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In spite of the chaos of George Speight's armed coup, people in Suva are
trying to get on with their lives as best
they can. Reporter, Phil Thornton and photographer, Joe Yaya took a walk around
Suva and talked to local
people about how they're coping.
Packed buses and cautious car drivers squeeze slowly pass barbed wire,
steel-spiked road plates and heavily armed soldiers. Traffic seeps slowly into
downtown Suva.
Today's papers show the grieving wife of the policeman shot dead by Speight's
thugs. Sporting headlines
announce Fiji's national rugby team is to relocate to Samoa.
Schoolyards are quiet. Sporting fields are empty.
People hurry about their business keeping their heads down. The airport is
closed. Metal fittings in the burnt-out
shops lie heat-twisted and rusty.
Less than four weeks ago Suva's streets were packed with backpackers, tourists
and locals looking to be
entertained. People strolled around, throwing the big smiles Fiji is famous
for.
Small groups of contented friends leaned on corners, eating and chatting. Shoe-shine
boys hassled to clean shoes.
For the moment all that's a distant memory -- Fiji's relaxed atmosphere has
been scared underground and
replaced with scared glances and a rush for passports.
For many of the people trying to make a living selling their produce on the
street, it's getting difficult to make ends meet.
Newspaper seller Ridesh, 17, is doing it tough. Business is bad. He used to
sell 350 papers a day, now he's lucky to sell 150. 'It's crazy...there's nothing
I can do. It's become very unfriendly, I feel unsafe,' he says nervously.
Jone, 35, sells home made passion and orange juice at 20-cents a glass from
a large ice filled plastic container. His
stand is on the busy corner of Suva's main street, Victoria Parade. Jone says
if his business gets any worse he'll
find it tough to keep going.
'Business is a little bit down since the political problem. People are scared
to come to town. They shop, bank and
go home. I've got three kids --- five, three and 15 months --- to feed. I used
to earn $40 a day now I'm lucky if I
make more than $15.'
Feroz's butcher shop looks busy, but it's hard to work out who are the customers
from the security guards filling
the shop. People crowd over trays of red meat and poke pop-eyed frozen fish.
Feroz says the quicker the coup is
over the better.
'My beef and fish are all local, but I do have some products like lamb and spices that come from Australia.'
Raijieli and Mereelani claim to make Fiji's best pizzas. She says the first
week was the hardest and says, 'We now
close at 7.30. People are having to buy more takeaways and our busiest time
is between 5 and 7pm.'
Both women are keen to get back to a normal life. They dissolve into hearty
laughter as Raijieli tries to look on the
bright side.
'With this curfew the baby rate will go up,' she says laughing.
Outside the popular Village 6 cinema complex a group of shoeshine boys hang
about ignoring the hurrying
shoppers. According to Jone Sovata, 16, it's now only worth turning up for work
on Friday and Saturdays.
'There's no tourists,' he says with a bored yawn. 'It's slack. Early in the
week people won't stop. They just hurry
past. I usually get $8 to $9 now it's about $3.'
Fisherman, Pau, 40, is out at sea by 5am each morning. He works hard to catch
tuna and bonita's trawling from his
small fibre glass boat.
'Business is the same for us. People are still eating two, three times a day,'
says Pau.
But his wife, Sale, is kept busy trying to look after her four kids and selling
the fish from their stall at the fish
markets. Since the schools closed her kids have to go to work with her. Pau
and Sale sell a four-kilo bonita for
about $2 to $3.
On the narrow pavement just down from the fishmarket, Gerry and Sereana are
throwing chops on a sizzling b-b-q
plate. According to Sereana, the 8pm curfew has eaten into their trade.
'In the daytime people are still eating. We work as a co-op and it's hard making
a living at the best of time...if it
gets any slower it will be hard.'
Jina Brother's barbershop is a Suva institution. There's a queue of men waiting
for haircuts. Mr Jina says the first
two weeks of the coup were hard.
'People were frightened. I've been cutting hair for 46 years here and I didn't
think I'd see this happen. There's no
tourists and if it goes on it will be harder,' he says.
Anne's worked at the Suva Municipal Markets for 26 years and says people are
still spending. They come in and
we're running around trying to change their $20 and $50 notes. It's only happening
up at Parliament. We hear lots
of rumours. Fijians are fighting for their rights, but the Lord will decide
everything.'
Anne buys here dalo (taro), mandarins, coconuts and cabbages from farmers who
bring the produce into town and
resells it at the market. She says she's happy to leave the army, police and
Speight to sort out their problems.
'We're happy down here. People are still yarning, talking and shopping,' she
says smiling.
On the other side of the market from Anne, James is busy selling papaya at $1.80
a kilo.
'Business is not good. It's dropped to half. Before I was earning $150-$160
a week now I'm lucky if it's $70. I'm
worried. I think it will get worse.'
Tevita, 27, and Api, 40, are big men. They have to be. They work as security
guards outside a city busy restaurant.
Since the coup most businesses have guards. Tevita says it's busy time for people
in his profession.
'We have to be alert. We don't want windows broken, robberies or bad people
wandering in from the street. My
job is to protect against all that. I get paid $2.50 an hour - that's more than
double the average wage. This
trouble is not so good. I play rugby at the moment and all our club games are
called off.'
What's brewing?
The popular Suva's hang-out for ex-pats was the Republic of Cappucinno (ROC).
But the coup has forced most of
them to leave Suva and ROC owner, Linda says her coffee sales have been cut
in half.
'I usually go through about two-kilos of coffee a day, now it's one. We used
to stay open 'til 11pm, but since the
curfew we're closing at 5pm. I don't have my afternoon takings, so I've had
to let the afternoon shift go. Some
have found other work and some are just waiting 'til it's over.'
Linda says she - like most of Fiji - can't wait to get her normal life back.
© USP Journalism Programme
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