His yellow taxi is parked in its usual spot between my apartment and the hotel next door. In the alcove where one building ends and the other begins, he unrolls his prayer mat and places it over the cigarette-strewn cement. He angles it towards the Blockbuster video on the other side of our mega-road, and loses himself in prayer.

I pass him on my way into the apartment, his lips moving in silence and eyes half closed.

If you ever ask him if heís been to Mecca, his expression will …