Climbing the steps to ground level, I saw the afternoon's business written on the street in discarded packaging. A street deliberately narrowed to make more walking space and less room for traffic. The smells of roasting meat and candy floss, though I saw none of the latter. The smells of incense and fruit. The sound of English spoken in every hopeless patois from Vancouver to Vladivotock via Vasei. The sound of music in as many dialects.