'Only money'

"Taxi, sir?" a man's voice behind me said.
I'd just left the Villaggio, a garish mall complete with Venice-like canals and gondolas. It belongs in Vegas.
The driver was Indian, like many of the low-paid workers here.
He was a sight for sore feet (so to speak). It was almost midnight and I'd dragged myself through the sprawling mall for more than two hours.
Cabbies in Doha usual wear a uniform or are otherwise smartly turned out.
This man, looking to be in his early 40s, was dressed plainly and clearly wasn't a regular taxi driver. He was just trying to earn some cash.
I accepted his offer. We walked to his "cab", a beat-up sedan with a front passenger seat that refused to go back.
"Where are you from, sir?" he asked as he drove me home.
"Canada. Where are you from?"
"India."
I'd never heard of the city or town or village that he named, but it was somewhere in the south.
"Very beautiful," he told me. "Very green there, sir."
"Not like here," I said, making conversation. "Just brown."
"Here," he said, "is only money."