My head is full of streams of thoughts about the disappearing island life and cultural genocides. I slowly fade into a deep, dreamful sleep. Responsibility and powerlessness fight their endless game.

Endlessly they play the water with their hands, they slap and hit, they play and laugh. All day, in the shadow of the big trees, in the river or the ocean or where the two meat.

With a head full of thoughts about missionaries and sinners I find the way to my hammock. My belly is once again full with grey juice and some maniok. Sleep envelops me soon after I lie down. No dreams come to me on this night. Only heavy ideas and a deep satisfaction...

Every night the people of Vanuatu indulge in a ritual, they give themselves into the hands of a numbing root that grows up in the mountainous regions. Silently they drink the grey juice and connect with the sprits of the bush, their ancestors.

A children’s song heard in Musina Village on Vanua Lava.

5 weeks I spent on an island called GAUA. A wild, strong, spiritual island. It became home. This is a DREAM.

هستی Back

Enough with goodness and niceness and everything sweet give me salt, give me ash, give me sand in my teeth dirt on my feet blood on my tongue life in my meat.

After having spent Christmas morning in the Anglican Church of Aver my thoughts are circling around the churches influence on the people here. Somehow I can only see the negative side and it leaves a lingering sadness on my tongue that doesn’t want to vanish. Part two.

On a sunny morning the community of Bravet kill a big, white cow to sell the meat. Very colourful meat.