The Wild Wild Omo

Yesterday a drunk militia started shooting his Kalashnikov near where we’re camped at the edge of Turgit village. Commotion. No one knew where the shots came from. Villagers fired their own Kalishes to let the original shooter know not to come their direction. Pop. Pop. Pop. Just like Fourth of July. This morning we transported the sobered and imprisoned militia shooter with his guard to the jail in Kibish.

The local Turgit clinic has some three to five people with bullet wounds, all inflicted by other drunk Suri. Explosive anger and bullets are not a healthy combination.

While they say tourists have nothing to fear, we are supposed to bring along an armed militia or policeman when we walk around Turgit. Ryan and I have named our self-appointed Kalish-carrying personal guardian, Vodaphone for the letters on his gray sweatshirt advertising the company. Most of the time, however, we are long gone before Vodaphone figures out he has missed our exit. We exit our camp area quickly to avoid paying the 50 Birr (About $6) guardian fee. Vodaphone, like most of his fellow gunslingers, keeps dirt in the end of his gun barrel. So far, the closest we have come to danger was a smelly drunk that stumbled into us while trying to shake our hands.