The man in front of me was naked except for a pig's tusk through his nose and a headdress made from the feathers of a bird of paradise. He held a bow that was taller than he was, and his body was painted with ochre and clay in patterns that identified his clan. I was in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea, at a sing-sing, a gathering of tribes that occurs annually in the town of Goroka. Hundreds of men and women from different groups had assembled in traditional dress, and the noise of drums, chants, and shell trumpets was overwhelming. I raised my camera, hesitated, and lowered it. The question I had been asking myself since I arrived returned: who am I to photograph this?
The Ethics of Photographing Indigenous People
Papua New Guinea is one of the most culturally diverse countries on earth, with over eight hundred languages and hundreds of distinct tribal groups. Many of these groups have had limited contact with the outside world, and their traditions are under pressure from modernization, Christianity, and climate change. As a photographer, my presence is part of that pressure. I developed a set of rules for this project: I always ask permission before taking a portrait. I never photograph children without a parent's consent. I pay for the privilege, either directly to the subject or to the community. And I share the photographs, printing copies and mailing them back to the villages. These rules do not eliminate the power imbalance between me and my subjects, but they reduce it.
The Goroka Show
The Goroka Show is the largest sing-sing in Papua New Guinea, held every September during the country's independence celebrations. Over one hundred tribes participate, wearing costumes that range from grass skirts and body paint to elaborate bird of paradise headdresses that can weigh ten kilograms. The photography is spectacular, but the event is also a performance for tourists. I spent three days at the show and then traveled to a remote village in the Eastern Highlands, where a smaller group performed a private sing-sing for me and a local guide. The difference was striking. In the village, the performance was slower, less choreographed, and more intimate. The men sang songs about their ancestors and their land. The women cooked sweet potato in an earth oven. There were no other photographers. I took fewer photographs, but each one meant more.
The Huli Wigmen
The Huli Wigmen are one of the most photographed groups in Papua New Guinea, famous for their elaborate wigs made from their own hair. I visited a wig school in the Tari Valley, where young men spend eighteen months growing and styling their hair into wigs that are then cut off and sold. The process is spiritual as well as practical. The wigmen believe that their hair contains their life force, and the cutting of the wig is a ritual that marks their transition to adulthood. I photographed a young man named Joseph on the day his wig was cut. He sat on a log, his hair arranged in a frame of bark and string, while an elder recited a prayer. Joseph looked nervous, proud, and sad. I took three photographs. I have never shown them publicly. Some moments belong to the people who live them.
Logistics and Challenges
Papua New Guinea is not an easy country to work in. The Highlands Highway is mostly unpaved, domestic flights are frequently cancelled, and violent crime is a real risk in some areas. I traveled with a local guide who spoke Tok Pisin and several tribal languages, and who negotiated access to villages that would not have welcomed me alone. The cost was high: four thousand two hundred dollars for three weeks, including flights, guide fees, accommodation, and payments to communities. The physical conditions were challenging: mud, leeches, malaria risk, and food that was limited to sweet potato, taro, and tinned fish. But the photographs I brought back, and the relationships I formed, were worth every difficulty. This is documentary photography at its most demanding and its most rewarding.
