On a park ground above the city, tiny triangular tents house the homeless. Tattered sheets of blue plastic serve as roof covers on makeshift hovels to protect the inhabitants from a hot orange sun. The rainy season is only two months away. In a mild aftershock, the earth begins to rumble under a visitor's feet as she admires a parrot at market. The queasy fear that dominates for a lengthy 30 seconds passes.
Business goes on as usual.
Only an adolescent girl, who looks to be mentally retarded, is upset. She shrieks long after the rumbling subsides, expressing a fear and trembling. Her mother holds her close, wipes away her tears, speaking softly, telling her the earthquake has passed, but she is inconsolable. It's as though her wailing, a solo dirge of despair, encompasses the pain everyone feels, but dares not speak. A few doors away a handmade sign hangs on a crumbling wall announcing a quake-torn house for sale.