Marcel Biefer and Beat Zgraggen as self-performers, presenting their bodies as study objects of an imaginary ethnographic lens — less as postmodern than as post-catastrophic white savages, armed with digging sticks, naked but for various penis sheaths and simple jewellery, made not from gourd shells and cowrie shells but from tin cans and bottle caps, the most wretched index-fossils of our civilizational consumer epoch. With the desperate-absurd comedy of warners in a still-future suburban Kalahari between the motorway junctions north of Zürich, the artists stage a pseudo-objective ethnography of their own.