We trundle along at a leisurely pace. The pure indulgence of travelling comes to mind. My eye is a camera. Each blink could be a shot in the unfamiliar surroundings. We pass a street vendor grating sugar cane and then a funeral procession of taxis decorated with blazing gold and scarlet 'good luck' emblems.
Pink ribbons wave from all the doors.
The mourners are dressed in Western clothes and carry clumps of gladioli. I turn from time to time to see my driver's brown knees rising and falling in a measured, carefree rhythm. He is an old man, with a noble lined and beaming face. I sign his book, pay and say goodbye. The local spelling of Talipon for telephone, Bas sekolal for school bus and Buk for book also brings a smile.