My funny cab ride story

Getting around Majuro means taking shared taxis. This is a foreign concept in North America because the destinations of any two people might be a dozen kilometres in opposite directions. But Majuro basically has 1 road with a few that briefly branch off. The difference between passengers has to do with how far each needs to go in a particular direction.

On my way into town I stuck my finger out to signal the next cab that I needed a ride. He pulled over and let me in. There were already 3 people riding this one, so the 2 in the back seat had to scrunch to the left to let me in. An exchange of greetings followed and we were on our way.

A few minutes later I felt a nudge against my back, like something had just pushed against the back seat. My first thought was, “Strange.” And then it happened again. My next thought was, “Something alive is riding in the trunk.” I glanced to my left to see if anyone else had noticed. Nope, or like me, they were playing dumb.

It didn’t take more than another minute to hear a low-squeal, almost a grunt, but definitely a squeal. I then remembered that this taxi had probably started at the end of the island (I live pretty close to one end) where there’s a pig farm.

But I was afraid to strike up a conversation about it, just in case it was actually somebody’s grandfather. “So,” I’d casually start, “Who’s having a feast tonight?” Abashed, the girl next to me might reply, “Jab jab. Grandfather and I only had the fare for one person.” I pictured one of my grandfathers in the darkness of the trunk; a darkly comical thought.

Then I imagined that I had uncovered an operation by the Majuro Mafia. Unlike the Italian mafia, their business is smuggling fish; a slippery game indeed. Maybe the guy in the trunk didn’t make his tuna quota and was now shark bait.

A few more nudges against my back and I could hear it moving around. More squeals. Yup, someone was having a feast tonight. I almost burst out laughing because there was a pig walking around in the trunk of my cab. But I contained myself. I didn’t want to seem strange. So I acted like nothing at all was amiss. Every squeak and bump against the back seat was perfectly normal.

The absurdity of everyone in the car ignoring the sounds and movements also almost made me laugh, but I’m a disciplined anthropologist.