Wide turns, stomping on the brake like a cellar rat, thickly heated air soaked with cigarette smoke. All part of the experience of a taxi ride on the island.

I can hear various ailing parts of the forty plus year old Toyota sedan grumble as the turns push the aged suspension against blocky wheel wells.

The cars run on propane— that’s a surprise. There isn’t much else about them that could surprise me in a positive way.

Custom seat covers lay on the rear bench seat. Mine today is a untethered grey and white rug-like cover that says “Kona Coffee.”

Most of the taxi drivers on the island are approaching their seventh decade or are well within it.

It’s not a young man’s game on this island.