This year, my partner (as in romantic, not professional) and I decided to have a holiday in Fiji. We booked the holiday and, a week later, Fiji’s constitution was suspended. After a little deliberation, we decided to go anyway. And, given the recent events, we (as in I) thought we should take the opportunity to see how Fiji’s legal institutions are holding up.
Our driver, Ramesh, collected us from our resort. Driving at sedate speeds, he shared his thoughts all the way to the magistrates court of a village nearby. Ramesh was dismayed at the damage being done to Fiji by international media reports.
“Fijians and Indians: we are working together, just living our lives. Look around you,” he said. “There is nothing happening here.”
Ramesh also expressed dismay at any absence of cultivation on Fiji’s fertile lands. Ramesh likes crops.
“That is tapioca, also known as cassava. That is kava… Breadfruit… Taro… Sugar cane… Everything grows here in Fiji. Plenty of food. No one is hungry.”
Ramesh understood my professional curiosity in Fijian courts, but, I must admit, as we pulled up outside the magistrates court, I wondered what I was doing dropping in. I wondered this even more as Ramesh led us into a tiny and crowded registry office. We waited. The registrar, with glasses and neat parted hair, looked up. Ramesh explained something. We waited some more. “Okay, seen enough?” said Ramesh.
“Yes, thank you,” I said with awkward relief.
We went upstairs to a courtroom. About 40 people stood outside the court dressed in smart colourful clothes. We received smiles as we pushed our way through to the door. I could see through the window that court was in session but, with the gallery empty, I figured no one else wanted to watch. I pushed the door to go in.
“No, no,” said a policeman leaping to his feet. “It is a family matter. Private!”
“Oh, of course,” I said, as if I should have known better. “Good luck, everyone.”
Police and litigants alike wished us well.
Perhaps sensing my slight disappointment, Ramesh led us downstairs and into a hallway where we went from office to office, looking for someone to see.
Ramesh drew us inside to what he judged to be a suitable office, introduced me to a woman at a desk, and asked if I could speak with the prosecutor.
“What does he want?” asked the woman.
“Nothing,” said Ramesh. “He is a lawyer from Australia. He just wants to talk.”
The woman left and, to my surprise, brought back the prosecutor, who started welcoming me and shaking my hand.
“So, how is business?” I asked.
“Slow,” said the prosecutor. He bemoaned the loss of judges and the impact on case flow. He said many lawyers still did not know if their practising certificates would be renewed. The door creaked open and someone stepped in from outside.
“So, this is the prosecutor’s office…” said the prosecutor quickly, deliberately, returning to the mundane.
“Do you want to see the police station?” asked Ramesh.
We crossed the road and entered a police station to find an enormous policeman sitting behind a little desk. He was the biggest Fijian man I had seen – which is really saying something. Next to him, sat another man, scrawny and sorry, nursing a couple of black eyes. Ramesh helped with introductions.
“Ah, welcome to Fiji,” said the policeman. “You have a beautiful wife.”
“Thank you,” I said, unsure of what else to say.
“Well, this is the police station,” he said with a wave of an arm. “And this is a suspect,” he said gesturing to the black-eyed man, who started to squirm. “And there,” he said pointing to a closed door, “you don’t want to go back there.”
Ramesh felt it was time for some kava. We stopped in a ‘grog shop’, played pool with the locals, and settled into a comfortable haze. We then made for Suva, with Ramesh guiding us all the way.
“And there is banana. We have two types of banana here in Fiji. One you just eat and the other one you boil up. It is starchy food like potato or cassava.”
“And what do you call that?”
“We call it banana.”
In Suva, Parliament was closed for the day. I think Ramesh was relieved. He showed us the nearby school which had been taken over by soldiers in the 2000 coup. He pointed out the island, visible across the sea, where George Speight is serving life for instigating the coup.
Ramesh took us to Suva’s courthouse. He spoke to a helpful policeman, and soon we were sitting in the back of a courtroom.
The interior was simple, all wooden, with no flags or crests or emblems or paintings – just one ‘Bula Fiji’ paper calendar hanging from a wall.
A lawyer stood, in a smart-looking sulu, making submissions for his client, sullen and small. The lawyer complained that the police had held his client for six days without charge. In reply, the prosecutor admitted confusion about the length of detention.
“This is a serious criminal matter,” said the magistrate in a Canadian accent. “The state faces a heavy onus and should not
be so uncertain about the length of detention. And I note that previously, under the constitution, the maximum period was 48 hours.”
The magistrate acquitted the man and left, into a flash of daylight, via the back door.
Outside, the lawyer spoke with his client. “Now, we just have to deal with those other two matters.”
Ramesh took us back to the car. We sat for a while drinking kava from an old plastic bottle.
“He is a criminal, I think,” said Ramesh. And we left.
“That is paw paw… That is corn… That one is more kava. You see? We have everything here in Fiji. You can go home and tell everyone we have everything that we need.”