23
The old wrinkle-faced taxi driver was getting her twenty-four passengers out of her tricycle rickshaw in great haste, in her eagerness to take on the custom of the Western man who was beckoning her; and hopefully for a bountiful overpayment for her service, as typically happened with the naïve Western traveller. Unloading her four wooden crates of clucking chickens down beside the vendor sitting cross-legged beside the brazier, with its spit turning another doomed bird over in the flames, she took payment with one hand from the man, whilst tugging Sheldon Myers’ sleeve with her other hand, to usher him into her proud yellow-painted taxi.
A frantic farewell of wildly flapping wings, the wind disturbance flapping the woman’s black silken suit trouser legs, and she was up in the tricycle
