A Saturday afternoon in Supenaam: Taxi rank drivers kick up clouds of dust as they scuffle for prime position behind the wire-mesh fencing. Words - “Mistress, mistress”, “Chiney, Chiney”, “Psst, Psst”, “Fine man”, "Red" - the melee of sound an attempt to lasso disembarking ferry-passengers as they pass through the ticket collection point. A short middle-aged man, dark-haired and Chinese in appearance, steps through the open gate and disappears into the throng. In the haze of dust and heat, Fat Boy shouts: “Come Chiney, mi taxi is over dere. I gut t’ree banna already. We ready tuh go.” He is holding one of the three heavy bags that the passenger had been carrying. Moments later and Sense-man is walking in the opposite direction. 'Chiney' twists round. “Hey”, he shouts. But it is too late. Sense-man has gone off with the remaining two bags.
Confused, he returns to Fat Boy: “Bring mi bag.”
“No man, duh bag is in mi car. Is he mus’ bring yuh bags!”
But ‘Chiney’ isn’t having it. He grabs his bag from Fat Boy’s car. Holds it at chest height, in both hands, and runs toward the other driver. With all three suitcases now safely stowed in the boot of Sense-man’s car, ‘Chiney’ breathes a sigh of relief. “Leh we go man”, he tells the driver. But as Sense-man makes clear, they aren’t going anywhere: “Is wha’ yuh mean? I guts to get t’ree more passenger.” ‘Chiney’ scratches his head. Barely audible words break through his clenched teeth: "sk...nt", "mudda", "lawd". Rasta strolls by with his mobile CD/DVD stall. The latter sings along to the track he’s playing: “She’s my wife, I’m gonna love her.” 'Chiney' begins to relax. Waits patiently as beads of sweat pool on his forehead, meander down his pock-marked face.
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