Slightly hungover

Have a mission this hot morning. I have to find a fat taxi driver with the local tabloid held in his left hand (and I'm told I'll know him by the smell of rotten peaches). So I get out of the hotel (concrete blocks, beige, stained carpets and slowly rotating ceiling fans decapitating stupid wasps the size of my thumb) onto the street before, even at shit o'clock in the morning rammed with tinned-dinner carrying chaps fucking off to work, so I get the impression of lots of backs of heads and shoulders, sweat-stained singlets, and rotoring bikes.

So I breathe in (because the smog of petrol fumes and dew isn't mixed and descended yet) and take a minute on the threshold.

And there he is, a wide little man with the generic moustache, standing by his fucked up taxi, newspaper in hand (self-consciously) and looking up and down the loud road until he spots me.

I do that embarrassed grunt of recognition and start towards him. He catches my eye, and with some gesture I don't quite get, makes me understand I should walk on.

So I do, and know he's tracking me as I walk by, and with raised (fat, thick black) eyebrows, lets me know someone across the street is watching me.