In the Ecuadorian Amazon, deep within the province of Pastaza near the town of Puyo, the Waorani people live in profound connection with the rainforest — one of the last untouched regions of the greater Amazon basin.

Life here moves with the flow of rivers and the breath of trees. Homes are built on stilts with palm and wood, open to the forest’s sounds and silences. Children run barefoot, learning not from books but from the land itself: from birdcalls, fire, rain, and the quiet lessons passed between generations.

For the Waorani, the Amazon is not wilderness — it is home, teacher, and memory. In their gestures and stillness lies a fragile, vital truth: to live with the forest is not to conquer it, but to belong to it.

Tirta Empul, the sacred spring temple in Bali, has been a place of purification for centuries. Worshippers believe that the water flowing from its fountains has the power to cleanse both body and spirit. Every day, men, women, and children immerse themselves beneath the spouts to wash away negativity, illness, and misfortune, following a ritual unchanged for generations.

At the edge of the pool, I meet Dewi, an Indonesian woman in her forties. She does not join the ritual: instead, she sits with a diary on her lap and sketches. With quick strokes, she captures the faces of pilgrims who, one after another, bow beneath the sacred water.

Her pages become a parallel record: not faith experienced, but faith observed. A different way of preserving the memory of a place where spirituality, tradition, and daily life are deeply intertwined.

In the far north of Colombia, where the Caribbean Sea meets endless dunes, lies the desert of La Guajira. It is one of the country’s harshest landscapes, home to the indigenous Wayuu people.

Here, children grow up surrounded by sand and wind. Along the dusty roads, they often stop passing cars, asking for water or candy — small gifts that light up their day. To reach school, they travel long distances in minibuses that cross the desert, sometimes interrupted by sudden rains that turn the dry land into mud.

Yet, in their eyes shines a light stronger than the sun above them: simplicity, innocence, and resilience that reveal both the fragility and the beauty of life in the desert.

In the heart of the Colombian rainforest, a small community of seventy people preserves ancient traditions and strict rules. The village chief told me that only boys — about thirty children — are allowed to attend the local school.

Girls, on the other hand, never sit in a classroom. From an early age, they are drawn into domestic life: collecting coca leaves, cooking, maintaining the huts, and caring for their younger siblings. Childhood is intertwined with daily labor, binding them to the responsibilities of the community.

This photo series portrays their faces, gestures, and silences — an interrupted childhood that reveals both the fragility and resilience of a world caught between tradition and the future.