A concerned citizen captured it perfectly: The bus driver timing the lights in Suva, lunging forward while the signal is still red. The taxi honking before green even flickers. The overtaker on Ovalau’s narrow coastal road, speeding past serene villages, forcing oncoming traffic to swerve—while the Pasifika glistens quietly on one side and children play on the other.
Her question haunts me: Where are you rushing to? Was there a tuna sale at PAFCO?
It’s funny. It’s also deadly serious.
Fiji prides itself on island time—that unhurried rhythm we hold up as our cultural signature. We take it slow with laughter, with talanoa, with Sunday afternoon naps and funeral kava sessions that stretch into the night. We joke about being late to a family gathering or showing up an hour past the scheduled wedding start. Yet on our roads, we transform into sprinters. We shave seconds off red lights, we overtake on blind corners, we treat 60 km/h signs in places like Pacific Harbour, as polite recommendations. We become people we wouldn’t recognise at a village gathering—impatient, aggressive, reckless.
Why this contradiction?
It’s not just about being late. It’s about ego—the subconscious belief that the rules apply to others, not me. It’s about the illusion that those two seconds saved will somehow matter in the grand story of our day. It’s about the lie we tell ourselves: I’m a good driver. I’ll be fine. And worst of all: It won’t happen to me.
But the morgue at Colonial War Memorial doesn’t care about your hurry. Thirty-one families this year already know that. And as the concerned citizen reminded us, many of those deaths happen not on highways but on rural roads, in urban intersections, in places where pedestrians and schoolchildren and elderly couples are just going about their lives.
Our infrastructure doesn’t help. In Suva and Nadi, traffic lights are often treated as suggestions. In Nadi, they flicker or fail entirely. On Ovalau, you’ve got beautiful scenery on one side and sheer drop on the other, with barely enough room for two cars to pass. Add speeding drivers, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. But while we wait for better roads and working lights—which will take years—we have choices we can make today.
There’s an old saying that guides me: “You have the watch, but I have the time.”
Think about that. The watch is mechanical—ticking, relentless, demanding. It measures microseconds. It stresses. It says hurry. But time is human—flowing, forgiving, patient. It bends around laughter, around farewells, around the extra minute you take to let someone cross the road safely. When we drive, we surrender to the watch. We race against numbers on a dashboard. We forget that time itself will always be there, waiting for us—if we arrive alive.
Imagine if every driver paused. Took a breath. Let the bus go. Let the car pass when it’s safe. Left five minutes earlier so there’s no need to race. Told themselves: I am not late for God. I am just going to the shop. The Rewa Milk will still be there.
And passengers—this is where you come in. Too often, we sit silently even when our hearts are pounding. We don’t want to offend the driver. We don’t want to seem dramatic. But that silence is collusion. If your driver is speeding, tailgating, weaving, or running reds—speak up. Say, “We’ll get there. Slow down.” Say, “I’m not comfortable.” Say, “Pull over if you’re tired.” It’s not weakness; it’s wisdom. It’s love for your own life and for theirs.
Some will say we need more mobile speed cameras, higher fines, road humps, stricter vehicle inspections. And yes, absolutely—do all of it. But no camera can cure arrogance. No fine can reach into a driver’s heart and remind them of their grandchildren waiting at home. That work is internal. It’s personal. It’s each of us deciding, every time we turn the key, that we are not more important than everyone else sharing the road.
We are a laid-back people by reputation. Let’s live up to it—behind the wheel, not just in our living room.
So next time you’re driving, remember: the watch says you’re late. But time says you’re still breathing. Choose time. Choose life. Arrive a minute later, but arrive whole.
And if you see me on the road—kerekere give way to this child of the universe. I’m not rushing. I’m enjoying the view. I’ll get there when I get there.
And so will you.
Pasifika Talanoa by a traveled ITaukei Fijian 