Curse of the cab

The citizens of Suva depend on cabs, but the drivers here in Fiji are anything but dependable.
For example, I was recently assigned to cover the closing ceremonies of Ghandi week at the Indian High Commission. The event, which began at 6:30 p.m., featured guest speakers and a documentary.
6:20 p.m.
Realizing I’m running late, I fly out the front door and flag the first taxi I see.
“Hi, I’m going to the Indian High Commission.” I say.
“Indian High Commission?” says the driver, who happens to be Indian.
“Yes. Do you know where that is?” I say. “If not, I’ll have to get another cab, because I’m already running late.”
The driver assures me that he does in fact know where the building is located, and off we go. But soon I can’t help but notice the confused look on my drivers face as he passes through intersections. Eventually we end up on the outskirts of the city and pull up to a large gated-compound. I pay the driver and get out of the cab. I approach the security booth and identify myself as a member of the press.
“This is the residence of the Indian Ambassador,” the guard informs me. “I think you got the wrong place.”
I curse my cab driver.
6:35 p.m.
I hail another cab, but before getting into the car I ask the driver if he knows where the Indian High Commission is. He tells me he does, but I notice a tinge uncertainty in his voice. We start to drive back towards town; however, it soon becomes apparent that he has no idea where he is going.
“Are you lost?” I ask him.
But instead of answering me he pulls up beside another cab and asks the drive for directions to the Indian High Commission.
Now I’m furious. My eyes are drawn to the dashboard, but they aren’t focusing on the meter which has been steadily adding up. Instead, I’m focusing on the clock.
6:45 p.m.
The driver turns around and drives in the opposite direction. Within a few minutes we pull up to another gated-compound. I give the driver half of the fare and tell him he’s lucky to get anything. Again, I get out, approach the security booth and flash my press pass.
“This is the residence of the Indian Ambassador, not the High Commission,” the guard informs me.
Yes, I was at the same building, only this time I was at the rear entrance.
Again, I curse my cab driver and wish he was still around so I could do more than just curse him. I ask the guard to get me the address for the High Commission, and he tells me where it’s located. I flag another cab – a simple feat in Suva – and tell the driver where I’m going.
7:00 p.m.
Finally, I arrive at the Indian High Commission, hoping I haven’t missed the guest speaker. I speed walk down the hall into the conference room. As I prepare to tip-toe into the room I notice that nobody is seated yet and there’s lots of noise – the ceremony hasn’t started yet! It’s running of Fiji time. Suddenly, I am thankful for the Island’s chronic lack of punctuality.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I take a seat and pull out my notepad. Within a few minutes the opening speaker takes the stage and starts talking…in Hindi.
I find the media relations officer and learn that the entire ceremony will be all Hindi. I pack up my stuff and exit the building.
7:30 p.m.
Not wanting to step foot in another cab, I decide to walk home.
Just another day working as a journalist in Suva.