The earth of Olompali, defiled now by foreign hands, is still as pure as the day that we left it. Our villages are gone, and our people who lived there. 

Our arrows are scattered, our bows are broken. The Creek is dammed, and our ways forgotten. But it will not be that way.

From the words planted here, there will be reaped a harvest of memories, of a people who died but will not be forgotten. For the Olom-ko, the 

People of Olom-kocha, land of our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers, back to the beginning of time, when the creatures 

of the earth were young and the world was just created.

Listen to our story...