Words by Tamsin Cunningham

Photographs by Johnny Saint Ours

Next to the foot of the chasm entrance to Tayos lies a small opening. A narrow fissure in the face of the rock that leads back into darkness. The fissure becomes an antechamber which in turn becomes a passageway just wide enough for a human body to pass along. Over the entrance to the passage tarantulas sit, as if guarding the threshold. As we move forward between the slick, silica-coated walls, the soft, water-logged silt of the ground sucks at each step, as if reluctant to concede each pace gained. The clinging mud shakes our balance, our hands instinctively raising to press against the walls on either side. But these are surfaces that must be touched with care; one misplaced reach for support could earn a stinging retribution from the whip scorpion spiders that crowd the rock-face.

This is a route in which the song of fear rings loudly in our ears. But if we venture past the threshold of fear we reach a space that confounds our expectations.

Where there was narrow restriction there is suddenly space. Where there were cracks and fissures to be wary of and shadows that cloaked risk, now there are curtains of creamy gold; rippling forms of rock that glint in the light. And where there was the closeness of the sound of our breath now there is a resonant space.

A space to be sung to and a space that sings back.

This is the first chamber of Tayos. A reminder that even in the places that our fear paints vividly there is sanctuary to be found.

This chamber was the setting for . These images capture the place and the process of recording Ecuadorian musician David Villagomez’s beautiful vocals and flute; a record of the echoing peace of this first chamber.