The morning market in Ambalavao
Every morning, before reaching the mairie, Wesley passes through the market. He doesn't stop to browse. He knows what he wants: fruit — mango if there is any, banana if not —, bread and something salty for later. The regular vendor already has his order ready when she sees him cross the first row of stalls. They don't need to talk. She sets the fruit aside, he pays exact, nods, and keeps walking.
The morning market in Ambalavao spreads across a packed-earth square between the national highway RN7 and the first silk workshops. By seven there's already movement: open rice sacks with an aluminum ladle resting on top, stacks of tomatoes that flatten in the heat before midday, charcoal in raffia bags, spices in conical mounds that the highland breeze shifts just enough for the aroma to drift two stalls further. The smell is what Wesley monitors. If the charcoal stall is lit early — sometimes vendors warm coffee for the first customers —, Wesley adjusts his route and passes the textile side, where the air smells of plant dye and untreated cotton. Nothing strong. Nothing to crowd his head before reaching the office.
