When we had our café, a young Scottish chef would stop by on his way to work, for a coffee, a piece of cake, and a chat.
He lived and worked locally, so he walked everywhere.
This meant he constantly came to the attention of Mauritian taxi drivers.
“Madame, Madame, taxi?”, or in his case, “Monsieur, Monsieur, taxi?”
They don’t watch where they’re going, and hold up the traffic as they slowly follow you, trying to talk you into their cab.
“Where are you going? I give you a good price.”
This continues until you get so annoyed of saying no thank you that you end up being rude, and they squeal off in anger.
The chef’s conclusion?
“They think because I’m white, I can’t walk.”