A Slightiy-Built 15-year-old Fijian lad, dressed in immaculate schoolboy's white uniform, suddenly unfolded his hands and waved my borrowed Volkswagen to a screeching halt.

"Can You please give to me a ride as far as the market, Sir?" (The cringing, subservient manner in which this word "Sir" is used by the downtrodden of Fiji is on my list as a "custom" which I shall do my utmost to destroy.)

"Yes. certainly, hop in. My name is John, what's yours?"

"Filive, Sir."

"What school do you go to. Filive?"

"No school, Sir."

"Please don't call me Sir. My name is John. Why aren't you going to school, Filive?"

"Because … Mr. John … the headmaster he told me don't come back because you over-age to go to secondary school and last year your father never pay all the school fees."

"Do you work somewhere near the market, Filive?"

"No, Sir … I mean … Mr. John. I got no job. I try everywhere, and my father he try everywhere, but still no luck. Mr. John, you think you can fix one job for me? … If you fix one job for me, I do anything for you."

"What kind of job would you like. Filive?"

"I want to be a mechanic, Mr. John, but I can do anything," he replied, full of boyish enthusiasm and confidence in his own ability.

The Volkswagen bumped along the patched-up Lami-Suva highway, flanked by large, luscious tropical palms, shrubs and blooms, not quite hiding the bungalows and carports with their Fiats, Falcons and Fairlanes.