The city smells like diesel and dust, exactly as I expected it to.
As evening falls, I stand in my courtyard and watch the driver haggle over a small pile of fake Nokias that another man has brought in. I buy a phone. The guard stands a few feet from his motorbike, turns away, and performs ablutions. At ten minutes to eight, somewhere in this quartier of the city, the muezzin begins the call to prayer.