Wherever you go, there are doors to pass through. Portes de passage. I arrived early one morning and went on walkabout to take some pictures of the doors near the clinic where I work.
The local Roman Catholic church is made of brick with a portico and a sturdy door.
To call the faithful to prayer, there is no bell tower. Instead, the church official bashes on a wheel rim, hung from a tree, with a hammer.
Outside the police station there is an old container. It serves as a holding cell. It is said that when the door is closed, no prisoner is detained there. But it is like an oven in the heat, so the door has to be kept open so that any prisoner doesn’t cook. The container cell doesn’t have a toilet. I have heard it said that the prisoners all pass urine against one corner. The acid pee has rusted the metal allowing a prisoner to break out. But why would they do that when the door was open?
And finally, it is washing day and the sheets are on the line in the sunshine. Just to the right, the lady of the house is entering nurses accommodation, through a secure door.