Tales from Suva's worst neighbourhood

An unexpected part of my overseas adventure was inadvertently moving to the dodgiest neighbourhood in the whole country.  Thanks to the brilliant work of my In-Country Manager (the man whose job it is to make sure this doesn't happen) I now have a colourful collection of stories to share with you. 

If you know me at all in real life, you've probably heard enough of me talking about it, so I thought I would mix it up and share my tales of woe in the gentle Japanese art of haiku. 

Disclaimer: I suck at haiku.




Fortunately, I make up for it with my gazelle-like grace



So here you have it - my ghetto haiku, told in chronological order:



Leave for work, morning

Drunk follows me down the street

I CAN run in heels

 ...

Big night out, home late

Dammit, I’ve locked myself out

Guys yelling at me

 ...

Relax in the bath

Look out the window, surprise

Men's clothes everywhere

...

 Walk past mangy dogs
One hates me, run for my life
Is there rabies here?

...

Waiting for taxi

Cars drive slowly beside me

Chose the wrong outfit

...
Taxi with Helga

She yells, "Where are the brothels?!"

Turns out, everywhere

...

On my way to work,

Man takes a wizz on the street

Dude, I see your wang

...

Work out at the gym

Get home, water main’s kaput

Go to bed sweaty

Hello Joe: beware the taxi driver!

Moving countries can be a shock to the system, especially where it’s somewhere where you can’t just blend into the crowd.  As someone who generally prefers not to stand out, it can be a bit of a challenge.  I have to admit though that I have never been so attractive in my life, even if it MAY not be for the reasons I’d like. It’s a weird feeling getting stared at and/or hit on every day.

 

but who could blame them?

It can certainly be a little too much to handle.  My flatmate received 2 marriage proposals in a single week (I'm still waiting, for some reason).  I did get accosted leaving my house at 7:30am on Tuesday by a drunk guy who followed me down the street, and had my butt grabbed by a homeless lady, so I feel I'm on track to catch up. 

A few weeks ago I was at work, and happened to pass a window at the wrong time, leading a passer-by to knock on the door and ask to see the “European Lady”. When my thankfully cynical workmate asked if he knew me he said we went to the same church (ahem) and his name was Joseph. In honour of this prince, I now call all dodgy guys “Joe”. 

The most common profession for these Joes is driving taxis (not so different from home really). Their antics range from the creepy, like one taxi driver telling me I smelt nice and staring at me in the rear vision mirror, to the hilarious, like the only man in our group getting hit on by the (male) taxi driver. Admittedly, the last one is hilarious mostly because it happened to someone else.

Taxi drivers can be dodgy in other ways as well.  We had one gentleman decide that he needed to spit RIGHT NOW so opened his door, bent right down below the wheel and spat on the road, all while hurtling at top speed towards a busy intersection. 

Fortunately I have found a phrase that solves, or at least helps, these taxi-related dilemmas: “How about those Flying Fijians”!