Page 55

The highlights included documenting an early dawn cattle-herding ritual, where golden dust rose into the sunrise as the animals’ hooves churned the earth in a rhythmic, thundering hymn.

This was followed by an incredible morning capturing the trainee warriors as they practiced traditional ceremonial stick fighting, their athletic prowess unmatched.

That afternoon, Baz immersed himself in the community, interviewing everyone from tribal elders and young mothers to warriors and children.

He uncovered their history and folklore while highlighting pressing contemporary challenges, such as the devastating toll of climate change and deforestation on their ancestral lands and livestock.

Side by side, I managed the photography and video recording while Baz documented their traditional chants and investigated their ancient medicinal knowledge.

As Baz recorded their songs and gathered details on their ancient medicinal practices, I stood back with my camera, deeply moved by what I was witnessing.

Their lore and healing knowledge were not primitive relics of the past; they were living, timeless systems of survival.

I couldn’t help but feel that the Western world, with all its modern medicine and technology, was impoverished compared to the ancient wisdom held by this community.

On our fourth morning, Salim chartered a helicopter to take us to the rugged peaks of the Hayli Gubbi volcano for a high-altitude landscape shoot.

‘The shots we take here will add a bit of spice to the story,’ Baz insisted, grinning.

I went along, unable to resist the lure of a semi-active mountain.

The view from the chopper window was terrifying: a moonscape of black basalt and jagged craters rising from the green jungle.

The pilot maneuvered the machine onto a narrow, ash-dusted slope and killed the rotors.

‘Three hours,’ the aviator barked. ‘The wind shifts fast up here. Don’t wander away from this ridge.’

Yael, Baz, Salim, and I scrambled out onto the sulfur-coated rock, the sheer scale of the smoking abyss taking my breath away.

We paused at the tip of the crater, gazing down at the burbling, seething core that let out puffs of smoke every so often.

‘The light is optimal,’ Yael said, holding up a photometer. ‘The gray ash is acting like a massive natural soft box.’

‘I’ll start with the wide-angle lens,’ I yelled over the whistling summit gusts, firing off dozens of frames of the yellow sulfur vents.

Salim kept an eye out for any danger as Baz, crouched on one knee, made notes on his iPad.

Yael helped me anchor my tripods in the perfect position, capturing the brutal geometry of the landscape.

Despite the high altitude, the ridge granted us a rare moment of stillness.

The blustery gales that thrashed the peak died down, leaving the atmosphere eerily calm.

Without the wind to scatter the volcanic exhaust, thick plumes of white steam rose toward the heavens like columns holding up the sky.

‘The images I’m getting are some of the best I’ve ever shot,’ I murmured to my companions.

With no warning, the lull shattered.

Deep under the caldera, a guttural vibration sounded, then exploded into a violent roar.

The mountain gave a massive, terrifying groan, a sound of tearing, shifting tectonic force that reverberated straight through the soles of my shoes.

‘The hell?’

Sensing danger, I stuffed my camera into its bag, snapped it shut, and swung the straps over my shoulder.

I reached for a tripod when a fissure ripped open, splitting the core far below us.