Graeme Lay: If you must prang your Mustang then radio for Romeo

Photo / Thinkstock

There are few more stressful activities than driving a rented car in a foreign country, particularly one in which vehicles are driven on the right-hand side of the road. This truth I rediscovered recently on the "Big Island" of Hawaii.

"Your vehicle's a Mustang," the woman in the office said.

It looked almost new. And naturally, Hawaii being in the USA, the steering wheel was on the left. I settled into the driver's seat, then checked the gears and indicators. When I turned on the ignition, a blast of conditioned air came out from somewhere. Great, it was 31C outside.

All set, drive off. Keep right, keep right, I told myself. I came to traffic lights. There didn't seem to be roundabouts in Hawaii. Good. I hate roundabouts in strange lands. In France, driving around them is like being thrust into a sprint car race at the Western Springs Speedway.

Signs stated that the speed limit was 35 miles per hour [56km/h]. Miles per hour? Why didn't the Americans use the metric system, like the rest of the world?

Now I was on Highway 19, heading south. The Mustang was comfortable, cool, obedient.

I reached the hotel and parked on the forecourt. A bell-hop stepped forward. "Aloha, sir. But could you not leave your car there?" He pointed down the hill. "Take it to the parking lot, please."

The parking "lot" was huge. I drove slowly around, then chose a space in front of a coconut palm, at the base of which was a concrete surround. Not wanting to leave the Mustang's rump too exposed, I drove up to the base of the palm.

Then I heard a scraping noise. I'd driven the front of the Mustang on to the concrete block. Shit. I reversed, and there was another noise as the car came off the block. That's okay, I told myself, just a slight miscalculation. I locked the Mustang, then hurried back to check in.

Next day I was due to meet someone near the northern end of Hawaii, which I calculated would be about a two-hour drive. I checked out of the hotel and put my case in the boot.

Then, remembering the concrete block and the graunching noise, I peered under the front of the car. A bracket under the front bumper was hanging down like a piece of prolapsed bowel. I tried to push it back into place. It prolapsed again. Several screws had been torn away from the chassis. The Mustang was undriveable. I cursed myself. Why, why, when there were dozens of empty spaces, had I chosen the only space with a coconut palm and a concrete surround? Fool.

Now I'd need a garage, and perhaps a panel beater. It was already 8.30am and I needed to be back on the road to keep my appointment.

"Do you have a problem, sir?"

The questioner was a dark-haired woman wearing a Sheraton uniform.

"Yes." I pointed to the busted bracket, then said, "Is there a garage around here?"

"No. But I'll ring Romeo," she said.

"Romeo?"

"Our go-to guy." She pulled out her mobile.

Minutes later a muscular, shaven-headed young Hawaiian man appeared, wearing singlet and shorts. He beamed and held out his hand. "Aloha, sir. I'm Romeo. How can I help?"

I showed him the damage, explaining lamely. Romeo bent down and tried to push the bracket back into place. He stood up. "The screws've ripped out. What you need is some zip ties, to hold it in place."

Again I felt helpless. "Where do I get those?"

"I've got some. Wait here."

Minutes later he was back, clutching some lengths of thin black plastic. As he busied himself under the front of the Mustang, he asked, "Where are you from?"

"New Zealand."

"Awesome. On vacation?"

"No. I'm a writer."

"Writing about this island?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

He stood up. The bracket was in place, held by the two thin ties. As Romeo snipped the ends off, I asked, "Will they be strong enough?"

Romeo grinned. "Sure. Cops here use them to tie up criminals."

What a great guy. I felt like kissing him. Instead I took a $20 bill from my wallet and offered it to him. Romeo waved it away.

"No, no. Pleased to be of help." He grinned again. "Just write something about me."

So I have.

Graeme Lay is an Auckland writer.