After lunch, the main meal in the camp, the day seems to drag endlessly toward dusk, when families gather and talk around flickering candles or oil lanterns. Night is eight black hours of crying babies, hacking coughs and fitful, nightmare sleep. Awake and busy The first order of business here, just as it is everywhere, is a trip to the bathroom. Water from spigots is rarely warm. But a cold sponge bath is better than nothing.
All attention turns to breakfast.
Maybe some jam. A few old men splurge, buying a finger of morning brandy at the cafe just outside the compound. Meanwhile, the women in camp set to work sweeping mud floors and laundering the only change of clothes most refugees have. As the morning rain continues to mist, the old women with hand-thatched brooms push water around in puddles outside the tent. Even though the ground has soaked up every drop it will take, they spend hours trying to keep the water away from the flaps of their canvas homes.