhelming, and makes you wonder how many baskets one community needs before someone says, “maybe we branch out into something else.”

The Aregash Lodge is next to a forest area which is home to some hyenas. The lodge feeds them and therefore they regularly show up in the evening. In total, we see seven, but they seem to be very shy. Before dinner, we enjoy another coffee ceremony.

This morning we cross the Sidama highlands, rolling green hills that make it immediately clear why this region is so closely tied to coffee. Much of the production is still in the hands of small family farms, where coffee isn’t just a crop but the backbone of daily life.

In theory, the system is simple: farmers sell their coffee beans to cooperatives at a fixed, government-set price. In practice, that price is often low enough to inspire a certain entrepreneurial creativity.

The result is a quiet parallel economy. Some farmers try their luck sending beans directly to Addis Ababa, where the prices are considerably more attractive. The coffee bags then tend to travel in rather imaginative disguise, most commonly hidden under innocent-looking loads of bananas on trucks, as if caffeine had suddenly developed a fear of authority.

The authorities, however, are not naïve either. At checkpoints, long iron rods are used to probe suspicious cargo, turning roadside inspections into something between agricultural quality control and a low-budget treasure hunt. It’s a classic cat-and-mouse game—just with more bananas, coffee, and existential questions about supply chains.

Along the way, we visite a Sidama family still living in a traditional house, round, with a thatched roof, simple but well adapted to the environment. Right next to it, a more modern house is slowly taking shape. Construction happens step by step, depending on what the family can afford at any given time. There’s no fixed timeline, progress follows income.

Visits like ours likely play a small role in that process. Not in a dramatic way, but enough to support gradual change. It’s a quiet reminder that development here doesn’t come all at once, but piece by piece—much like the houses themselves.

House in the making, using a mixture of straw and clay.

The area we cross now is hilly and lush with eucalyptus trees, false bananas and coffee between.

Ethiopian Coffee

Ethiopia is widely regarded as the birthplace of coffee, and nowhere is the drink more deeply woven into daily life and culture. According to legend, coffee was discovered here when a goatherd named Kaldi noticed his goats becoming energetic after eating red coffee cherries. Whether myth or not, Ethiopia remains the spiritual home of coffee to this day.

What makes Ethiopian coffee unique is its incredible diversity. The country’s varied landscapes, high altitudes, fertile soils, and traditional farming methods produce a wide range of flavors, from floral and citrusy notes in Yirgacheffe, to wine-like and fruity profiles in Sidamo, and rich, earthy tones in Harrar. Many coffees are still grown by smallholder farmers and processed using age-old methods, which preserves their distinctive character.

Coffee in Ethiopia is more than a beverage, it is a social ritual. The traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony is a slow, communal process involving roasting green beans over an open flame, grinding them by hand, and brewing the coffee in a clay pot called a jebena. Sharing coffee is a sign of hospitality, respect, and connection.

Fuel shortages are a recurring issue in Ethiopia, and long queues at petrol stations are part of the normal rhythm of travel. In principle, tourist groups are given some level of priority, but “in principle” doesn’t always translate smoothly into reality.

When our drivers first try to get fuel, they are turned away. No dramatic confrontation, just a firm “not today.” Meanwhile, we sit nearby having a relaxed coffee break, slightly detached from the situation. Only when we show up as a full group, suddenly much more visible and official, things change. The same request, the same vehicles, but a different outcome. It’s a reminder that access here often depends not only on rules, but on timing, presence, and sometimes simply who is standing in front of you at the moment.

After Bule Hora, we pass a checkpoint that turns out to be rather uneventful, just a brief glance into the vehicles and a wave to continue. From here, we’re told, the next stretch of about 40 kilometers is considered rebel-controlled territory. Nothing visibly changes, but the label alone adds a certain quiet awareness to the drive.

As we continue further south, we gradually lose altitude. The landscape opens up and shifts to something more savannah-like: fewer trees, wider spaces, and deep red soil that seems to color everything. Every now and then, small clusters of simple, round wooden huts appear—homes of the Borana. Compared to earlier, the region feels noticeably less populated.

The road toward the Kenyan border is unexpectedly good, but that doesn’t make the journey short. It’s a long, steady drive, and fatigue sets in at some point, I find myself struggling to keep my eyes open.

By the time we reach the Kanta Lodge, it’s already dark. The final stretch takes us past scattered settlements, goat herds, and people selling wood and charcoal by the roadside. The environment here is clearly drier. A few years ago, a severe drought hit the region, wiping out more than 90% of the cattle, an economic disaster for the local communities. At the same time, it reduced herd sizes that had likely exceeded what the land could sustain. Recovery has been slow, especially since the rains in the following years have remained unreliable.

It’s one of those places where the balance between people, livestock, and nature is constantly shifting, and rarely in an easy way.

Finally reaching the beautiful and well managed Kanta Lodge.

In the morning we visit a Konso village. Taking pictures while in the village is kinda delicate. Their is a clear expectation for money and generally it’s understandable and fair enough for a special motive when someone stands model but the terms „give“ and „money“ follows us through the hole village already starting with the small children. It’s uncomfortable to deal with the situation. At the end I try to be selective looking for some interesting motives in good lighting and pay a small amount like 50 Birr which seems to be ok.

The Konso

The Konso people live in the semi-arid highlands, near the border with Kenya, and are renowned for one of the most impressive traditional landscapes in Africa. For centuries, they have shaped their rugged environment through vast stone terraces and carefully managed irrigation systems. This sustainable farming culture is so remarkable that the Konso cultural landscape has been recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Konso villages are compact and fortified, often surrounded by stone walls to protect against wild animals and historic conflicts. Inside, narrow paths wind between thatched houses, communal meeting places, and sacred areas. Social life is strongly community-based, guided by an age-grade system that structures responsibilities, leadership, and rituals throughout a person’s life.

One of the most striking cultural expressions of the Konso are the waka statues, wooden totems carved to commemorate respected clan leaders and warriors. These expressive figures, often grouped together, tell stories of ancestry, bravery, and social status, and are a powerful visual symbol of Konso identity.

After lunch and a rest at the lodge, we visit a local school and hand over pens and books we‘ve bought in the market before. In the two buildings 700 students are teached in two shifts.

Next, we drive to a surprise destination. Despite our nerving questions, the drivers won't give us any hints. When we arrive, they ask us if we have our passports with us, as we are going to Manhattan. We are puzzled, but a few minutes later we understand when we stand on the edge of a spectacular canyon. Wow!

On the way we pass a group of people coming from the fields now dancing and singing loudly on their way back to their homes.

In the afternoon we have an audience at the King of the Konso, traditionally known as the Poqalla. He is the spiritual and political leader of the Konso people of southern Ethiopia. Rather than ruling as an absolute monarch, the Poqalla serves as a ritual authority, responsible for maintaining harmony between the people, the land, and ancestral spirits. He plays a central role in ceremonies linked to agriculture, rainfall, and fertility, which are vital in the Konso’s terraced farming society. While day-to-day governance is shared with councils of elders, the Poqalla symbolizes unity, continuity, and the sacred traditions of Konso culture.

The current monarch has studied civil engineering in Addis, speaks fluently English and is quite talkative. He is living in a very traditional and basic looking compound. An interesting visit overall.

Together with the hotel staff the crew has prepared a Christmas setting for our dinner tonight, including a Christmas tree decorated with flowers and white cotton. We even have Ethiopian Wine which to my surprise is perfectly drinkable.

The Omo Valley -

Where Traditions Refuses to Retire

Bull Jump Ceremony of the Hamer, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

Today’s target destination is Turmi, the informal center of the Hamar tribe deep in the Omo Valley. From here, we’ll head out over the next days to visit the different tribes scattered across the region.

On the way, we stop at a local market and take a coffee break, because in Ethiopia, almost every journey eventually turns into a coffee ceremony, whether you planned it or not.

The Omo Valley

The Omo Valley is home to more than a dozen indigenous ethnic groups, many of whom have maintained traditional lifestyles for centuries. Well-known groups include the Hamar, Mursi, Karo, Dassanech, Nyangatom, and Bodi.

They are famous for:

• Distinctive body painting, hairstyles, and jewelry

• Traditional rituals such as Hamar bull-jumping

• The Mursi lip plates, one of the most iconic cultural symbols in Africa

Because of this, the valley is one of the most important places in the world for ethnographic and anthropological study.

The lower Omo Valley is a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its importance in human evolution. Archaeologists have discovered some of the oldest Homo sapiens fossils, dating back around 195,000 years, making it crucial to understanding early human history.

Its relative isolation helped preserve both traditional cultures and ecosystems. The valley features savannahs, river forests, and volcanic landscapes shaped by the Omo River, which flows into Lake Turkana.

First I believe in a Fata Morgana when I see a group of people walking on long sticks blocking the road. It’s a group of Hamar youngsters. They ask 200 Birr per photographer flat fee. It’s far from being natural but it’s such a surprising and unique idea that I have to bow my head for their smart business model. Unfortunately the light is too harsh for really good photos.

Next we stop at a market in Keyafa to see the Benna and Tsemay people.

Benna and Tsemay

The neighboring Benna and Tsemay people live in a shared but culturally diverse landscape of the lower Omo Valley, where identities are closely tied to land, livestock, and tradition.

The Benna are primarily agro-pastoralists, combining small-scale farming with cattle herding. Their settlements tend to be more stable and agriculture plays a relatively larger role in daily life. Social organisation is strongly community-based, with traditions expressed through local ceremonies and cultivation cycles.

The Tsemay, by contrast, are more strongly pastoral in orientation, with cattle herding forming the core of both economy and social identity. Their mobility is typically higher, following grazing patterns rather than fixed agricultural plots, and their cultural practices are more closely linked to livestock and seasonal movement.

While the two groups share linguistic and cultural overlaps and often interact in nearby markets and regional networks, the key difference lies in their balance between farming and pastoralism—one leaning slightly more toward settled cultivation, the other toward mobility and herd-based life.

Near the market, we visit a so-called “refugee village” of the Mursi people. The situation here is shaped by recent tensions in their traditional northern areas, which are currently closed to visitors due to conflicts over land with the Ari people. As often happens in such contexts, there is no single clear explanation for why this group has settled here, rather, several overlapping ones.

Part of the reason is displacement caused by insecurity and movement away from affected areas. At the same time, this settlement also reflects a gradual shift: some families are choosing a more connected lifestyle, with better access to schools and medical services than in their traditional homelands. Another factor, not entirely separate from the others, is the growing role of tourism as a source of income.

Visiting the village comes with a structured set of fees: 2000 Birr per person, plus a mandatory local guide for another 2000 Birr. On top of that, there is an additional charge for those considered “professional” photographers—another 2000 Birr. In our case, the assessment is made quickly: three visitors, and somehow I am included in the category of “professional,” whether or not my camera skills would agree with that classification.

What remains striking is how fluid the line is between cultural encounter, economic necessity, and staged presentation, often all happening in the same place, at the same time.

Mursi Tribe, Key Afer, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

The Mursi

The Mursi are often described as one of the most visually distinctive groups in the Omo Valley—but what sets them apart goes beyond appearance. Unlike many neighboring communities, Mursi culture places a strong emphasis on physical expression as identity. The well-known lip plates worn by some women are just one part of a broader system that includes intricate body painting and scarification, each carrying social meaning, from status to personal history. Where other tribes in the region may express identity more through clothing or ritual, the Mursi quite literally wear theirs on their skin.

They also differ in their relative isolation and strong adherence to traditional pastoral life. While some groups in the Omo Valley have gradually integrated elements of modern infrastructure or tourism, the Mursi have maintained a more resistant stance toward outside influence, which shapes both their daily life and their interactions with visitors.

In the afternoon, we reach the Emerald Lodge in Turmi. From here, we will take tours to visit the different tribes in the Omo region.

The lodge is basic but adequate. We have electricity and running water, which is almost luxurious in this region. There are very few options.

Emerald Lodge, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

Ralf and myself have a look outside the hotel. The river here normally only runs during the rain period. There is a public water pump and in another corner a group of youngster dig a well about 2 meter deep to reach the water level in the dry river bed. I try to find out why they are not using the pump but struggle with the language barrier.

In the afternoon, Frank gives us an introduction to the different tribes of the Omo Valley and where they are located. Considering the sheer number of ethnic groups, languages, traditions, and territories in the region, it occasionally feels less like a travel briefing and more like preparing for a very complicated anthropological board game.

In the morning we start the board game with our first move. We drive to the other site of the Omo river to the Nyangatom tribe. Their main town is Kangaten.

Nyangatom

The Nyangatom are a semi-nomadic pastoralist people living near the borders with South Sudan and Kenya. Their livelihood is based mainly on cattle herding, supplemented by flood-retreat agriculture along the Omo River and fishing. Society is organized around age sets and clans, with strong emphasis on warriorhood, cattle wealth, and community solidarity. The Nyangatom are known for their distinctive body adornment, scarification, and beadwork, which express identity and status. Living in a harsh and often conflict-prone environment, they have developed resilient survival strategies and a rich oral culture closely tied to the rhythms of nature and the river.

There is a flat fee of 500 Birr per person for pictures. In the beginning we sit together with some ladies to learn more about them and ask some questions directly to them.

We learn that the women do most of the work in the village, including building the houses. The man take care of the livestock and village protection. To our question if they consider this as a fair work share distribution they reply, that they know they do the majority of the daily work but the men therefore payed a lot of dowry at their marriage. Aha, that’s an argument.

The atmosphere during the visit is quite relaxt and less pushy for extra money than before.

Nyangatom Village, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

The chief lady clearly has a rather eccentric taste when it comes to body jewellery. Casio and Coca-Cola would probably be delighted by the unexpected product placement opportunities.

Next we visit a Karo Village not far away.

Karo Village, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

The Karo People

The Karo people are a small ethnic group best known for their striking body painting, using white chalk, ochre, charcoal, and natural pigments to create intricate patterns for ceremonies and everyday expression. The Karo practice flood-retreat farming, fishing, and limited herding, closely tied to the seasonal rhythms of the Omo River. With their compact riverside villages and rich artistic traditions, the Karo offer visitors a vivid glimpse into one of Ethiopia’s most visually distinctive and culturally expressive communities.

At first, we are slightly surprised to spot a woman from the Hamar people in a village of the Karo people. Coming from the outside, it is easy to imagine the tribes of the Omo Valley as completely separate worlds. In reality, the borders between them are far more fluid.

Visits between tribes are apparently quite normal, whether for trade, family connections, or social gatherings. Even marriages between different groups occur, though they are still less common. It’s a reminder that while each tribe maintains its own identity and traditions, everyday life in the region is much more interconnected than the simplified “tribe versus tribe” image that outsiders often imagine.

A more modern piece of Karo village live.

Picknick at the river

Back at the hotel, we watch the locals from the nearby Hamar community occasionaly passing by. Some people are clearly amused by us. Two young women happily pose for photos with the confidence of experienced models, while an older man steps into frame with the calm authority of someone who has probably watched tourists behave strangely for decades. Others are less enthusiastic, or simply more business-minded, and ask for money. Fair enough. If strangers kept appearing in my neighborhood pointing lenses at me, I’d probably introduce a fee structure too.

Communication happens mostly through hand gestures, facial expressions, and the universal language of smiling awkwardly while trying not to offend anyone. There’s something oddly refreshing about interactions stripped down to basics. No small talk, no LinkedIn profiles, no pretending to remember someone’s name five seconds after hearing it. Just people, curiosity, and the occasional negotiation over a photo.

Hamer Women, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

Hamar Women, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

We get off to a late start for the weekly market of the Hamar people, which, as it turns out, is perfectly on time by local standards. People walk in from far distances, so the market only really gets going once everyone has actually arrived. Efficiency, just on a different clock.

Photographing here is… delicate. Let’s call it that. So instead of staging anything or negotiating endlessly, I mostly resort to quick iPhone snapshots, less National Geographic, more “caught between two goats and a sack of grain.” It’s a lively scene though: trading, chatting, and the kind of social interaction that makes you realize markets are as much about people as they are about goods.

Hamer Market, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

The Hamar People

The Hamar are one of the biggest and most well-known communities of the Omo Valley, with a population of about 65,000. They are known for their strong traditions and distinctive visual identity. They live a semi-nomadic, pastoral lifestyle, with cattle playing a central role not only economically but also socially. Status, wealth, and relationships are closely tied to livestock, and daily life follows seasonal patterns of grazing and movement.

One of their most important traditions is the bull jumping ceremony, a rite of passage that marks a young man’s transition into adulthood. It reflects key values within Hamar society: resilience, courage, and social responsibility. Community life is tightly knit, with ceremonies, markets, and shared rituals reinforcing bonds between families and generations.

The Hamar are also known for their elaborate body adornment. Women often wear layered bead necklaces and style their hair with a mixture of butter and ochre, giving it a distinctive reddish tone. Scarification and other forms of body marking can carry personal and social meaning.

Despite increasing contact with the outside world, many Hamar communities continue to maintain their traditions, navigating a balance between cultural continuity and gradual change.

After lunch and some relaxation time, we attend a bull-jumping ceremony performed by the Hamar people. This is a key rite of passage, marking a boy’s transition into manhood. During the ceremony, the initiate must run across the backs of a line of castrated bulls several times without falling, thereby proving their strength and courage, and demonstrating their readiness to take on adult responsibilities such as marriage. The event is accompanied by days of celebration, dancing and ritual singing.

Typically, female relatives participate in ritual whipping to demonstrate their loyalty and solidarity with the initiate. However, this old custom is not favoured by the government, so it’s not taking place this time as an official is part of the ceremony. Looking at some of the huge scars on the backs of some of the women, I can see why.

The bull jump ceremony reinforces social bonds and tradition within Hamer society, as well as the values of resilience and bravery.

Before the actual bull jumping begins, many participants decorate themselves with elaborate body paint made from white chalk, clay, and natural pigments. Faces, arms, and torsos become moving artworks, somewhere between ritual tradition and fashion statement.

No celebration here happens without alcohol, and the bull jumping ceremony is no exception. Even the kids are occasionally allowed a sip, which from a European perspective feels somewhere between cultural tradition and a very relaxed interpretation of childcare regulations.

When it’s my turn to try the local Areki, I’m genuinely surprised. This is not some harmless village liquor. It lands somewhere between Ethiopian hospitality and a chemical attack, easily matching the strength of the schnapps back home. One small sip is enough to understand why everyone suddenly seems extremely cheerful and slightly unsteady.

A bit gentler is Tella, the traditional beer brewed from grains like barley, sorghum, or maize and flavored with local herbs. It’s cloudy, mildly alcoholic, and served in calabashes. “Mildly” is also a relative term once you’ve had several under the African sun.

At one point I’m invited to sit with the men and drink together. Judging by the atmosphere, they are already several calabashes ahead in the evening’s strategic planning. The Tella itself is… challenging. Imagine alcoholic dishwater with hints of fermentation and optimism. Definitely not my favourite drink. But in moments like this, taste becomes somewhat secondary anyway. Refusing would probably be more offensive than my facial expression after the first sip and some of the guys look like they're better not to be messed with.

As the sun slowly sets, the atmosphere shifts from relaxed drinking and dancing to real tension. Now comes the moment everyone has been waiting for: the bull jump itself. Somewhere between celebration, survival test, and very questionable career counseling, the young initiate prepares for his run across the backs of the bulls, his official step into manhood. No pressure, of course, just his entire social reputation balanced on a row of irritated cattle.

What an experience!!!

The next morning, we drive along a new road towards the Kenyan border, close to Lake Turkana, where the Dassanech people live.

En route, we pass through various habitats. These include densely forested areas with acacia trees, sandy areas with limited vegetation, and huge, lush green banana plantations owned by an Italian company. South Sudan and Kenya are only a few kilometres away.

We stop at a church that appears to be very much in business. Hundreds of people are gathered, and what initially looks like a service slowly reveals itself to be something closer to a holy marketplace.

At one end, a kind of auction is underway to raise some money for the church. A religious painting with dramatic background and a very committed-looking halo, finds a new owner for about 50€. Another depiction of Jesus goes for only 20€, which feels like a tough day on the divine art market. Supply and demand, apparently, applies everywhere.

Then things move into livestock. A goat sells for roughly the same price as the Jesus painting before, while a young cow confidently outclasses them both at around 500€. Faith is important, but cattle clearly hold strong negotiating power.

Somewhere between devotion and deal-making, it becomes clear that this isn’t unusual at all. It’s just a place where spiritual life and everyday economics share the same stage, occasionally with slightly awkward price comparisons.

Some of us take a pirogue over the river, which is quite an experience, the rest takes the bridge with the car, just 100m away.

The Dassanech People

The Dassanech live in Ethiopia and Kenya, with a total population of about 70,000. Their way of life combines cattle herding, fishing, and flood-retreat agriculture, allowing them to adapt to a harsh and changing environment. The Dassanech are known for their distinctive hairstyles, beadwork, and creative use of recycled materials in personal adornment. Closely connected to the river and the lake, their culture reflects resilience, mobility, and a deep dependence on the natural cycles of the Omo region.

To be honest, the visit of the Dassanech is a difficult one. The surroundings feel harsh, dry, dusty, and a bit worn down. The traditional huts, once covered with cattle skins, are now often patched together with corrugated iron. Practical, no doubt, but it gives the place a look somewhere between a construction site and a settlement that wasn’t meant to be permanent, almost like a refugee camp.

Just before we arrive, a busload of visitors has already come and gone. Another small group is still there, cameras out, working their way through the same routine we’re about to follow. There’s a fixed photo fee, 500 birr, and once that’s settled, the process becomes strangely transactional. People pose, cameras click, everyone knows their role.

And that’s exactly what makes it uncomfortable. It feels less like a genuine encounter and more like a staged exchange, where curiosity and livelihood meet in a way that’s hard to reconcile. I catch myself taking a few photos, but without much enthusiasm. The whole situation has an odd, slightly unsettling undertone, like observing something that wasn’t really meant to be observed this way.

Sometimes travel brings you closer to places and people. Other times, it mostly shows you the distance.

Dassanech Village, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

In the afternoon we decide to visit a village of the Hamar not far from our hotel. Which, a bit to our positive surprise, is a much more pleasant and relaxed experience. We are even invited in one of the huts.

Hamer Village, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

The day starts with a cloudy sky and some rain. It's not the rainy season, but it's also not uncommon. This makes the temperature much more pleasant and reduces the amount of dust in the air.

We have a long day ahead of us. Our destination today is Aber Minch, about 200 km away, with several stops along the way.

We're taking a more scenic route than the one we took into the Omo Valley. We drive through a hilly area alongside Lake Stefanie.

Arbore People

The Arbore are a small indigenous ethnic, with a population of around 8000 people. They are living mainly around Lake Chew Bahir (Lake Stephanie) in the South Omo Zone. They speak Arbore, a Cushitic language within the Afroasiatic family. Traditionally, the Arbore practice agro-pastoralism, growing crops such as sorghum and maize while also keeping cattle, which play an important cultural and social role. Arbore society is organized around age groups and clan structures, and they are known for distinctive hairstyles, body scarification, and ceremonial dress, which express identity, status, and life stages. Despite their rich cultural heritage, the Arbore are a small and vulnerable community, facing pressures from environmental change and modernisation.

The first stop is a visit of the Arbore. We have a longer chat with the elders in the shade of a tree, without taking pictures. This helps to relax the atmosphere. We learn that the practice of female circumcision is still important in their community, and women who neglect it will be ostracised. When we ask them what the benefit of this practice is, they reply, "It's an important part of our culture."

Fortunately, according to Frank, other tribes in the Omo Valley have given up this practice.

Abore Village, Turmi, Omo Valley, Ethiopia

We stop in Konso for lunch, always a good idea before committing to another long stretch of road that may or may not deserve to be called a road. From there, we continue north toward Arba Minch. The landscape turns pleasantly hilly and, with every meter of altitude, noticeably greener. Terraced fields of the Konso people appear along the slopes, mixed with cornfields and banana plantations.

Driving, however, remains an exercise in patience. Large parts are still dirt tracks, and even the “improved” sections seem to have a complicated relationship with maintenance. Traffic consists less of cars and more of goats and cattle, who clearly consider themselves the primary stakeholders of the road network.

Eventually, we reach Arba Minch, which feels almost metropolitan by Ethiopian standards, relatively modern, a bit busier, and something of a meeting point between north and south. It’s also a place where different influences intersect. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church, which historically paid limited attention to the southern regions, is now more visibly present, building churches and sending missionaries. Not entirely coincidentally, this follows increased activity by Muslim missionaries in the area. Even here, it seems, competition is alive and well, just with slightly higher stakes than market pricing.

Our hotel, Mora Heights, sits above it all with a wide view over the lowlands. After a day of bumpy roads and slow progress, it’s the kind of place where you briefly forget the journey, and almost forgive the suspension of the car.

In the morning, we head into Nech Sar National Park for a boat trip on Lake Chamo. The setting is calm, almost too calm for expectations that secretly hope for National Geographic-level drama. We spot plenty of birds, several medium-to-small crocodiles casually sunbathing on the shore, and one impressively large specimen in the water, clearly the local authority figure. Hippos, however, decide not to attend. Overall: nice, but not exactly the wildlife blockbuster one might have imagined.

In the afternoon, things get steeper, literally, as we drive up into the highlands to visit the Dorze people. They are best known for their towering, beehive-shaped houses made from bamboo and leaves, some reaching up to 10–12 meters. At first glance, they look both impressive and slightly overconfident in their height.

There is, however, a built-in reality check: termites. These industrious little architects steadily eat away at the base, causing the houses to shrink over time. A former 12-meter structure can eventually become a modest 2-meter version of its former self, and if it continues to decline, it gets downgraded to a chicken house. A full life cycle, just with fewer sentimental attachments.

The Dorze are also known for their weaving skills, producing high-quality cotton textiles like the traditional shamma. Their livelihood revolves around enset (false banana), small-scale farming, and craftsmanship. Despite outside influences slowly making their way uphill, the Dorze have held on to a strong cultural identity, expressed in their architecture, their work, and a way of life that seems both practical and quietly resilient.

In the morning we drive toward Awassa on a surprisingly good road, smooth enough to almost forget where we are. Running alongside it, is a modern power line, cutting cleanly through the landscape. It feels slightly out of place next to the simple huts, donkey carts, and cattle herds we pass. The scenery itself is lush and green, dotted with banana fields that seem to stretch endlessly.

At one point we stop to buy mangoes, which turns into a small-scale market explosion. Within seconds, about a dozen sellers surround us, all equally convinced theirs are the best. The price: around 100 Birr for a bag of 6–8 mangoes, roughly 50 cents. Bargaining feels inappropriate at that point.

Then the mood shifts rather abruptly. A donkey, apparently overwhelmed by traffic or existential doubt, runs straight onto the road. There’s no time to react. The impact is hard and unavoidable. My first thought: that’s it. But somehow the animal gets back up, wobbles across the street, and disappears in a state that could be described as “uncertain.” Whether it survives is unclear, and the situation quickly turns serious.

In Ethiopia, the driver is responsible in such cases, which leads to a spontaneous roadside negotiation involving our drivers and a growing group of locals. We are asked to stay away as tourists around will just lead to an exaggerating price request. After some discussion, the matter is settled at 12,000 Birr (about 60€). Since drivers usually have to cover this themselves, our group later decides to chip in. Not exactly a planned travel expense, but one of those moments that doesn’t leave much room for debate, just doing what seems to be right here.

By the afternoon, things feel lighter again. We stroll along the lakeshore in Awassa with many locals doing the same. There are souvenir stalls, fish restaurants, small bars, nothing fancy, but relaxed and welcoming. The atmosphere is calm, almost restorative after the morning.

Technically, it’s New Year’s Eve for us. In Ethiopia, however, the new year falls in September, so there’s no countdown, no fireworks, and no sense of occasion. After dinner, a few of us have a quiet drink at the hotel bar, while most call it a day early. We go to bed without much ceremony, and wake up in 2026 anyway.

We start the day with a visit to the fish market, lively, slightly chaotic, and exactly what you’d expect from a place where freshness is not a marketing concept but a necessity. After that, we begin the drive back toward Addis Ababa.

The final stretch takes us onto a toll highway with three lanes in each direction, and almost no traffic. After days of sharing narrow, bumpy roads with goats, cattle, and the occasional existential donkey, this feels almost suspiciously easy. For a moment, you start to wonder if you’ve accidentally changed countries.

We stop for lunch at a rather luxurious resort, the kind of place where everything is neatly arranged and slightly too perfect. It’s also apparently a hotspot for wedding photoshoots, two couples are posing in parallel, each trying to look more romantically effortless than the other. Love, but with a production budget.

It’s a fitting place to thank our team and hand over the tips. After everything we’ve seen (and survived together), it feels well deserved and surprisingly emotional.

Back in Addis, the group has day rooms before their night flights. I say farewell and decide to upgrade and book a proper overnight stay, which buys me a few hours of real sleep. At 4:30 a.m., the hotel shuttle takes me to the airport for my next leg to Semera, where my self organised Danakil adventure begins.

The airport facilities provide one final reality check. The toilets are… memorable. Let’s just say they strongly reinforce one of my core travel principles: always carry your own toilet paper. Some lessons don’t need repeating, but they usually are anyway.

The flight to Semera is on a small turboprop aircraft. Despite the flight lasting barely an hour, we are served a surprisingly decent sandwich, coffee, and juice. Meanwhile, on some European airlines you’re lucky if the crew makes eye contact before charging you five euros for water. Lufthansa, please take notes.

Danakil Depression

Welcome to Earth's Boiler Room

The weather forecast for the Danakil Depression proudly announces 38°C, in January, the local version of winter. Encouraging. My main concern shifts from sightseeing to whether the vehicle has functioning air conditioning or if this trip is actually an elaborate dehydration experiment.

Semera airport greets me with maximum frontier charm: dusty, worn down, and seemingly held together by habit rather than infrastructure. Luggage collection happens outside the building, because walls are apparently considered optional here.

I’m slightly nervous about whether everything will actually work out. Booking travel in remote parts of Ethiopia sometimes feels less like organised tourism and more like sending money into the universe while hoping someone with a jeep eventually appears.

I booked the tour about eight weeks earlier with Amam Ethiopia Tours, paying the 380 US dollars upfront. The return flights I arranged separately for another 250 dollars. Financially reasonable, emotionally somewhere between confidence and mild panic.

Things become slightly more interesting when I realise that the actual operator on the ground is not the company I booked with, but Solomon Ethiopia Tour and Travel. For a brief moment, my brain starts preparing one of those classic travel disaster stories involving missing reservations and abandoned tourists in volcanic deserts.

Spoiler: none of that happens. Instead, it turns into a genuinely fantastic experience. Sometimes African travel just has a different administrative style, less “transparent booking ecosystem,” more “trust the process and eventually somebody named Solomon will appear.”

My guide, Solomon, is already waiting. Our group consists of seven people: staff from the UK embassy in Addis Ababa, two Romanian friends visiting them, and me trying not to look alarmed by the climate forecast. Add three drivers and a cook, and the setup feels somewhere between proper expedition and a very ambitious survival reality show.

My remaining doubts disappear fairly quickly when some of the UK guys mention that they’ve already done this tour before with Solomon. Repeat customers are probably the strongest recommendation possible. Nobody voluntarily returns to a volcanic salt desert with armed guards and sleeping arrangements inspired by prison minimalism unless the experience is genuinely good.

After breakfast at a local hotel, we hit the road. Initially, traffic is heavy with trucks heading toward the port of Djibouti. Later we turn off toward Erta Ale, and the traffic fades away. The asphalt remains surprisingly good, cutting through a landscape that looks like someone tried to terraform Mars and then gave up halfway through.

Lunch is in Afdera, a dusty little town that functions as the unofficial transit lounge of the Danakil. Every tour group heading in or out seems to stop here, giving the place the atmosphere of a backpacker convention held in a furnace.

My fellow travellers decide to try the floating experience in the salty waters of Lake Afdera. Thanks to the extreme salt concentration, sinking is practically impossible.

Watching everyone drift around effortlessly in the water feels slightly absurd in the middle of this hostile volcanic landscape. Somewhere between spa treatment and survival training, the lake offers a rare chance to relax without immediately sweating through your clothes again. The only real danger seems to be getting saltwater into places where saltwater was never meant to go.

The scenery is harsh and strangely fascinating: endless stone desert, black lava fields stretching to the horizon, and occasional huts of the Afar people. Some are built from stone, others from wood, where the wood comes from remains one of the great mysteries of the region, right behind “why anyone voluntarily settles here.” Between the huts, brightly dressed Afar women walk through the barren landscape, adding surreal flashes of colour to what otherwise resembles the set of a post-apocalyptic movie.

We pass enormous lava fields, reminders that this place was once enthusiastically redesigned by geology. It’s difficult to imagine the scale of eruptions needed to create them, although the landscape still gives the impression that the earth might resume construction work at any moment.

The Afar People

The Afar are a traditionally nomadic people living mainly in the harsh desert regions of northeastern Ethiopia, as well as parts of Djibouti and Eritrea. Their homeland includes the extreme landscapes of the Danakil Depression, one of the hottest and most inhospitable places on Earth.

Traditionally, the Afar are pastoralists, raising camels, goats, and cattle, although salt mining and trade have also played an important role for centuries. The famous salt caravans crossing the desert were historically organised largely by Afar communities. Living conditions in the region are extremely tough, requiring deep knowledge of water sources, climate, and survival in the desert environment.

The Afar are predominantly Muslim and maintain a strong tribal identity with rich oral traditions, distinctive clothing, and a reputation for independence and resilience. In the past, the region was also known for security issues, tribal conflicts, and occasional banditry, giving the Afar a somewhat fearsome reputation among outsiders.

Today, increasing tourism to places like Erta Ale and Dallol brings additional income to some communities, although life in the Afar region remains challenging, remote, and strongly shaped by the unforgiving desert landscape.

Closer to Erta Ale, the road deteriorates into dirt track and eventually into something best described as “directional suggestion.”

The new campsite is only about a 30-minute walk from the summit, which is considered progress. Previous visitors had to hike for hours or use camels, because apparently suffering used to be a more integral part of the experience.

Accommodation is basic in the purest sense of the word. We sleep on mattresses on the ground in a sheltered area with minimal facilities. Luxury has clearly melted somewhere along the way, probably together with the surrounding volcanic rock.

We climb to the summit for sunset, joined by several other groups and roughly twenty jeeps. Solitude is not part of the Erta Ale package anymore. The scenery at the top is impressive in a bleak, smoky kind of way, though not quite the fiery apocalypse many expect. The famous lava lake that once made Erta Ale legendary disappeared several years ago. Volcanic activity here constantly reshapes the landscape, and just days ago another volcano erupted only ten kilometers away. We can still see the smoke rising in the distance, a subtle reminder that nature here remains very much operational.

Back at camp, dinner turns out unexpectedly excellent: soup, pasta, salad, vegetables. After a day spent crossing one of the harshest environments on earth, even basic comfort feels strangely luxurious. Or maybe the heat has finally cooked our standards.

We wake up surprisingly well-rested, considering we are sleeping in one of the hottest and most hostile regions on the planet.

Before sunrise, we hike back up Erta Ale, this time heading directly to the crater rim. The rising sun paints the volcanic landscape in deep orange and red tones, creating the kind of scenery that makes you briefly forget the heat, the dust, and the fact that you slept on a mattress barely thicker than a yoga mat.

Despite not seeing any glowing lave, it's still an amazing experience.

On the way back, already looking forward to the breakfast which turns out to be excellent, which somehow feels slightly suspicious out here. Nothing about the Danakil should logically include good coffee and warm pancakes, yet here we are.

Solomon our guide and one of our protectors in the camp. In the past, the Danakil Depression had a reputation that was… less tourism brochure and more “check your insurance policy carefully.” Robberies were not uncommon, and traveling here required a certain tolerance for uncertainty. These days, things have calmed down considerably. At some point, the local realisation spread that tourists arriving with cameras, cash, and a questionable willingness to sleep next to active volcanoes are actually better for business alive and unharmed. Economic development can work in mysterious ways.

Even so, the armed guards around camp remain a subtle reminder that this is not exactly Club Med. It adds a certain atmosphere to the evening when the man protecting your tent is carrying a Kalashnikov while you are debating whether to have a second helping of pasta.

At some point during the morning, my driver remembers that I mentioned liking off-road driving. This apparently counts as sufficient qualification in the Danakil. I’m asked whether I want to drive one of the jeeps myself, an offer that falls firmly into the category of “terrible ideas that are impossible to refuse.”

So for the next two hours, I become the pilot, bouncing across volcanic tracks and dusty plains feeling somewhere between rally driver and insurance liability. It’s enormous fun, right up until we hit a steep sandy section where local experience wisely retakes control. A short but memorable career in African off-road logistics comes to an end.

Lunch is served at our overnight spot, a small oasis with palm trees and even a running stream, basically the Danakil version of the Maldives. Since the campsite was overcrowded the previous evening, we wisely secure our place early. The nearby village, dusty and windswept, is not exactly a tempting backup option.

We return to the village briefly for coffee. Photography, however, is received with a level of enthusiasm ranging from skeptical to openly hostile. Fair enough. Not everyone dreams of becoming part of somebody else’s travel slideshow.

Next we visit the salt mountains, layered in beautiful shades of white, yellow, and orange. The landscape already feels surreal, but then comes the real highlight: ...

...the sulphur springs of the Dallol Depression. The short walk there happens under brutal heat, with the air itself feeling slightly toxic. But the scenery is extraordinary, fluorescent pools, steaming vents, vivid mineral colours. It looks less like Earth and more like a low-budget interpretation of Venus. Every few meters the ground bubbles, smokes, or changes colour in ways that strongly suggest humans were never meant to settle here permanently.

On the way to the salt lake, we stop at some salty mineral pools. The biggest pool is already occupied by an Italian tour group. Rather than starting an international bathing conflict, we settle for a smaller nearby pool. Less glamorous perhaps, but still perfectly capable of making your skin feel pickled within minutes.

Eskah Ale Swimming Pool, Danakil, Ethiopia

The large salt lake is only a few centimetres deep, but around sunset it transforms into an almost unreal landscape. The shallow water reflects the sky perfectly, turning everything into shades of gold, pink, and orange. It’s the kind of scenery that makes everyone suddenly very quiet—or very busy taking photos.

The experience becomes even better with a cold beer in one hand and a slice of watermelon in the other. Standing ankle-deep in salty water, watching the sun disappear over one of the hottest places on earth, feels strangely luxurious. Somewhere between apocalypse and beach holiday, the Danakil once again refuses to fit neatly into any category.

Dinner under the full moon is excellent, and for a brief moment the campsite almost feels romantic, if you ignore the volcanic desert, the exhaustion, and the fact that everyone smells faintly of dust and sunscreen.

The place is packed with tour groups, but by 9 p.m. the entire camp is already silent. In the Danakil, even the most enthusiastic travelers eventually surrender to heat, fatigue, and mattresses designed by enemies of the human spine.

The beds turn out to be significantly less comfortable than they looked the evening before. When I stand up, my back produces noises normally associated with old wooden ships. Sleeping in the Danakil Depression is apparently a full-body experience.

By 5:00 a.m., the camp is already alive. Half asleep, people crawl out of blankets and tents as everyone prepares to leave by 5:30 for sunrise breakfast on the salt flats. Surprisingly, the conditions are almost perfect: a light breeze, pleasant temperatures, and no immediate sensation of being slowly roasted alive.

The atmosphere out on the salt flats is fantastic. Endless white reflections, soft morning light, and complete silence except for the occasional jeep engine and camera click.

Breakfast somehow manages to be equally impressive. Pancakes, delicious shakshuka, fresh coffee, the chef continues to perform culinary miracles in an environment where simply boiling water already feels ambitious.

Finally, a bit of obligatory sunrise posing.

Next we stop at one of the salt mines. Here, the salt is simply scraped from the surface and piled up for transport. Until COVID, camel caravans still carried much of the salt across the region. Nowadays, trucks have largely taken over. Progress arrives everywhere eventually, even at the edge of what looks like another planet.

Then comes the long drive back. Between lunch, fuel stops, and occasional breaks to stretch bodies, we finally arrive back in Semera around 3:30 p.m., just in time for the flight to Addis Ababa.

Looking back, the tour easily exceeded my expectations. Erta Ale itself was more or less what I expected. I already knew the chances of seeing flowing lava were slim. But the rest of the journey was the real surprise. I had mainly associated the Danakil with the colourful sulphur springs of Dallol, not with all the other incredible landscapes: the endless salt flats, the salt mountains, the mines, the mineral pools, and the strange beauty of the desert itself. Together with the fantastic crew a fascinating experience.

Highly recommended, although next time, if the political situation allows, I’d probably return via Mekele. Three hours of transfer instead of an entire day suddenly sounds like one of humanity’s greatest inventions.

Lalibela

Celebrating Orthodox Christmas

What a start to the day. Locals confidently tell me that arriving one hour before a domestic flight in Ethiopia is completely sufficient. Naturally, I decide to play it safe and calculate with 1.5 hours instead, a decision that quickly proves wise.

First, the shuttle arrives 15 minutes late. The driver casually explains that it took him 45 minutes from the airport instead of the usual 15. Up to this point I had been perfectly relaxed. Now my brain starts running disaster scenarios involving missed flights, lost luggage, and me spending Ethiopian Christmas trapped in traffic forever.

And the traffic is indeed spectacularly bad. Due to road construction, we have to take a detour, crawling along at a pace where pedestrians and goats clearly outperform us. The first kilometre alone takes about 15 minutes. Fortunately, after a major intersection things suddenly improve, and we begin moving at speeds normally associated with modern civilization.

About 200 meters before the airport, I give up on the car entirely and continue on foot past a long queue of vehicles. The airport is far busier than a few days earlier, of course, it’s Ethiopian Christmas, and half the country seems to be traveling.

Then comes the obstacle course: first an ID check outside the building, then security screening to enter, then the hunt for luggage trays, which appear to be rarer than airline punctuality. Queuing, meanwhile, follows more of an organic swarm model than a structured line. People approach from all directions simultaneously with impressive confidence.

After that comes check-in and another security control. Once again, my camera causes concern and I’m asked whether it’s a drone. Apparently every reasonably sized camera in Ethiopia exists under general suspicion of secretly being airborne. I’m very happy I left the actual drone at home, it probably would have triggered a small diplomatic incident.

The whole process feels chaotic and mildly stressful, yet somehow the lines move surprisingly quickly. Against all odds, I arrive at the gate ten minutes before boarding. Success. Barely.

To my surprise, this time I actually get the front-row window seat with extra legroom that I had prebooked. On the flights to and from Semera, despite my complaints, the upgrade had mysteriously failed to materialize. I had already classified the extra seven euros as a failed investment. Redemption at last.

The flight itself lasts about 1 hour and 20 minutes, offering fantastic views over the Ethiopian highlands. The turboprops fly lower than jets, making the scenery even more impressive. Unfortunately, the midday light is harsh, washing out some of the colours. In morning or evening light this landscape would look absolutely stunning.

Miraculously, my checked luggage also makes it onto the plane. Expectations have clearly become very realistic by this point.

Outside the airport, the pickup organised through my guesthouse is already waiting. Within minutes I’m loaded into a shared taxi, and including the half-hour drive, the whole transfer costs just 300 Birr. Efficient, organized, cheap, almost suspiciously smooth after the morning chaos.

The surrounding landscape is noticeably different here: harvested fields, brown hills, and cooler temperatures at over 2,000 meters altitude. There is also a much stronger military presence than in the regions I visited before. Soldiers are everywhere, including a pickup truck with a mounted machine gun parked directly outside the airport. A fairly direct reminder that while tourists may pass through, the underlying tensions in the region have not entirely disappeared.

The Lalibela Hidmo Cozy Place turns out to be an absolute gem. It has only four rooms, all very clean, comfortable, and blessed with a fantastic view over the surrounding hills. After days of dust, volcanic camps, questionable mattresses, and airport chaos, arriving here feels dangerously close to actual luxury.

The place is run by Desta and his family, who are wonderfully warm and helpful hosts. Within minutes, I’m no longer treated like a customer but more like a slightly confused distant relative who somehow showed up with too much camera equipment. I’m even invited for lunch, which immediately upgrades the entire experience from “nice guesthouse” to “temporary adoption.”

Honestly, it’s probably the coziest place of my entire trip. For once, a hotel name delivers exactly what it promises.

For the afternoon, one of the family members joins me to visit the famous rock-hewn churches of Lalibela. For the following two days, Desta also arranges a local guide for me, since he is already busy leading a group of Americans.

Wherever thousands of pilgrims gather, traders are never far behind. Faith and business have apparently travelled together for centuries, and Lalibela is no exception.

Around the churches, countless stalls offer every imaginable religious artefact: crosses, paintings, prayer sticks, icons, scarves, and enough souvenirs to equip a small monastery. Somewhere between deep spirituality and enthusiastic salesmanship, it occasionally becomes difficult to tell whether you are entering a sacred site or a very specialised open-air shopping mall.

Still, there is something strangely fitting about it. Pilgrims come searching for blessings, traders for customers, and tourists for photographs. Everyone arrives with slightly different expectations, yet somehow the whole chaotic mixture works surprisingly well.

Rock-hewn Churches

The rock-hewn churches of Lalibela are one of Ethiopia’s most extraordinary cultural and religious treasures and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Carved entirely out of solid volcanic tuff in the 12th–13th centuries, they remain active places of worship for the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.

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Historical Background

Built mainly during the reign of King Lalibela (Zagwe dynasty).
According to tradition, Lalibela intended to create a “New Jerusalem” after Muslim conquests made pilgrimage to the Holy Land difficult.
The churches were not constructed block by block, but carved top-down from living rock—an exceptional feat of engineering.

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Layout & Groups of Churches

There are 11 main churches, connected by trenches, tunnels, and ceremonial pathways, divided into three groups:

1. Northwestern Group

Often associated with Earthly Jerusalem:

Biete Medhane Alem – The largest rock-hewn church in the world; resembles a Greek temple with massive columns.
Biete Maryam – Considered the most beautiful; richly decorated, possibly the oldest.
Biete Maskal
Biete Denagel
Biete Golgotha–Mikael – Believed to contain King Lalibela’s tomb.

2. Southeastern Group

Linked symbolically to Heavenly Jerusalem:

Biete Amanuel – Exceptionally precise craftsmanship; possibly a former royal chapel.
Biete Qeddus Mercoreus
Biete Abba Libanos – Partly detached from the rock, unique in structure.
Biete Lehem
Biete Gabriel–Rufael – Fortress-like; possibly once a royal palace or gatehouse.

3. Isolated Church

Biete Ghiorgis (St. George) – The most iconic church, with a perfect Greek cross shape, completely detached and sunken into the ground. It's often regarded as the spiritual and architectural masterpiece of Lalibela

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Religious & Cultural Significance

Lalibela is one of the holiest cities in Ethiopian Orthodoxy.
Major pilgrimages take place during Genna (Ethiopian Christmas, January 7) and Timkat (Epiphany).
Priests still conduct daily services using ancient liturgical chants, crosses, and manuscripts.

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Why Lalibela Is Unique

• One of the largest monolithic religious complexes on Earth.

• Not ruins, but a living sacred landscape used continuously for centuries.

• Represents a rare blend of faith, art, engineering, and symbolism.

The entrance fee for the famous churches of Lalibela was recently raised from 50 to a rather ambitious 100 US dollars. Considering the general price level in Ethiopia, where lunch can cost significantly less than a simple coffee in Europe, it feels slightly surreal. For a brief moment, I wonder whether the ticket perhaps includes divine intervention, priority access to heaven, or at least a complimentary injera. Sadly, no such luck.

On the positive side, the ticket remains valid for several days, which softens the financial pain somewhat. And to be fair, Lalibela is one of the most extraordinary historical and religious sites in Africa. Still, paying the equivalent of a local monthly salaries for church access does create a moment of quiet reflection, probably not exactly the spiritual kind the organisers intended.

Biete Ghiorgis looks absolutely spectacular in the soft afternoon light. The warm glow perfectly highlights the famous cross-shaped church, making it almost look unreal—as if centuries of history had carefully scheduled themselves for golden hour photography.

The next morning, I begin exploring the churches in more depth together with Giza, who will be my guide for the next two days. But honestly, it feels far less like a formal tour and much more like being shown around by a good friend, one who, despite his young age, knows an incredible amount about the history, religion, and traditions of Lalibela and is genuinely passionate about sharing his country.

We start by simply mingling with the pilgrims, slowly drifting through the endless sea of white robes, prayer sticks, chanting, and controlled chaos that surrounds Lalibela.

The pilgrims arrive from all corners of Ethiopia, travelling sometimes for days on foot, by bus, or by whatever means still vaguely qualifies as transportation.

Those who can afford it manage to secure a room in a guesthouse. The majority, however, simply camp in the open, turning courtyards, fields, and any available flat surface into temporary sleeping quarters.

It creates a striking contrast: a few paying for walls and a roof, while most people rely on faith, blankets, and the assumption that nothing important falls from the sky at night.

A priest collecting donations for the renovation of his church.

Back at Biete Ghiorgis.

Reaching the base means squeezing through narrow passages packed with pilgrims.

To be honest, the inside is less spectacular than the stunning exterior of Biete Ghiorgis. The real highlight is simply watching the pilgrims and priests—praying, chanting, resting, and moving through the ancient church with a calm familiarity that no architecture alone could create.

Bete Medhane Alem is believed to be the largest monolithic church in the world, carved entirely out of a single block of rock. Standing inside its massive colonnaded halls feels surprisingly grand and almost temple-like, especially compared to some of the smaller and darker churches nearby.

Wrapped in white robes, pilgrims quietly move between the towering pillars while priests chant softly in the background. Despite the crowds, the place carries an impressive sense of scale and calm, proof that medieval Ethiopian architects were apparently not afraid of ambitious construction projects without modern machinery, safety helmets, or project managers.

Bete Maryam is one of the oldest and most important churches in Lalibela. Pilgrims queue for hours to get inside. Giza, however, as an official guide, simply navigates us straight through the crowd with impressive determination and absolutely no visible doubt.

For a brief moment it feels slightly unfair, until I remember the rather ambitious 100 US$ entrance fee. Somehow that helps restore my inner moral balance surprisingly quickly.

Despite the crowds of pilgrims, priests, and tourists squeezing through the narrow passages, Bete Maryam still feels deeply atmospheric. Beautiful carvings and faded paintings emerge from the dim light, creating a place that is both spiritually moving and visually stunning, part sacred sanctuary, part carefully illuminated chaos.

Back outside, we stop for a while to watch the priests chanting, their deep rhythmic voices echoing through the stone passages in a hypnotic soundtrack that has probably changed very little over the centuries,...

...before we move over to the South-East group.

Bete Gabriel-Rufael feels quite different from the other churches, with its almost fortress-like appearance. Less “peaceful place of worship” and more “medieval stronghold that just happens to include priests.”

Biete Amanuel is considered one of the most elegant churches in Lalibela, with its perfectly carved walls and almost geometric precision. Unlike some of the darker, cave-like churches nearby, it feels surprisingly refined—as if medieval architects briefly decided to show off a little.

We enjoy the sunset together with a group of local youngsters, all of us quietly watching the warm evening light slowly fade over the hills surrounding Lalibela.

Fortunately, Giza has reserved a spot for us together with some friends on top of the surrounding walls near Bete Maryam, to follow the Christmas ceremony. Reaching it, however, feels less like attending a religious celebration and more like participating in an extreme obstacle course with spiritual consequences.

We squeeze through massive crowds, carefully navigating narrow passages with what feels like an abyss directly beside us. At several points, progress is only possible thanks to countless helping hands pulling, pushing, and stabilising us from every direction. I place an impressive amount of trust into complete strangers, silently hoping nobody suddenly loses interest halfway through a critical step.

And yet, despite all the chaos, discomfort, and occasional fear of accidentally becoming part of the archaeological layers of Lalibela, the atmosphere is extraordinary. Unlike many famous religious sites that feel partly choreographed for visitors, Lalibela during Ethiopian Christmas is intensely alive. This is not a historical performance for tourists. For the pilgrims filling every corner of the churches, this is one of the most important nights of the entire year.

Our spot on the wall is objectively terrible from a comfort perspective. We can barely move, changing position every now and then only to discover new muscles beginning to hurt. But honestly, with that breathtaking view over the illuminated church and thousands of pilgrims and priest spread out below us, who really cares about comfort anymore? It’s one of those rare once-in-a-lifetime moments that sends goosebumps down your spine and makes you forget that your legs have been slowly going numb for the past two hours. Sometimes atmosphere simply wins against comfort.

Unlike many Western Christmas services, where people politely sit on benches waiting for the ceremony to begin, Lalibela feels alive in every direction at once. There is no clear beginning or end. The entire church area transforms into a sea of continuous chanting, rhythmic prayers, moving processions, drums, rattling sistra, and priests carrying ornate crosses and prayer sticks through the crowd. Incense smoke drifts between thousands of pilgrims dressed in white, while voices echo through the rock-hewn passages deep into the night.

A particularly magical moment happens around midnight. During the candle-lighting ceremony commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ, thousands of candles are suddenly lit up across the church compounds, creating what looks like an endless sea of flickering stars among the pilgrims.

By around 1:30 a.m., I’m finally done. The chanting and singing continue relentlessly through the night, but the crowd slowly begins to thin out, making the walk back along the narrow walls slightly less nerve-racking and statistically a bit less likely to end in an accidental pilgrimage shortcut into the darkness below.

Exhausted, cold, and running almost entirely on adrenaline, I’m desperately looking forward to a few hours of sleep, fully aware that by 7:00 a.m. I already have to be back for the next special ceremony. Apparently, Ethiopian Christmas operates on the principle that spiritual enlightenment is best achieved through sleep deprivation.

Early on Christmas morning, one of the highlights of the celebrations takes place: the traditional King David’s Dance. In the soft golden morning light, long lines of priests on the walls surrounding Bete Maryam chant and dance in perfectly synchronised movements. Some wear brightly coloured ceremonial robes and ornate head coverings glowing almost unreal in the sunrise.

The rhythmic dancing, deep chanting, drums, and warm morning atmosphere create a scene that feels both deeply spiritual and visually mesmerising. Despite barely sleeping, I can’t stop watching. Moments like this make the cold nights, crowds, and aching legs entirely worth it.

By around 9:00 a.m., the whole ceremony finally seems to come to an end. Even the toughest priests eventually need some sleep, and after a night of chanting, crowds, cold stone walls, and minimal rest, I’m more than ready to follow their example.

Baptising in the holy water. Spiritually cleansing perhaps, but definitely not designed with comfort in mind.

The fasting is finally over, and suddenly the bars and restaurants fill up faster than the priests can retreat to their well-earned rest. After days of restraint, everyone seems to have the same idea: eat, drink, and recover at full speed before the next round of celebrations begins, which will be eastern.

After a late breakfast and some much-needed sleep, I meet Giza again for a walk through the local community. Besides being an excellent and informative guide, he turns out to be a fantastic bridge to local people. Conversations, smiles, and invitations seem to appear naturally wherever he goes.

At some point I show him how to use my camera for portraits, and he picks it up surprisingly quickly. Within minutes, I begin to suspect that my own job as photographer may already be under serious local competition.

We leave early, while the air is still cool and the streets of Lalibela are only slowly waking up. Instead of walking, we take a tuk tuk that rattles its way up the mountains for about 30 minutes, an improvised ascent that feels somewhere between transport and mechanical meditation.

At the top sits Asheton Maryam Monastery, dramatically perched on a cliff with sweeping views over the surrounding highlands. The monastery is traditionally attributed to King Lalibela himself in the 12th century, making it part of the broader network of sacred sites that transformed this region into one of the most important pilgrimage centers of Ethiopian Christianity.

The entrance fee is 20 US dollars. In the context of rural Ethiopia, it feels rather excessive, almost absurd.

Despite all that, the experience itself is unforgettable. The soft morning light is perfect, spilling gently across the stone walls, the surrounding landscape, and the faces of the priests moving quietly through the monastery grounds.

For photography, it’s exceptional, especially for portraits. The monks, wrapped in traditional robes, appear almost sculptural in the early light, as if they were carefully placed there centuries ago and have simply stayed put out of principle.

With Giza’s help, it even feels at times like a private photo session. The priests pose with quiet pride, holding up their ancient crosses and other sacred artefacts, somewhere between dignified patience and well-practised hospitality for visitors with cameras. As we are the only ones, we enjoy their full attention.

Asheton St. Maryam Monastery, Lalibela, Ethiopia

I say farewell to my host family and to Giza, who has done a fantastic job showing me around Lalibela, less like a guide, more like a friend who just happens to know every stone, story, and shortcut in town. Thanks Giza!!!

A domestic flight then brings me punctually back to Addis Ababa, where I decide, perhaps optimistically, to give Turkish Airlines another chance on the night flight home to make up for the luggage drama on the outbound journey.

Spoiler: this time they actually manage. My suitcase arrives together with me, proof that miracles are apparently not limited to the churches of Lalibela.

Final Verdict

After several weeks in Ethiopia, I leave the country exhausted, dust-covered, slightly sleep-deprived, and with a camera full of unforgettable moments. In other words: exactly how a proper trip should end.

Ethiopia is not an easy destination. Roads can be rough, schedules flexible, infrastructure occasionally optimistic, and comfort often very much a secondary concern, although, to be fair, still noticeably better than in many other African countries I’ve travelled through.

But that is precisely what makes the country so fascinating.

From the tribes of the Omo Valley and the volcanic madness of the Danakil Depression to the spiritual intensity of Lalibela, Ethiopia constantly surprised me. And that doesn’t even include the spectacular Simien Mountains National Park with its colourful and endlessly entertaining gelada monkeys, or historic places like Mekelle and Gondar, which I visited on an earlier trip.

Without doubt, Ethiopia is one of the most diverse and exciting destinations I have ever travelled to, and probably my personal number one in Africa alongside Morocco and Namibia. Few countries combine such dramatic landscapes, deep history, cultural diversity, unique and flavourful food, beauty, and occasional logistical absurdity in quite the same way.

There were moments of genuine awe: sunsets over ancient churches, endless salt flats glowing in pastel colours, rhythmic chanting echoing through rock-hewn tunnels, and witnessing a boy become a man during a centuries-old traditional ceremony.

Ethiopia is not polished or comfortable in the conventional sense. It is raw, intense, emotional, unpredictable, and deeply authentic. A country where a priest may bless you in the morning, a donkey blocks the road at noon, and by evening you are camping next to an active volcano, while wondering whether your spine will ever fully recover.

Would I come back? Absolutely.

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