“Transport?” We ask the shopkeeper. We’d just bought a rattan daybed and some new shelves.
“Carriage Man,” he says. “I call Carriage Man.’
Ah. But of course, Carriage Man.
The shopkeeper yells. An old guy shows up. They negotiate, agree on a price. We wonder how on earth everything will fit onto a taxi.
The old guy spends ten minutes tying up our stuff. Puts it on his back. Walks off. Our jaws drop.
Carriage Man. But of course.
