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  • Out of Maeva district, we followed to the shore a little girl who was selling these donuts we call firi firi. The old wooden bridge had long since rotten away. It didn't exist anymore. So, to get across, she asked those of Motu Keisha, as they are known.
    An eleven-year-old boy came in a small boat. His name was Arthur. Like the King of Legend. His Tahitian name is Poé Hei, which means Crown of Pearls. He really was the king of this little domain.
    The child took us on a tour of his kingdom. A kingdom of children, of men and women, and of a pack of dogs.
    On the strange little sandy beach, there were outrigger canoes and old, stranded dinghies.
    The tiny island had been cleared of its akeisha trees. The palaces were built out of reclaimed planks and corrugated iron. The clothes were drying on lines, next to the fishing nets.
    This society of children is a society of fishermen.
    "You know, I was told, between us and our dignity, there is nothing other than an eviction notice. So, you know, we burnt that paper."
    And the sky suddenly caught fire above Tata'a Hill, home of the disembodied souls, where the stones of death still lie, alongside the stones of life.
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