Les gardiens, 2025

Stéphane Foucaud   New & remarkable Artists

To get permission for a camping trip, supposedly just girls, 160 kilometers from the capital Nouméa, we had to answer a parental interrogation worthy of the Gestapo. Everything ultimately rested on the presence of Wamané, who was educated in the "tribal" way: it was accepted by all that any transgression against the family would result in a proper "astiquage" (caning) in front of the other community members. She stood firm but expressed her discomfort to the group on the high school benches: "I don't like your ways, you petrels (a seabird whose cry resembles that of an infant)!"

The parental deal required Myriam's mother as our driver. Dropped off at sunset at a fake spot near the real one the boys had prepared, we felt a few palpitations when our taxiwoman's attention lingered on the "Toum! Toum!" audible from the neighboring beach, partially hidden by a pierced cliff. The males were testing the sound system for our wild rave party. Finishing the cramming for the baccalauréat certainly deserved a complete release.

Walking along the seaside to reach our DJs, we spotted a silhouette on the dark waves that was neither clearly zoomorphic nor anthropomorphic, speeding incredibly fast aboard a traditional canoe. This reawakened Wamané's protocol and cultural fears: "Do you know if the boys warned the coastal tribe? Especially if we make noise, it's safer to ask the elders to appease the spirits of the place," she worried. I think she got her answer upon seeing the band of tipsy boys, who hadn't set up any tents, but had taken good care to place the beer coolers under the trees, out of the sun.

Anthony, the sleeping arrangement manager, announced we'd have to squeeze in a bit because he'd "forgotten" half the gear meant for the girls. "Whaaat! You let that pervert handle that! Another one of his bonding techniques... I'm warning you, I'd rather sleep under the stars!" Wama exclaimed indignantly. "Me too! Unless there's room in Jérôme's sleeping bag," Djoddie added. We burst out laughing, as he was her "crush." Meanwhile, the famous Jéjé offered us some ecstasy pills pulled from his pocket. Among the blue ones, a pink pill, shaped like a Superman shield, caught my attention. "Well, don't complain later if we're tempted again to film the gentleman naked with his bath towel as a cape, like last time. Social media is waiting for a new episode, hahaha!" I concluded sarcastically. "Are you serious? No way, sis! We don't want to see that!" Myriam chimed in.

Just as the party was in full swing, in the middle of the night, Djoddie interrupted her high, caused by a "blue sweet." While she was swimming in the sand with hallucinatory energy, she pointed at the sea and called out to us: "Hey! The ninja turtle in a canoe just passed!" After three seconds of doubt marked by a long silence, we burst into laughter again, our actress auditioning for "Baywatch" being far from reliable. However, all the girls rushed to throw their belongings into the boys' tents, just in case. I followed Wamané. Armed with her flashlight, she wanted to check the truth of Djoddie's claims. Like two scared kids, we scanned the bay with our beam, and just as Wamané, weary of the effort, turned off her light, we flinched at the sight of a canoe beached on the sand and bolted toward the ravers.

It was impossible to tell our misadventure to high schoolers whose state was already beyond the realm of reality. Suddenly, a tent jumped around us, as if it housed a kangaroo in a trance. Convinced of the presence of a disturbing entity, we ran to lock ourselves in one of the group's cars. The idea of starting it to flee crossed our minds. However, we would have had to abandon our friends, at the mercy of both a supernatural being and the serotonin release now operating in their brains fueled by the magic pill. Their tenfold energy triggered multiple incidents. One of the "superheroes," mistaking himself for the "human torch," jumped into the campfire. Myriam amazed us with the speed of her rescue: exiting the vehicle, she rushed the illuminated one and covered him ilico with a blanket. Djoddie was screaming with her feet in the water to bring Antony back to his senses: he was swimming dangerously far out, believing he was heading toward an imaginary islet.

Suddenly, Wamané, bent over a hole in the sand, exclaimed, "I got it!" Recalling her grandmother's teachings to invoke the protective spirits of a taboo place, she had inspected the beach and found the reason for all this wild frenzy. The pervert Antony had stolen a turtle's offspring from its nest ahead of schedule: he wanted to prevent the municipality from closing the beach for the laying season. We quickly started searching for the stolen eggs to put them back. Fortunately, the culprit's bag, adorned with two patches depicting pin-ups with oversized breasts, quickly caught our eye. We found the kidnapped turtle eggs inside.

The moment the future juveniles were returned to their nest, the campfire went out, as did the spotlights and the techno music, as if an invisible force had blown over this unbridled campsite to end the chaos. At dusk, the mysterious canoe brought back our half-groggy swimming champion. Once the effects of the amphetamine and mescaline wore off, Wama gathered the group to explain the next steps: "We will go, accompanied by my family, to perform a reparatory custom (exchange of fabrics and words) with the sea clan to wash away the offense we committed against the guardian spirits of the place." "What!? I cut her off, there were several of them too!?" "We all have one watching over us," she explained, "even if Antony's is on sick leave."