I woke up today for another Sunday in Fiji. In Suva the city pretty much shuts down for the Sabbath. Shops and restaurants close, and most people go to church and then spend the remainder of the day at home with family. Even the fields that are normally swarming with rugby and soccer pick-up games are eerily quiet. Needless to say I’m not a big fan of Sundays here. I can’t get food at the market because it’s closed, I can’t even have a couple of beers because it’s illegal to sell alcohol on Sunday, not to mention locating a soccer game is more difficult than finding the Lost Ark.
Still suffering from a debilitating case of early risers’ syndrome, I awake before my roommate and instantly find myself dying of boredom. With my mom set to visit in two weeks I decide I better get to at least one mass before she arrives (Hell hath no fury like a Catholic mother scorned). I get dressed and set out on my mission to honour the 3rd and 4th commandments (observe the Sabbath and honour your mother and father).
Upon stepping outside I notice my neighbour’s newspaper and am briefly tempted to break the 7th commandment (thou shall not steal). I decide against it and head to mass with all commandments in tact thus far. I travel to the city’s cathedral using my preferred means of transportation: my feet. I like walking; I’m new to the country, and it gives me a chance to take in the scenery.
But then it starts.
I step out the gate and hear the first honk.
No, the honk isn’t from a friend who recognizes me, nor is it from a car full of bikini-clad girls wanting my attention. The source of the honk is always the same: a taxi. Surprising as it may seem, laidback Fiji is home to the world’s most aggressive cab drivers.
I can’t walk down the street without getting honked at by every single vacant cab that passes – and one out of two vehicles on the Suva streets seems to be a taxi.
Initially I would respond to these unwanted advances by waving the driver away or saying “no thanks”. But my wise travelling companion tells me to not even respond to the unsolicited honks or else I will lose my voice saying no or throw out my shoulder waving them off. And it should be mentioned that Suva’s 350,000 citizens aren’t victimized by the honks – this special treatment is reserved for tourists and foreigners.
Being a tall, white male roaming the town with an orange-headed sidekick, I am a prime target. Wherever I go I can feel myself being silently stalked by fare-hungry cabbies. The suspenseful music from Jaws would be appropriate for the situation as the taxi slowly creeps up and the driver stares at me like a piece of meat, salivating at the potential fare.
I can’t help but draw a parallel to what life must be like to be an attractive girl back home. Females walking down the streets of London – and any city for that matter – are often honked and hollered at. I’ve seen it a million times. Sometimes when I’m on the phone with my girlfriend, while she is walking somewhere, I can hear car horns blaring in the background. And, I must admit, in my more childish days I have even partaken the chauvinistic activity.
Now, having been in Suva for one month, I’m starting to get really annoyed by the honks. If I wanted a cab I would stick my hand out and hail one. Do these drivers think that the white man can’t walk? Or perhaps they can somehow tell that I have the ankles of a 92-year-old woman with advanced osteoporosis.
So here I am on a serene Sunday taking an early morning stroll down to the cathedral. The streets are nearly deserted, and I still can’t get any peace because I’m being bombarded by taxis trying to lure me into their backseats.
Realizing there’s no commandment forbidding me from telling taxi drivers to fuck off, I contemplate it but realize it wouldn’t do any good.
So I do the same thing all the girls back in Canada do: I keep walking with my eyes straight ahead and pretend I just don’t hear the advances.
Still suffering from a debilitating case of early risers’ syndrome, I awake before my roommate and instantly find myself dying of boredom. With my mom set to visit in two weeks I decide I better get to at least one mass before she arrives (Hell hath no fury like a Catholic mother scorned). I get dressed and set out on my mission to honour the 3rd and 4th commandments (observe the Sabbath and honour your mother and father).
Upon stepping outside I notice my neighbour’s newspaper and am briefly tempted to break the 7th commandment (thou shall not steal). I decide against it and head to mass with all commandments in tact thus far. I travel to the city’s cathedral using my preferred means of transportation: my feet. I like walking; I’m new to the country, and it gives me a chance to take in the scenery.
But then it starts.
I step out the gate and hear the first honk.
No, the honk isn’t from a friend who recognizes me, nor is it from a car full of bikini-clad girls wanting my attention. The source of the honk is always the same: a taxi. Surprising as it may seem, laidback Fiji is home to the world’s most aggressive cab drivers.
I can’t walk down the street without getting honked at by every single vacant cab that passes – and one out of two vehicles on the Suva streets seems to be a taxi.
Initially I would respond to these unwanted advances by waving the driver away or saying “no thanks”. But my wise travelling companion tells me to not even respond to the unsolicited honks or else I will lose my voice saying no or throw out my shoulder waving them off. And it should be mentioned that Suva’s 350,000 citizens aren’t victimized by the honks – this special treatment is reserved for tourists and foreigners.
Being a tall, white male roaming the town with an orange-headed sidekick, I am a prime target. Wherever I go I can feel myself being silently stalked by fare-hungry cabbies. The suspenseful music from Jaws would be appropriate for the situation as the taxi slowly creeps up and the driver stares at me like a piece of meat, salivating at the potential fare.
I can’t help but draw a parallel to what life must be like to be an attractive girl back home. Females walking down the streets of London – and any city for that matter – are often honked and hollered at. I’ve seen it a million times. Sometimes when I’m on the phone with my girlfriend, while she is walking somewhere, I can hear car horns blaring in the background. And, I must admit, in my more childish days I have even partaken the chauvinistic activity.
Now, having been in Suva for one month, I’m starting to get really annoyed by the honks. If I wanted a cab I would stick my hand out and hail one. Do these drivers think that the white man can’t walk? Or perhaps they can somehow tell that I have the ankles of a 92-year-old woman with advanced osteoporosis.
So here I am on a serene Sunday taking an early morning stroll down to the cathedral. The streets are nearly deserted, and I still can’t get any peace because I’m being bombarded by taxis trying to lure me into their backseats.
Realizing there’s no commandment forbidding me from telling taxi drivers to fuck off, I contemplate it but realize it wouldn’t do any good.
So I do the same thing all the girls back in Canada do: I keep walking with my eyes straight ahead and pretend I just don’t hear the advances.
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