I am Joining the Fijian Police

I am joining the Fijian Police. Not only are they in good with the latest coup supported dictator, but they have the best marching band that I have seen since Stanford. Here is how it all started. When Sally was in Suva, leaving me abandoned, I was forced to find innovative ways of entertaining myself. So, I went to the opening of the new Koro Island Police Post. This was pretty big news as it is the first police station on the island, and the post has two, count them TWO jail cells (which are currently being used for storage). All of the chiefs from each village came as did some big wigs from the Provincial capital. When it was reported that the Police Band would be coming as well, people flocked from all over island. I decided that it was worth checking out since I live down the street. I was also pretty sure that I would get fed while there. I was right.

As I was walking up, I could hear some music which, as I got closer turned out to be a recording of “I Did It My Way.” Or was it? No wait, it was live, big band, conductor, singer and all. Sinatra was immediately followed by an Elvis Presley medley and then to make sure the experience was absolutely surreal, White Christmas. What’s more, it was good—really good. They had French horns for crying out loud. Where did they even find those, much less learn to play them? (That being said, the guy playing the instrument I now call “clapping hands” is a little circumspect. Something tells me his brother has some hiring authority in the force.) I have been of the mind that Fijians do a lot of things well enough but I hadn’t seen much evidence of proficiency much less virtuosity. These people were pros, right down to the uniforms. Men often wear skirts here, only we call them sulu. So, it was no big deal that the men were wearing skirts in the outfit, the cool part is that the bottom of their sulu are cut in a jagged shape like a jester’s would be. All of the police wear these, even when on patrol; it is just another reason why I am joining the police.

Then there was the marching. This is where it really got off the hook. They could march. Oh boy, could they march. It was witty, charming, sexy, you name it. They brought out the traditional Fijian dress for a couple of numbers and followed it by having the trombone players thrusting around. It was great. The best part of any performance however is always the person who I will call the “joiner.” This person is invariably an old, fat woman. Here is how it goes. Someone will be performing something that they have spent a significant portion of their life perfecting before this moment. As they are showing off their dancing, singing, etc ability, the “joiner” will take it upon herself to take the stage along with the accomplished performer and proceed to shake her (large) hips more or less to the music but almost certainly in a lewd and hysterical manner, thereby ruining the performance at hand. For the marching band, the “joiner” decided that she was also the drum major when she found a stick on the ground. As the whole point is to make an ass of herself and spoil the show, she did a very nice job. That is only outdone by the male version of this game where instead of old, fat woman, you have young, well-sculpted man. We will call him “retard” because that is the dance that he does. Now, lest you get up in arms about my use of the term “retard,” I am merely reporting the facts. That is what they call the dance. He gets up, upstages the performers and proceeds to impersonate someone dancing with mental and/or physical disabilities. (If you have not read my entry on Fijians and laughter, I recommend doing so now.) I have seen this at just about every performance that is not guarded by security. Then the security guard has to do it.