Over 24 hours on planes, another 10 on a bus, a final crawl with Land Cruiser and you’re there. It’s in the middle of nowhere, near the hottest place on earth, the nearest Coke is 40km away. It seems like there’s nothing there, that nothing can survive. And yet there’s something beautiful about it. It was so powerful I was caught off guard by the emotional connection I would have when I left. One that had me leaving in tears.

Our days were spent fossil hunting with prospective anthropologists of the Hadar Field School of which Dr. Kaye was instructing. Our nights, at least mine, were spent sweating bullets in a tent over scorpions, venomous snakes and big cats with big claws wandering our camp at night.

Alleviating some of that fear were the Afar men who kept watch over us with AK-47s. It took some getting used to. When you tell someone that you’re standing next to a 9-year-old with an AK, it sounds like you should move the hell on. But it was comforting.

After a few days of shooting, the younger Afar starting coming into the research tent at night to peer over my shoulder at the computer. I would soon have an entourage of gun-toting men behind me every day for the remainder of my time. Word was spreading amongst them old and young. I was then approached after breakfast, "Photo!" Before dinner, "Photo!" Quick shooting sessions were developing into both a portrait series and a friendship.

We communicated through gestures and very few words. We taught each other what we knew. They learned some photography. I learned how to climb their mountains, how they kill goats with honor, how to make a flute and how to dance. I held their guns, they held my camera. They were the warmest human beings I had been around and I was intrigued by our connection with each other.

It wasn’t until my final night in the desert that the value of this connection started to hit me. I would never see these men again. Everything we experienced together became more meaningful to me and I wanted to thank them for that.

I brought an interpreter with me into their tent.

"I’ve been here for two weeks now and it’s saddening that it’s going to end soon," I said as I choked up.

"I’ve learned so much from every one of you and consider you my friends. Tomorrow I’ll be leaving for America and I wanted to thank you. And although we don’t speak the same language I find it amazing that we were able to share what we did. I will miss you, I’ll never forget you and if you don’t say goodbye to me tomorrow I’ll be very upset."

I looked around in the tent filled with 20 Afar men with tears lining my eyes. They were quiet and a bit shocked to see a 30-year old white man getting emotional with them.
 

Then they started shouting back and the interpreter unraveled the noise,

"We learned a lot from you too. Like frisbee and photography. If you could stay longer we could teach you more about our culture and language. We could show you how to dance. But if we knew sooner that you were leaving, we would have done something for you."

I don’t know why I lost it. I barely knew these men.

I left the tent, had my last meal with Dr. Kaye and put on a slide show of the photos from the field school along with a show of the Afar portraits for everyone.

At it’s end, one of the Afar, Omar Dato, came up to me, "Benjamin!" he said. He started clapping his hands and stomping on the ground. He was pointing behind me. One of the professors mentioned they started a fire and wanted me to dance with them.

I left the research tent and walked back to the pitch black desert towards the bonfire.
 

"Wow." I said. It was breathtaking.

It was the most touching display I’ve ever seen. As I walked towards the fire, the Afar men began jumping up and down singing tribal songs. I could only make out a few words, America…Photo Katayisa (friend). Another song was about a camel. One of the students said, "Can you believe this is in your honor?"

What do you say to something like that? I was literally speechless. We stayed up dancing next to the fire until one of the students was stung by a scorpion. I slept like a baby.

The morning was quiet during breakfast. I said goodbye to everyone. Dr. Kaye and I choked up as we hugged each other goodbye. We both understood how special the experience was as our connection had strengthened. I climbed into the Land Cruiser. There were four Afar men inside. We pulled away and I teared up again. And as the tear rolled down my cheek, one of the Afar, Muhammad Isi, wiped it away, "Don’t cry." he said in broken English. He scribbled on his hand to tell me to write letters. Another Afar, Omar, grabbed my hand and held it until I stopped. It was very calming. That moment was the last photo I took in Ethiopia.

Until December

Thank you Dr. Kaye.

See the full series: www.benjaminreedphotography.com

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