A Childhood Fascination Turned Reality: Visiting South Sudan’s Mundari Tribe
November 2017: I first heard of South Sudan back in grade school, long before it became an independent country. Back then, it was still part of greater Sudan, a nation torn apart by civil war. At church, I met a South Sudanese refugee whose stories captivated me—tales of war between the southern tribes and the northern Arabs, of escaping conflict while being hunted by lions, chased by elephants, and robbed in refugee camps in Kenya before finally making his way to Europe by boat.
His stories painted South Sudan as one of the last wild frontiers of Africa, a land of untamed beauty, tribal traditions, and harsh realities. Ever since, the country had remained in the back of my mind—an elusive, almost mythical place that few outsiders ever visited.
So when I got the chance to travel to South Sudan to visit the Mundari Tribe, I jumped at the opportunity. Through some contacts, I managed to find a fixer, someone who could help navigate the complexities of visiting one of the world’s newest and least-explored countries.
For years, South Sudan had felt like a distant, unreachable dream—but now, I was finally going.
About South Sudan
South Sudan: The World’s Newest Country and a Land of Contrast
South Sudan holds the title of the newest United Nations-recognized country in the world, gaining its hard-fought independence from Sudan in 2011. Before that, it was part of greater Sudan, a country deeply divided—not just politically, but culturally, ethnically, and geographically.
The differences between North and South Sudan couldn’t be more stark:
- North Sudan is Muslim, Arabic-speaking, and has a culture heavily influenced by the Middle East. It is mostly desert, with more infrastructure and urban development.
- South Sudan is Christian and animist, with darker-skinned Nilotic people who have distinct tribal customs. The land is lush, rich in oil, but remains largely undeveloped and deeply tribal.
For decades, the North waged war on the South, seeking to control its vast oil resources and subjugate its people. The conflict was brutal, with entire villages destroyed and millions displaced. Finally, after years of international pressure, a USA and UN-brokered peace agreement paved the way for South Sudan’s independence.
However, peace remained elusive. Even after independence, border clashes between Sudan and South Sudan continued, and internally, South Sudan descended into inter-tribal conflict. Competing factions fought for control of the new government, leading to thousands more deaths and a humanitarian crisis.
Despite the challenges, South Sudan remains one of the last frontiers of tribal Africa, where ancient traditions endure, and vast stretches of wilderness remain untouched. It is a land of resilience, where people have survived against all odds—and where history is still being written.
Map of South Sudan
Planning a Trip to South Sudan: Navigating Uncertainty
Planning a trip to South Sudan in 2017 was no easy feat. At the time, there was virtually no information available on tourism, and for good reason—the country was still embroiled in violent conflict, making tourism nearly nonexistent.
In my travel circles, I knew just one intrepid friend who had previously traveled in South Sudan to visit the tribal regions. Through them, I was able to connect with a fixer—a local contact who could assist with organizing logistics, navigating security concerns, and ensuring safe passage.
I didn’t want to just visit Juba, the capital. My goal was to experience the tribal culture of South Sudan, but traveling into the countryside posed major risks. Conflict was ongoing in many parts of the country, and any movement outside of Juba had to be carefully planned and assessed for safety.
After researching various tribes, the one that made the most sense to visit—and looked the most fascinating from the limited photos available online (mostly National Geographic-style images)—was the Mundari Tribe. As pastoralists, the Mundari live among massive herds of cattle, and their traditional way of life has remained remarkably intact. Their territory was located just half a day’s drive from Juba, and at the time of my visit, the area was considered stable.
But in a country like South Sudan, stability is never guaranteed.
Just six months before my arrival, war had erupted in Juba and the surrounding countryside, leading to the deaths of several foreign aid workers—some of whom were also raped and brutally attacked. A fragile power-sharing agreement between the rival political factions and tribal leaders had temporarily calmed the situation, allowing for relative peace in the capital and Mundari lands.
However, for many other regions in South Sudan, war continued to wreak havoc, with no end in sight. This was not a typical travel destination. But for me, it was an opportunity to witness one of the last truly tribal societies in Africa—before war, modernization, or external forces threatened to erase it forever.
Arrival in South Sudan and Avoiding Government Spies
An Ominous Warning Before Departure
Our journey to South Sudan began with a flight on Ethiopian Airlines via Addis Ababa, but before we even left San Diego, we were given an unsettling warning.
While sitting at an airport bar, my friend Richard and I were casually discussing our upcoming trip when a British man at the stool beside us suddenly turned and interrupted our conversation.
“You’re going to South Sudan?” he asked, his tone serious.
I nodded.
“Be careful,” he warned. “It’s open season on Americans over there.”
His words caught me off guard. I asked him why he believed that, and what his experience in South Sudan had been.
He hesitated for a moment before simply replying:
“I have worked over there extensively… that’s all I can really discuss about my time in South Sudan. Just be careful.”
Then he turned back to his drink, offering no further explanation.
The warning lingered in my mind as we boarded our flight. Who was he? A contractor? Intelligence? Someone who had seen things firsthand? I’d never know. But one thing was clear—South Sudan was no ordinary destination, and we were stepping into a place where caution would be just as essential as curiosity.
Southeastern South Sudan
Juba by air
Arriving in Juba: A Chaotic Welcome to South Sudan
Day 1: Our flight into South Sudan was aboard a turboprop plane, a fitting entrance into one of the most remote and unstable countries in the world. As we crossed the Ethiopian border into southeastern South Sudan, an endless sea of green wilderness stretched below us—grasslands, scrubland forests, and scattered clusters of huts. There were no roads, no towns, no infrastructure—just raw, untamed land, as far as the eye could see.
As we neared Juba, the familiar sight of African urban sprawl came into view. A disarray of dirt roads, makeshift shantytowns, and an utter lack of urban planning sprawled out from the banks of the Nile River. Juba was not a large city, but it was the center of political power, corruption, and instability in South Sudan. The airport was under construction, its airstrip bustling with United Nations aircraft—a reminder that Juba was still a city at war with itself.
Navigating Juba’s Immigration Chaos
We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, walking into an immigration checkpoint that was nothing more than a makeshift tent. The airport personnel were unfriendly, suspicious, and chaotic, embodying the paranoia and disorder that define Juba.
Our fixer, Donald Champion, had arranged for a Letter of Invitation (LOI) so we could obtain visas on arrival (VOA). Strangely, Donald asked me to sign all the LOIs on his behalf, which I hesitated to do but ultimately complied with. I was worried this would cause an issue at immigration, but miraculously, the process went smoothly.
Once through immigration, we met Donald and our driver, Henry, and were taken directly to our accommodation—the Juba Regency Hotel.
Finding Refuge in Juba’s Second-Best Hotel
Juba has no Western hotel chains. The Juba Regency Hotel, owned and operated by Lebanese businessmen, was considered the second-best hotel in the city—an oasis of relative comfort in an otherwise lawless capital. It had a pool, a lively restaurant scene, and a mix of well-to-do locals and foreign NGO workers trying to enjoy a moment of normalcy.
My travel companion, who generously covered our hotel stays, initially suggested we stay at Juba’s #1 hotel—the Crown Plaza. However, Donald and other local contacts strongly advised against it, warning that the hotel was crawling with government spies. Foreigners staying there were monitored, and some had even been detained for questioning.
Juba was notorious for corrupt police, paranoia, and arbitrary arrests. A foreigner seen with a camera on the street could be detained immediately, and the city, still reeling from civil war, was rife with guns, armed banditry, and unchecked violence.
Our priority was to keep a low profile and avoid drawing attention from police or informants, so for our first day in South Sudan, we stayed inside the hotel, recovering from jet lag and preparing for our three-day journey into the bush with the Mundari Tribe.
Gunshots in the Night
That night, I looked out of my hotel window, gazing past the fortified walls that enclosed the property. Just beyond the security perimeter, a neighborhood of pure squalor spread into the darkness—a stark contrast to the relative comfort inside our compound. Armed guards patrolled the walls of the hotel, a necessity in a city where law and order were fragile at best.
At times, I heard errant gunshots echo through the night—a chilling reminder that only months before, Juba had been engulfed in an armed insurrection. Given the instability, I made a mental note of an escape route to the U.S. Embassy, just in case.
This was Juba—a city of contradictions, uncertainty, and ever-present danger. And tomorrow, we would leave its uneasy streets behind and venture into the tribal heart of South Sudan, where an entirely different world awaited us.
Into Mundari Tribal Lands
The Journey to the Mundari: Bribes, Lies, and the Unknown
Day 2: Reaching the Mundari Tribe was no simple task. They are a semi-nomadic people, constantly moving with their cattle herds, meaning their exact location was never guaranteed. To find them, we had to first drive to Terekeka, a small, dusty town on the Nile River, and then figure out where the tribe was currently camped.
The Road to Terekeka: A Test of Endurance and Corruption
At sunrise, we set off in our 4WD Toyota Hilux, embarking on a 4-5 hour journey along one of the only “highways” in South Sudan—a deeply rutted dirt road riddled with potholes large enough to swallow entire trucks.
Along the way, we encountered multiple military checkpoints, where the lack of official registration papers could have posed a serious issue. The day before, we had attempted to obtain them from the police station in Juba, only to be told that the police chief was out—a typical bureaucratic runaround in a place where paperwork is secondary to bribes and connections.
Luckily, Donald knew the drill. Each checkpoint followed the same routine:
- A friendly chat with the armed officers.
- A few handshakes and pleasantries.
- A discreet exchange of money.
Every time, we were waved through without further issue.
To avoid arousing suspicion, Donald had coached us on exactly what to say if questioned. South Sudanese security forces did not understand tourism—the concept was completely foreign in a country where foreigners were mostly NGO workers, journalists, or spies.
So instead of admitting we were tourists, we followed the agreed-upon script:
“We are engineers. We’ve come to build water wells.”
This, the police understood. Access to clean water was a huge issue in South Sudan, and even the most corrupt officers would welcome such an initiative. The script worked every time.
A Road Through the Wild
The drive was surreal. We passed no villages, no vehicles—only the occasional UN convoy, military trucks, and the vast, untouched wilderness of South Sudan.
The further we went, the more I couldn’t help but think about the dangers lurking in this lawless region.
- Bandits could ambush us.
- Rebel soldiers could mistake us for spies.
- Even rogue police officers could turn on us.
In a country like this, anything could go wrong at any time. Yet, despite the risks, I was loving the adventure—the unpredictability, the rawness of the experience, and the thrill of venturing into one of Africa’s last tribal frontiers.
Terekeka: The Police Chief’s Test
Upon arriving in Terekeka, we headed straight to the police station. This would be our biggest test yet—if the police chief didn’t believe our story, we could be denied entry or even detained.
The police chief was an older, intimidating man, flanked by a handful of officers. We sat in his office as he chatted casually with Donald, but soon, the focus shifted to us.
In English, he asked directly:
“What is your purpose here?”
I took the lead in answering.
“We are engineers. We’ve come to help build water wells in the villages.”
I kept my SLR camera hidden, knowing that a visible professional camera would immediately raise suspicion.
The room was silent for a moment. The police chief studied us carefully, his expression unreadable.
Then, he nodded.
Our story held up.
We were given directions to the current location of the Mundari, along with a final warning about the dangers of traveling into the bush. With that, we stocked up on supplies—water, rice, and other necessities—and set off once again, deeper into the unknown.
Off the Map: Searching for the Mundari
Now, there were no more roads.
We left the town behind and followed overgrown bush tracks that wound into the remote interior of South Sudan. The vegetation thickened, the path faded, and soon, we were relying on nothing more than word-of-mouth directions and instinct.
Somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of the South Sudanese wilderness, the Mundari tribe was waiting.
We just had to find them.
Who are the Mundari
The Mundari: Warriors of the Cattle Camps
The Mundari are a semi-nomadic warrior tribe of pastoralists, deeply rooted in the traditions of cattle herding. Their entire existence revolves around their long-horned Ankole-Watusi cattle, which are their wealth, status, and lifeline. Every decision they make—**where they travel, how they defend themselves, even their social rituals—is dictated by their livestock.
They are fierce warriors, with a reputation for unwavering toughness. Nearly every Mundari man carries an AK-47, not out of aggression, but as a necessity to protect their cattle from raiders, rival tribes, and wild animals.
But what struck me most upon encountering them was their sheer size.
The Mundari are the largest people I have ever met—tall, lean, and incredibly well-muscled. Their average height is over 6’1″, making them among the tallest people in the world. Some towered over me, their powerful physiques and warrior-like presence adding to their intimidating aura.
Nomads of the Nile
The Mundari move across hundreds of miles every year, following the grazing patterns of their cattle.
- During the rainy season, they settle closer to Juba, where water and grazing land are more plentiful.
- During the dry season, they migrate north toward Terekeka, where they set up their cattle camps in open plains.
These migrations are not easy—they must constantly contend with drought, disease, and the ever-present threat of cattle raids from rival tribes.
Faith and Tradition: A Hybrid Religion
Although the Mundari have converted to Christianity, their faith is a unique fusion of Christianity mixed with traditional animistic beliefs.
- They believe in spirits, nature gods, and the ancestral connection to their cattle.
- Rituals and ceremonies involving cattle blood, dung, and ashes remain central to their spiritual and cultural identity.
- Despite the adoption of Christian symbols and prayers, their daily life still follows the rhythms of their ancient tribal customs.
The Mundari are not just cattle herders—they are living relics of an ancient African tradition, warriors bound by blood, land, and the ever-moving spirit of their herds.
1st Night with Tribe
Mundari Party
Arrival in the Mundari Cattle Camps: A Welcome Unlike Any Other
After hours of driving through the South Sudanese wilderness—stopping along the way to ask random Mundari herders for directions—we finally arrived at what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. There were no roads, no landmarks—just open land and a scattering of huts.
“This is it,” Donald assured us.
I was still unsure—until a 7-foot-tall, completely naked man with a chalked-white face, yellow-dyed hair, and an AK-47 slung over his shoulder casually walked past us.
At that moment, I knew we had arrived somewhere truly special.
A Wild, Gunfire-Filled Celebration
As the sun began to set, a thunderous rhythm filled the air—the sound of drumming and chanting in the distance. The beat was hypnotic, reminiscent of a North American Indian pow-wow. Something was happening.
Curious, we hurried toward the commotion, and what we stumbled upon was one of the wildest cultural scenes I had ever witnessed.
A group of 30-40 Mundari warriors were gathered in a whirlwind of jumping, singing, and gunfire. They waved their staffs in the air, shouting in celebration, while some fired their AK-47s into the sky.
Some of the bullets whizzed too close for comfort over my head.
Before I could process what was happening, the Mundari spotted us—and instantly, they rushed over, surrounding us in a flurry of movement and excitement. They danced around us, flashing huge smiles, their chalk-painted bodies glowing under the flickering light of the fires.
I instinctively reached for my camera and started taking photos, but before I knew it, the Mundari warriors were pulling me in every direction, each one eager to have their own portrait taken. Staffs and rifles waved in the air as they crowded around me, posing proudly.
Some were clearly intoxicated, drinking what appeared to be a homemade brew. Their enthusiasm was infectious, but it was also a little intimidating.
I didn’t know them yet. I didn’t know their temperament, their boundaries, or how quickly a misunderstanding could escalate. In a place like this, one wrong move could turn celebration into confrontation.
But tonight, there was only joy—raw, uninhibited, and deeply rooted in their traditions.
Setting Up Camp in the Dark
After one of the most surreal and exhilarating cultural experiences of my life, we headed back to camp to set up our tents in the dark.
We never did find out exactly what the celebration was about.
Donald speculated it could have been a wedding or a ceremony marking the end of the rainy season. But in truth, it didn’t matter.
For one night, we had been welcomed into the world of the Mundari, a place where the line between the past and the present is blurred, where tradition and modernity coexist in an untamed dance of fire, dust, and gunpowder.
Mundari Party
Mundari Party
Mundari Party
Mundari Party
A Sweltering Night Under the South Sudanese Sky
After the adrenaline of the Mundari celebration, we returned to camp, hungry, exhausted, and dripping in sweat.
With nothing but the darkness and the distant flicker of fires around us, we cooked a simple pasta dinner over a small flame. As we ate, we were mercilessly tormented by mosquitoes and suffocating humidity—a relentless reminder that South Sudan is not for the faint of heart.
The heat was unbearable, hovering well above 110°F (43°C) during the day, with thick, tropical humidity making every breath feel sticky and oppressive. Even after sunset, when the temperature dropped slightly, the humidity refused to relent, clinging to our skin like a second layer.
That night, I crawled into my tent, drenched in sweat, while the Mundari celebration raged on in the distance. The rhythmic pounding of African drums, the sporadic crack of gunfire, and the haunting melodies of singing voices drifted through the air, weaving into a surreal lullaby.
As I closed my eyes, I let the sounds of the Mundari, their cattle, and the wild South Sudanese night carry me into sleep.
It was a night I would never forget.
The Mundari Village
Sunrise
Man in front of his home
Morning with the Mundari: A Visit from the Minister of Corruption
At sunrise, I crawled out of my hot, sticky tent, expecting nothing more than the usual routine of shaking off sleep, swatting away mosquitoes, and gulping down some breakfast. Instead, we were greeted by a small crowd of Mundari children, their curious eyes wide as they stood in silence, watching us.
Their fascination was pure and innocent, so I decided to pull out my Polaroid camera.
I snapped a few instant photos and handed them out, watching as the kids’ faces lit up with joy. Seeing their own images materialize before their eyes was pure magic to them—a completely novel experience in a world without mirrors, phones, or printed photos. Soon, they were laughing, pointing, and eagerly huddling around to see more.
Breakfast with the Chief
As we packed up our camp, the Mundari chief arrived to greet us.
We shared breakfast with him, exchanging smiles, broken bits of conversation, and a lot of hand gestures. The Mundari people, despite their warrior-like appearance, were warm and welcoming, treating us with genuine hospitality.
Then, just as we were settling into the rhythm of the morning, an unexpected guest arrived—and he couldn’t have looked more out of place.
An Unlikely Visitor
A middle-aged, portly man in a torn, dirty suit rode up on a motorcycle, kicking up dust as he came to a stop. His sweat-stained, disheveled suit, completely impractical for this remote, cattle-filled bushland, made him look like a man who had lost his way—except he knew exactly what he was here for.
At first, he was polite, striking up conversation in perfect English. He asked about our intentions, our jobs, and what we were doing out here. But something felt off. His questions were more interrogative than friendly, probing with the precision of someone who had the power to cause trouble.
We stuck to our script—we were engineers here to help build wells.
There was some truth to this—Donald was indeed working on raising funds to build water wells for the Mundari, and we had even donated money toward the cause. But we weren’t actively digging wells, and we knew that any deviation from our story could land us in trouble.
Then, the man’s tone shifted from polite curiosity to anger.
Corruption at its Finest
With an air of authority, he introduced himself—he was the Minister of Agriculture for the region, and he claimed that it was mandatory for any foreigners visiting the Mundari to check in with him in Terekeka.
He wasn’t done yet.
We had also failed to pay the “mandatory fee” to him—a blatant demand for a bribe.
At this point, I took a step back and let Donald handle it. Donald had seen this game before. He was an expert at keeping conversations from turning hostile, knowing exactly how much to push back and when to concede.
For a few minutes, the two went back and forth, their words calm, but the subtext filled with quiet negotiations. Eventually, Donald must have offered an acceptable bribe, because the man’s anger dissolved instantly.
Suddenly, the minister was all smiles, shaking our hands as if we were old friends.
“Safe travels! Enjoy your time with the Mundari!” he said cheerfully before climbing back onto his motorcycle and disappearing in a cloud of dust.
I watched him ride away, shaking my head.
To think he drove all the way out here from town just to collect a bribe.
South Sudan’s corruption knew no bounds.
Me with a Mundari Man
Walking Through the Mundari Village: A Life of Simplicity and Strength
With the chief of the village as our guide, we walked through the scattered huts, each one built from mud, sticks, and thatch, blending seamlessly into the dry, sunbaked landscape.
Everywhere we went, we were greeted with long, strong handshakes, a sign of warmth and respect. Unlike the quick Western handshake, the Mundari handshake was deliberate and extended, as if reinforcing a connection between people.
The morning sun was already fierce, casting long shadows as we moved between huts. Inside, we found mostly women and children—the men had already left at dawn, taking the cattle to graze in the countryside.
A Community with Few Elders
One thing stood out—we saw very few elderly people.
Life in Mundari territory is harsh—between disease, tribal conflicts, and the sheer physical demands of their lifestyle, life expectancy is low. Those who reach old age are rare, yet the younger generations carry on the traditions with pride, ensuring their way of life endures.
Poverty vs. Happiness
Despite the rugged conditions and the apparent hardships of Mundari life, one thing was clear:
They were not miserable.
From an outsider’s perspective, it would be easy to label their existence as poverty-stricken, yet that word felt completely out of place here. There were no signs of despair or suffering—instead, I saw pride, joy, and a strong sense of community.
This was their world, their culture, and all they had ever known—and they lived it with happiness and purpose.
The Western definition of poverty did not apply here. The Mundari were rich in the ways that mattered most to them—family, traditions, and the deep bond with their cattle and land.
Mundari Man with cow dung on his face and hair dyed yellow with cow urine
One of the elderly people I observed in camp
The Unique Traditions of Mundari Men: Scarification, Cow Dung, and Urine-Dyed Hair
As I observed the Mundari men, I noticed something striking—some were completely naked, while others wore bits and pieces of Western clothing, a reminder that even in this deeply traditional society, modern influences were creeping in.
But one thing was universal—every Mundari man and woman bore facial scarification, a rite of passage they received in their youth. The delicate yet bold scars were symbols of identity, strength, and adulthood, marking them as true members of their people.
Cow Dung Powder: Protection and Bonding
The Mundari men also had a fine white powder covering their faces and bodies. At first glance, it looked like baby powder, but it was actually cow dung ash, finely ground and carefully applied.
This was not just for aesthetics—it served three essential purposes:
✅ Sun Protection – The ash acted as a natural sunscreen, shielding their skin from the intense African sun.
✅ Insect Repellent – It helped keep mosquitoes and flies at bay, which is crucial in a region where malaria is a constant threat.
✅ Cattle Bonding – By covering themselves in cow dung, the men believed they smelled like their cattle, allowing them to earn the trust and affection of their herds.
Urine-Dyed Hair: A Symbol of Manhood
One of the most unusual and fascinating traditions was how many Mundari men dyed their hair a yellowish color.
This was not achieved with dye or chemicals—instead, they would place their heads directly in the urine stream of their cows. The chemical properties of the urine caused their hair to turn a pale yellow-orange, a look considered highly attractive and masculine.
To an outsider, these practices might seem bizarre or extreme, but to the Mundari, they were symbols of beauty, strength, and deep cultural significance.
Here, a man’s connection to his cattle was everything—and through scarification, dung ash, and urine-dyed hair, the Mundari reinforced their lifelong bond with their herds, ensuring that their traditions lived on.
Richard showing his photos to a family
Mundari Family
Mundari Woman
Mundari Woman
Mundari man proudly showing his child
Two flirtatious Mundari Women. who asked for repeated polaroid photos because they didn’t like the way they looked in the first ones I gave them.
The Universal Language of Vanity: Mundari Teenagers and the Perfect Photo
To prove that people are the same everywhere, no matter how remote, exotic, or culturally distinct their world may seem, I decided to take a Polaroid photo of a group of Mundari teenage girls.
When I handed them the freshly printed photo, they huddled together, examining it closely.
Then, with a mix of disapproval and amusement, they decided they didn’t like it.
One girl fussed over her hair, another was unhappy with her facial expression, and soon, they were gesturing for a retake—just like teenagers anywhere else in the world.
So, I obliged.
After a few repeated takes, with small adjustments in poses, smiles, and angles, they finally approved of a photo they were pleased with.
At that moment, it didn’t matter that we were in the heart of South Sudan, among a semi-nomadic cattle-herding tribe—these were just teenagers being teenagers, proving that vanity, self-awareness, and the desire to look good in a photo are universal.
Cattle Camp
The Heart of Mundari Life: A Visit to the Cattle Camp
Day 3: The highlight of any journey to the Mundari people is visiting their cattle camp, the sacred space where their prized Ankole-Watusi cattle are kept at night.
Here, the men and young boys sleep among the cows, acting as protectors against raiders, wild animals, and other threats. The cattle are not just livestock—they are the heartbeat of Mundari society, representing family, wealth, and status.
Cattle: The Currency of Life
For the Mundari, cows are far more than just animals—they are:
✅ Family: Raised, nurtured, and cared for with deep emotional bonds.
✅ Currency: Used for trade and dowries, often exchanged for brides in marriage arrangements.
✅ A Status Symbol: The more cattle a man owns, the wealthier and more respected he is.
Despite their deep connection to their cows, the Mundari rarely eat them. Instead, they rely on their cattle for:
🥛 Milk – A staple in their diet.
🧀 Cheese and yogurt – Fermented and consumed daily.
💰 Trade – Only old or unproductive cows are eventually sold for meat in the market.
An Incredible Sight: The Mundari and Their Cattle at Dawn & Dusk
To witness the true magic of a Mundari cattle camp, you need to visit either at sunrise or sunset—the only times when both people and cattle are gathered in the camp.
As the first light of dawn breaks, the scene is otherworldly:
☀️ Golden dust rising in the air, kicked up by the hooves of towering long-horned cattle.
🔥 Small fires smoldering, the smoke curling around the men and their herds.
👀 Mundari men standing among their cows, their bodies covered in white ash, blending into the misty haze of the morning.
It’s a beautiful, raw, and ancient ritual—one that perfectly encapsulates the essence of Mundari life.
In the Mundari universe, the cattle are everything—not just for survival, but for identity, pride, and tradition. To stand among them, even briefly, is to witness a way of life that has endured for centuries—a life where man and beast are inseparable.
Cattle Camp
Inside the Mundari Cattle Camp: A World of Smoke, Ash, and Tradition
The Mundari cattle camp is a place like no other—a sacred realm of men, boys, and their prized cattle, where women are absent, and centuries-old traditions thrive in their purest form.
A Brotherhood of Warriors and Herdsmen
Cattle camps are exclusively male spaces. Mundari men and boys dedicate their lives to protecting, nurturing, and worshipping their long-horned Ankole-Watusi cattle. Women remain in the villages, while the men and boys live, sleep, and breathe in the dust and smoke of the cattle camps.
One of the first things that strikes an outsider is the nudity. Most Mundari men and boys are completely naked, believing that clothing scares the cattle. Instead, they cover themselves in fine white ash, a ritual deeply tied to their identity.
Fires, Smoke, and the Ritual of Ash
The camp itself is a barren landscape, with little vegetation and an otherworldly atmosphere. The air is filled with the constant haze of smoke, rising from small fires scattered throughout the camp.
These fires serve a crucial purpose:
🔥 Smoke repels flies and mosquitoes, keeping the cattle and herdsmen free from biting insects.
🔥 Ash from the fires is rubbed onto the cattle, acting as a natural insect repellent and a healing salve for wounds.
🔥 Mundari men cover their bodies in ash, both for protection against the sun and as a way to smell like their cattle, further strengthening their bond.
A Living, Breathing Tradition
Life in the Mundari cattle camps is deeply spiritual and symbolic. Here, the bond between man and cow is absolute, built on trust, care, and ancestral tradition.
To step inside is to witness an ancient way of life, unchanged for centuries—a life where men, boys, and their sacred cattle exist in perfect harmony, surrounded by the dust, the fires, and the ever-present smoke of the Mundari world.
Burning cow dung to create smoke as an insect repellant
Cattle Camp
The Majestic Cattle of the Mundari: A Photographer’s Dream
The Mundari cattle are massive, their towering horns sharp and formidable—a striking symbol of power and prestige. As I moved through the cattle camp, I gave these imposing creatures the respect they deserved, careful not to get too close or startle them.
For the Mundari, these cows are not just livestock—they are family, wealth, and identity. Every Mundari man I photographed posed proudly beside his favorite cow, sometimes with an arm raised to mimic the horns, emphasizing the inseparable bond between man and beast.
The Cattle Camp at Sunrise: A Scene of Pure Magic
Visiting the Mundari cattle camp in the early morning was an experience that felt almost unreal.
☀️ The soft morning light cast a golden glow over the camp.
🌫️ Grey smoke from the smoldering fires hung low, creating a mystical haze.
🐂 Rows of colossal, long-horned cattle stood like statues in the morning mist.
⚔️ Mundari warriors, with their chalked-white bodies, stood tall beside their herds, their silhouettes blending into the dreamlike scene.
It was one of the most visually stunning, unforgettable travel moments of my life.
A Photographer’s Paradise
It was impossible to take a bad photo in the Mundari cattle camp. Every frame was a perfect composition of light, texture, and raw authenticity.
Some of these shots have become all-time favorites in my collection, and honestly—I’m just going to post a bunch here.
Cattle Camp
Naked Boy in Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
A Curious Mundari Tradition: Stimulating Milk Production By Blowing into a Cow’s Vagina
Among the many unique and deeply ingrained traditions of the Mundari, one of the most unusual practices I heard about—but did not personally witness—is the method used by young boys to stimulate milk production in cows that are not with calf.
Reportedly, Mundari boys place their mouths on the cow’s vagina and blow air into it. This practice is believed to mimic the natural stimulation of calving, encouraging the cow to produce more milk.
Though it may seem strange from an outsider’s perspective, this technique is simply part of the practical, intimate relationship that the Mundari people have with their cattle. In a cattle-based society, where cows are everything—livelihood, food, status, and culture—it makes sense that their knowledge of bovine behavior has led to practices that maximize milk production in any way possible.
It’s yet another reminder that in deeply traditional cultures, customs are shaped by necessity, and what may seem bizarre or unusual to outsiders is often deeply rooted in practical survival.
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Cattle Camp
Mundari Boy at Cattle Camp with Cow Dung on his Face
Mundari Boy Tending to His Cattle
The Wrestling Match that Nearly Broke Out into a Gun Battle
Scorching Heat and Warrior Wrestling: A Glimpse into Mundari Strength
The heat in South Sudan never relented. At night, it was hot and swampy, and by midday, it was downright unbearable—a suffocating, oppressive furnace that made every movement feel like a struggle.
By midday, there was little we could do except suffer through it—finding shade, drinking water, and distracting ourselves with a book as the hours crawled by. Meanwhile, the Mundari carried on unfazed, their bodies seemingly immune to the brutal temperatures.
Then, at the peak of the heat—1 PM—we received word that different Mundari clans were holding a wrestling match a few miles away.
Despite the blistering conditions, we had to see it.
A Warrior Spectacle in the Dust
Since there were no roads, we walked. The journey took us across parched, cracked earth, the heat rising in wavy mirages around us.
Finally, we arrived at a treeless dust bowl, where hundreds of Mundari men, women, and children had gathered—many of them armed with AK-47s slung casually over their shoulders.
At the center of the crowd, two enormously built Mundari warriors stood face-to-face, their bodies covered in a thin layer of white dung ash, making their muscles stand out against the earth-toned backdrop. Around their waists, they wore leopard-print cloths, adding to their intimidating presence.
A Mundari elder, wielding a giant wooden staff, stepped forward—the referee.
Then, the match began.
The two men grappled, taking turns hurling each other to the ground, their massive frames crashing into the dirt. A drumbeat rhythm echoed through the arena, dictating the pace of the fight, while the women joined in with ululating chants—a piercing, celebratory yodel that rang through the air.
The dust rose, the warriors fought, and the sun beat down mercilessly.
It was raw, primal, and electrifying—a timeless display of strength, endurance, and tradition, played out in one of the most inhospitable places on Earth.
Wrestling match
Wrestling match
Wrestling as a Mundari Rite of Honor—and an Unexpected Challenge
The Mundari may share a common culture, but they are divided into different clans, many of whom are locked in bitter rivalries. Cattle theft is common, and clashes between clans often turn deadly.
Wrestling is their way of settling disputes without bloodshed, allowing warriors from various clans to prove their strength, earn respect, and blow off steam in a traditional battle of honor.
When we arrived, the entire crowd—fighters and spectators alike—turned to look at us.
The fighters stopped mid-match, breaking from their intense struggle to greet us. I took the opportunity to snap a few portraits of the massive, ash-covered warriors, their muscles rippling under the harsh South Sudanese sun.
At first, most people seemed thrilled to have their photos taken.
Then, things shifted.
Tensions Rise
The referee, gripping his enormous staff, suddenly reprimanded the fighters, demanding they return to their match.
At the same time, some spectators turned against us, shouting in our direction.
Then, I felt a shove from behind.
A Mundari man had pushed me—not aggressively enough to knock me over, but hard enough to make his message clear:
We were distracting from the main event.
Knowing that any escalation could end badly, I didn’t react. Instead, I stepped away, blending back into the crowd, careful to stay out of the fighters’ way.
Then, just when I thought we were back to being mere observers, one of the enormous Mundari wrestlers stepped forward and pointed at me.
He was challenging me to a match.
The Ultimate Test—or an Easy Death?
The warrior was a mountain of muscle, his towering frame coated in white ash, his eyes gleaming with mischief and challenge.
Had I been a Mundari warrior, this would have been a moment of pride—an opportunity to prove my strength and courage in front of the entire tribe.
But I wasn’t a Mundari warrior.
I was a sweaty, exhausted foreigner in a dust bowl in the middle of South Sudan, staring at a man who could have folded me in half without breaking a sweat.
I politely declined with a nervous laugh.
The crowd roared with laughter, amused by my complete lack of confidence. Thankfully, the wrestler found my refusal entertaining rather than offensive, and the match continued without me getting humiliated—or worse, broken in half.
Lesson learned: Some traditions are better left to the professionals.
Friendly spectator who asked that I take a photo of him
female spectator with traditional tribal scarification on her forehead
In the dirt
Final takedown
Man with gun who seemed suspicions of us
A Close Call: When Wrestling Turns to War
After an hour of enduring the brutal midday sun, watching Mundari warriors battle in the dust, we decided it was time to head back to camp.
As we walked, dripping with sweat and exhaustion, we were about 20 minutes away from the wrestling match when suddenly—chaos erupted.
The War Drums Begin
Mundari men sprinted past us at full speed, their faces tense and urgent. Something wasn’t right.
We stopped someone to ask what was happening.
A fight had broken out at the match.
One of the fighters accused his opponent of an illegal move, and what had started as a ritualized test of strength had escalated into a full-blown clan dispute.
Two rival clans were now threatening to shoot each other.
When the Rifles Come Out, It’s Time to Leave
It quickly became clear that this wasn’t just empty posturing.
Many of the Mundari men were sprinting back to their huts—to grab their rifles.
In a land where AK-47s are as common as walking sticks, disputes rarely end in heated words or handshakes. Clashes between clans can turn deadly in seconds.
We didn’t stick around to see what would happen next.
If an all-out gunfight broke out, we would be caught in the middle of it—a scenario that could only end badly for us.
The Great Escape
Without hesitation, we turned and ran—sprinting back to our camp as fast as the sweltering heat allowed.
We didn’t stop until we reached our tents, where we frantically packed up our gear, knowing that we needed to get out of dodge immediately.
By the time we received word on what happened, the crisis had already fizzled out.
The men returned with their guns, ready to fight—but by then, the rival clan had already left.
For us, it was a stark reminder of how quickly the Mundari world could shift from celebration to chaos.
One moment, they were wrestling in a dust bowl, surrounded by cheering family and drumming women. The next, they were on the verge of a clan war, rifles in hand.
We had escaped the worst of it, but it left us with a lasting lesson—in South Sudan, violence is never far away, and when things turn, they turn fast.
Deciding to Stay Put: A Risky Night in Mundari Territory
Day 4/5: Back at camp, we seriously debated leaving that afternoon, knowing there was always a chance the rival clan could return to resume the fight. The thought of getting caught in the crossfire of a tribal conflict was unsettling, and for a while, we weighed our options.
But one factor made our decision for us—driving back to Juba in the dark was far too dangerous.
🚧 The roads were treacherous, deeply rutted dirt tracks that became nearly impassable at night.
⚠️ Armed bandits and rogue soldiers patrolled the countryside, and carjackings were common.
🔦 With no streetlights or infrastructure, visibility would be near zero.
Staying the night, despite the unpredictable clan tensions, was ultimately the safer choice.
The Long, Rough Drive Back to Juba
At first light, we packed up our gear, said our goodbyes to the Mundari, and set off on the grueling journey back to Juba.
The drive was as brutal as ever—hours of bouncing along a deeply potholed dirt highway, with dust clouds coating everything and police checkpoints demanding bribes along the way.
By mid-afternoon, we finally arrived back at the Juba Regency Hotel.
After spending days sleeping in the bush in suffocating heat, the hotel’s pool, air conditioning, and comfortable beds felt like absolute luxury.
A Boat Ride on the Nile: A Last Adventure in South Sudan
For our last day in Juba, we decided to take a boat trip down the Nile River—a rare chance to experience Africa’s most legendary waterway.
The ride offered a different perspective of Juba, with stretches of untamed wilderness, small riverside villages, and a few rusting, capsized boats, remnants of past conflicts or poorly executed ventures.
We had hoped to visit an island restaurant, a relatively well-known spot for expats and UN workers, but when we arrived, we found it completely closed—a fittingly unpredictable ending to an unpredictable trip.
As the sun set over the Nile, reflecting golden light on its muddy waters, we reflected on our time in one of the most wild, lawless, and fascinating places we had ever visited.
South Sudan had been hot, intense, unpredictable, and at times nerve-wracking—but it was also one of the most unique and immersive travel experiences of our lives.
Capsized boat on Nile
Departure from Juba: A Final Lesson in Bureaucratic Bribery
Leaving South Sudan was just as chaotic and frustrating as arriving.
The airport in Juba was a mess of confusion, inefficiency, and heat, with crowds of aid workers, missionaries, and United Nations personnel waiting for their flights. There were no other tourists.
Despite navigating the city’s corruption for days, we had one last hurdle to clear before leaving—our mandatory police registration.
Back when we first arrived in Juba, we had been unable to obtain our registration papers because the police chief was “out”—a classic bureaucratic excuse. Now, as we prepared to board our flight, we were informed that we couldn’t leave without paying for it—to the tune of $100 USD.
This was purely a bribe, nothing more. There was no argument to be made, no alternative. Pay or stay.
So, we paid.
Juba Airport: A Fittingly Makeshift Exit
The departure lounge was barely a lounge at all. Instead of a real terminal, we sat inside a tent, the heat pressing down as we waited for our flight.
For seats?
🧱 Cinder blocks with wooden slabs placed on top—a final reminder that South Sudan was a country still piecing itself together after years of conflict.
As the time came to board, I glanced around at the passengers waiting alongside us—a sea of UN staffers, NGO workers, and missionaries—people who had come to help, build, or bear witness to this war-torn nation.
Closing Thoughts
An Unfiltered Encounter with the Mundari: Before Tourism Changed Everything
Staying with the Mundari in 2017 was an authentic, unfiltered experience—one that felt truly raw and untouched. At the time, they were not on the main tourist circuit, and unlike many tribal encounters elsewhere, this was not a staged spectacle.
The Mundari had no idea we were coming. They did not alter their daily routine, nor did they dress up for photos, perform for the camera, or ask for money.
Instead, we were simply there, observing their world as it was—untouched, uncontrived, and as real as it gets.
We presented a donation to the chief, which would go toward the construction of water wells, but no payments were given to individuals. We shared our food, handed out Polaroid photos to children, and simply coexisted in their world for a few days.
The Inevitable Path to Commercialization
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from visiting tribal cultures, it’s that as soon as tourism takes hold, the experience begins to change.
The first travelers to visit a remote tribe often experience authentic interactions, but over time, as word spreads and more outsiders arrive, the dynamic shifts:
- Tribes begin expecting payments for photos.
- Rituals and daily routines become performances, catered to tourists rather than tradition.
- Locals, once indifferent to cameras, start dressing up in exaggerated attire to please visitors.
It’s not inherently bad—after all, tourism can bring economic opportunities to these communities—but it fundamentally alters the purity of the experience.
This will likely be the case with the Mundari, too. As South Sudan slowly opens up, adventure travelers will be drawn to the country in search of authentic tribal encounters.
South Sudan: The Final Frontier for Tribal Exploration
Despite the risks, South Sudan remains one of the last frontiers for those seeking genuine, untouched tribal cultures.
While the Mundari may eventually adapt to tourism, there are many more remote tribes across the country, some with little to no contact with the outside world.
As the country gradually stabilizes, more travelers will venture in—driven by the desire to witness a way of life that is rapidly vanishing in the modern era.
For now, South Sudan remains one of the most raw and challenging places on Earth to travel, but for those willing to take the risk, it offers a rare window into a world that may not exist in the same way for much longer.