Banda Aceh, INDONESIA — Two slender young brothers have taken me in and offered me a welcome room in a small home in the higher ground of this devastated city. Before the tsunami, Patly, the eldest at 21, studied economics at the university here and hosted a rock-and-roll show. The younger, Norvrijal, 19, studied computer technology.

They are from a village several hours outside of Banda Aceh and have lost many family friends to the tsunami, including Rena, the pretty 18-year-old girlfriend of Norvrijal. Rena's picture is posted in the narrow front hallway of their house. Norvrijal says her face haunts his dreams.

But in this city, where whole families were wiped out by the raging water, I guess the brothers consider themselves among the fortunate. Their parents survived the tsunami, and live in their home village several hours outside of town. And the brothers still have each other.

They smile a lot, and laugh as well as they talk about their favorite rock group — Linkin Park — or their dreams of one day visiting America. But they let me know that it is the Indonesian way to smile, even when they cry inside. And whenever Norvrijal strays away on his motorbike for longer than expected, Patly gets nervous.

Their lives are in a kind of limbo now, as their university was destroyed by the waters that coursed deep into the heart of the city.

They have accustomed themselves to the new rules of the post-tsunami world, reminding me to hold my nose and close a car window as we pass the muddy morass that is the mass burial site and still receives new loads of bodies each day. The local newspaper reports that within the Banda Aceh province more than 79,000 people have died or are missing.

Even without venturing into the rubble of downtown, there are many other unusual sights. Australian soldiers in their green camouflage uniforms work just off a main boulevard, filling up jugs from large inflatable bags full of portable water and handing them out to a long line of people. Many of the displaced families cling to the remnants of a village structure as they set up tents and tarps on open plots of land around the city.

Amid such hardship, the spare bedroom the brothers offer me is a welcome refuge on this journey through Aceh province. I am grateful for their hospitality, since most of the hotels that existed before Dec. 26 were destroyed either by the earthquake or tidal waves or some combination of the two.

The brothers are part of a broader boom in improvised bed-and-breakfasts that have opened up here as aid workers and journalists converged on the city.

Their two-bedroom home is set along a rutted back street. It is just a short walk from a small stand where I can buy clumps of fresh bananas. And though they don't do croissants and coffee in the morning, this evening — much to my surprise — the brothers cooked up a savory curry dish that we heaped over rice.

Then we retreated to the front porch, where we are serenaded by the chirp of crickets, the parrot-like squawk of an Indonesian lizard and the sounds of many people crying out Allah o Akbar, God is Great, as they prepare for an upcoming Muslim holiday. — Hal Bernton