Page 26 of Deacon

We pulled up to Bole International Airport, where the terminal loomed like a fortress.

Entering meant navigating a wall of tight security.

We hauled our duffel bags through the first exterior checkpoint, standing in a slow-moving line as uniformed officers scrutinized our passports and papers.

Once inside, the concourse came alive with travelers speaking a dozen languages, from Italian to the local Amharic dialect.

We dumped our packs onto the squealing rubber conveyor of the X-ray machine, stepped through the metal detectors at the second security checkpoint, and presented our boarding passes to an airline agent who waved us toward the plane.

We trekked to the airport apron on foot, the midday sun warming us as we approached our connection.

The twin-engine turboprop sat waiting on the cracked concrete, its propellers spinning with a deafening roar that vibrated straight through the soles of my boots.

We climbed the narrow airstairs, ducked our heads through the cabin door, packed our camera bags into the tight overhead bins, and buckled into the worn leather seats.

By noon, the prop plane dropped us out of the clouds onto the tarmac at Jimma, where the crisp mountain air was redolent of damp earth and blooming eucalyptus.

The rumored storm was long gone, reduced to a drizzle that fast dissipated.

We soon crammed into a rugged 4x4 and roared along the punishing dirt track toward Mizan Teferi.

The outlook out the dust-streaked windows shifted from sprawling coffee plantations into vast, plunging emerald valleys that seemed to drop off the edge of the world.

‘Look at that ridge line,’ Yael murmured, her forehead pressed against the window glass as our Land Cruiser bounced hard over a deep, sun-baked rut. ‘It appears untouched, probably been that way since the beginning of time.’

‘Don’t let the view fool you, mate,’ Baz said from the front seat, tapping the screen of his satellite phone. ‘Those ridges are tribal borders, and they hide the watchful eyes of local warriors. The Surma don’t take kindly to uninvited guests wandering through their grazing hills. Most of the pastoralists out here carry AK-47s to protect their cattle from raiders, and they defend their land if you don’t show respect. Salim, how far to Kibish?’

‘Six hours, if the axle holds,’ Salim called back over the straining roar of the diesel engine, keeping both hands locked on the wheel as he navigated the rocky track. ‘We’re cutting through the west side of the Omo Valley now. This is way off the map for standard tourists. You’re looking at the true nomadic heartland of our beautiful country.’

The stark reality of our isolation finally hit me as we rolled into Kibish Camp at sunset.

The sky bled a bruising shade of violet and burnt amber, the fading light casting long, dramatic shadows across our home for the next week.

The executive team at Panoramik Magazine was sparing no expense to keep us alive and working out here.

Set in an unbounded clearing framed by acacia trees, the camp featured heavy-duty canvas tents, a diesel generator, solar-heated wash and shower stalls, and a central fire pit where a chef turned spiced goat meat over glowing coals.

We spilled out of the rig, muscles and bones aching.

After thanking the local crew who welcomed us, I unzipped my assigned tent, tossed my duffel onto a woven cot, and grabbed my DSLR bag.

With my prime lens and camera in hand, I stepped back outside into the cool evening air.

I clicked off a few test shots: Salim double-checking the rig’s suspension, then Baz hunkered over a table at the central marquee, fine-tuning the satellite array, his face lit by the glow of his monitor.

Approaching the cooks, a local tribeswoman and her son, I thanked them for making us dinner, with Salim translating.

I then framed them against the twilight, capturing the quiet, intense pride in their posture.

When the sun slipped past the horizon, the four of us gathered on camp chairs circling the open fire.

We ate tender spiced goat meat with fresh flatbread, washed it down with lukewarm beers, and swapped stories as the night settled around us.

Sitting back in my chair, I gazed up at the dense field of stars burning through the velvet midnight-blue sky and took a deep, clear breath of the mountain freshness.

It was strange to be in Africa without Deacon.

We’d traveled to the region several times while married, and visited Zanzibar, Lamu, Tsavo and the Serengeti together.