Kingston, Jamaica
Amara and Derek is sitting in the backseat of a taxi and taking in the cultural vibrancy of the Jamaican city through the windscreen.
"Are we not there yet?" Derek asked, they have been driving in circles and he was starting to become impatient; he knew that cab drivers in Kingston had a bad habit of taking unsuspecting tourists on long trips to increase their fares.
"Wi nearly there sah," the driver said, he had dreadlocks tied up in a shawl with the Jamaican flag colors consisting of green, black and yellow. His bloodshot eyes looked stoned as he wove through the traffic.
"Bumbowhole move dat junk of a cyar from di road, pussyclaat," he rained curses on a cab driver who had stopped abruptly to pick a passenger.
"That's what he's been saying for the past one hour," Amara said.
"You taking mi fi a ride?" Derek scolded.
"No mi nuh taking yuh fi a ride boss."
"So how long till we get to the restaurant?" Amara asked.
"Which restaurant?"