It is 4:30 p.m. in Yangon. The searing heat has subsided just enough to make it feasible to exercise outside. I exit my third-story downtown apartment into a staircase cloaked in darkness. With no electric power, a slither of daylight at the foot of the stairwell is all there is to guide me.
I run up my street. The noisy hum of electricity generators heaving toxic fumes fills my ears. They operate for hours every day, keeping a busy Muslim tea shop, computer stores and hairdressers open, but high fuel costs cut into earnings. When I moved in, there were no beggars on my street either. Now mothers sit adjacent to parked cars, clutching their sleeping children with one hand with the other held desperately aloft.
