I reach for my fag, ½ smoked from last night. That first drag clears the fogginess of sleep. I throw back the heavy acrylic blanket, head to the kitchen slowly as to not awaken anyone. Soon enough my son and another’s grandson will be stumbling into the kitchen, expecting their pot of steaming vary (rice). The apartment next door is quite still. It’s always been reserved for American Peace Corps volunteers. Nine different volunteers have lived next door since 1998. The current volunteer is a tall woman named Michelle. She seems nice enough, she’s often seen walking around town and at the various food markets. I wonder what it’s like for her to sleep and eat in the apartment all alone, how lonely.

I smell the cigarette smoke even before I open my eyes. I glance at my phone to check for messages. It’s 4:30 AM. No messages. Gawd that smoke. I sleep for another hour with a man’s cotton undershirt over my head to block the smell. As light emerges through the shutters I pull back the curtains, carefully prepare my morning coffee, then pump up my bike tires. Gleefully I wheel my government issued bike out the gate, waving good morning to the neighbor lady, Adeline.She is there everyday, standing at her kitchen window feeding the coal fire cooking vary for her grandson’s breakfast. At times some of her adult children live with her and the boy, leaving when they find short term work elsewhere. Somehow she isn’t irritated by the assumed roles of cook, washerwoman, and housekeeper placed upon her.

North of the Tsarasaotra neighborhood