On a sharp cool morning on a day that begins in the early hours, a bicycle moves.  Its gears slide and click through their motions, threatening to quit.  The bicycle’s rider wears a worn baseball hat, a t-shirt, and dress pants with holes around the ankles, and sneakers whose rubber soles flap open like tongues.  Perspiration beads on the rider’s neck and his body odor cuts the air.  A woman summons them with a look and, wordlessly, bicycle and rider slow to a stop.  Rider plants both feet on the ground and waits while woman loosens her wrap, lifts one leg over, rests her foot on the protruding piece of metal that it finds on the other side of the bicycle, and she settles onto a cushioned passenger seat of rough ripped leather.  Woman states her destination and bicycle grinds into motion:  the thin metal frame seems insufficient for her weight, but the gears lock into place and crank the wheels forward.  The pace is laborious; slowly, they make their way up and down gentle hills.  Bicycle, rider, and woman pass other bicycles, riders, and passengers, all having somewhat similar experiences with different flavors of home life still wafting through them on their commute.  Each 10-minute ride affords the rider a 300-kwacha fee, enough to buy one roasted ear of corn in the afternoon.