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Kridy During the day, I had to move out from the house of Monsieur Emma, \u200b\u200bvery busy with all parentame to move from Madame Alice, who was also the hostess FIZAM. Adapting to this new system required some effort. Not just because the fleas have moved with me. Not only because, in addition to them, I shared a room with hungry rats of sleep apnea who were in the bags of rice stacked right at the foot of the bed. But because that Madame Alice, sweetest person to which I have come to get attached, as well as its 5, tender and ever-present children, is not a house. If there is some truth in that "home and puteca" is this. Madame Alice lives upstairs in the house. I, in the workshop. My bed is in fact placed in his shop, grocery store say, overlooking the main street of the village. So, from early in the morning and throughout the day, there is a procession of customers who come knocking, and who wants a piece of soap, another a cigarette, some 200 Ariary oil. And if you need to buy early, very early start to do it just to have an excuse to throw the eye. Because inside, protected by a translucent curtain crochet, I'm here. I hear them speak. The adorable children of Madame Alice, sitting in the doorway as sphinxes guarding the cave, they say: "Softly, softly, that the c'abbiamo vazaha. And the customers, those shy, I throw in my head: "Akory abi." Those intrepid enter all your inside and sit down, as if nothing had happened. They want to speak English. Even if you are, put the case, asleep. Goodbye nap, farewell readings, silent goodbye, goodbye privacy. Performed as a rare animal that spends his time smoking and writing, I begin to regret the almost apocalyptic prayers of three evangelical pastors. I fall into a state of psychological harassment, exacerbated by the chaos by days of celebration that the normally quiet Ambohimahamasina dazes. Besieged in my trap, I dare to come out when I find people everywhere: the streets are transformed into open-air latrines, should kill chickens and roasted coffee, the smell of rum stinks, the child cries, the music does not stop even a moment. In short, a little nightmare. Which, fortunately, now, Friday, Aug. 7, is over. The mice were, but I myself am gone. In peace, and with all my fleas. Madame Alice told me that fail, that life without me go back to being quiet. I know it will be quiet for me, life, away from his house. Too bad, now that he had begun to take by the throat, with enjoy-enjoy home-made, a cake of rice flour with bananas and peanuts! I'll be back, Madame Alice ... in the end, even got used to the mouse c'avevo!