We are at a Southeast Asian coastal village. Everything is flooded and most seaside houses have collapsed sideways into their timber column supports. It is a disturbing image. The tsunami seems to have left everything in this permanent undignified position, kneeling at the face of the disaster, tossed around in a messy pile of soaked splintery timber, drowned bodies and mud. A canoe floats down the flooded main street of the village. The man in it looks peaceful, and his hands, not moving the slightest bit, are crossed at his chest, like a proud pharaoh. He is not alive anymore. Across the street, an injured dog is observing attentively the scene from the top of the roof of a former restaurant, until the canoe becomes a dot in the distance. “A dog should never bury its boss”, the dog thinks, “it is completely unnatural”.