Thingahangwi, Brandi and Hannes. From early morning on they have been digging, ripping the surface of the earth. This year it is going to be a long, deep hole. The work of Thingahangwi, Brandi and Hannes progresses steadily, scoop by scoop. Earth-clots keep smacking on the growing heap as their shirts become sweatier and heavier. The three of them would not pause until the hole is deep enough. Deep enough to absorb all this year's horror.

From early morning on people from all over the country keep coming. Obviously, it again is a massive crowd, an endless queue. Anyone who is next coolly steps forward and spits. Into the hole. Then turns. And heads home. This annual ceremony is a disgusting spectacle, a repeating, snotish rhythm, an unmistakable symphony of discontent. Even after long and exhausting hours, after the last spit is spit, nobody dares to look into the hole.

It is night already, they are all gone. All but Thingahangwi, Brandi and Hannes. They grab the shovels, refill the hole. Capping works so much faster than digging. The moon is lightening the scenario when they finally re-erect the gravestone. Colourfully written in chalk, it says: "Past. Rest in Peace."