The war god sits in an altar between two pots of incense, silhouetted by red light. His painted black brows remain arched, driving invaders away from this Punti walled village for centuries. Despite his angry demeanor, he is a modest fellow who does not really fancy flashes of the camera. But we snap consecutive pictures anyways. At the first doorway we encounter, a solitary pair of pink rubber sandals lingers by a small plastic chair. Some of the paths lead to empty sheds. Perhaps they house ghosts.
The signpost at the entrance quietly speaks of its iron gates, supposedly stolen when the villagers rebelled against British colonial rule. Although one of them was dutifully returned, the other mysteriously found its way to Ireland. Like its gates, the inhabitants of this village seem to already know much about traveling—they do not stare at the tourists much. Without casting a single glance at us, a small boy dashes headlong into a beaten alleyway, his eyes on his iPhone screen the entire time.