Down in the street someone's calling out something with a steady rhythm: "Ilyaaa..., Ilyaaa," or something like that. I don't know what it means or what the man is selling, but it sounds lovely, that voice crying in the street. Something else I hear all the time is the sound of tapping on iron. At first I thought there was a coppersmith's workshop down in my street, but I've since discovered it's men selling bottled gas from their bicycles. There are no gas pipes in the houses here and most people cook with big canisters of butane fuel. The men who sell these metal canisters hit them with a wrench as they bike slowly through the streets. Ting ting ting. The competition is tough, because the tapping on the canisters begins early in the morning and goes on until late into the night. They wake me up all the time.