“He seems very unsure of himself on that scooter.”

I said it to Philip as we watched a scooter on the other side of the road. The rider was creeping along at a painfully slow pace with a lady riding pillion. It almost looked as if he had not been on a scooter in years.

We drove past them.

A few seconds later Philip glanced at his rearview mirror.

“I think they are stopping.”

We pulled over.

I turned around in my seat and began giving Philip a running commentary.

“The lady has gotten off… now he has gotten off too… looks like he is putting the scooter on its stand. I have no idea what they’re doing.”

After a pause, I asked, “Should we go back and check on them?”

“We should,” Philip replied, making a neat Y-turn in the middle of the road.

As we pulled alongside them, I leaned out of the window.

“You guys okay?”

“We have a flat tire,” the gentleman replied in an unmistakable Indian accent.

That immediately got my attention.

As we pieced the story together, we learned they were visiting from Kerala. Kochi, to be precise. Naturally, I had to tell him about my own trip to Kochi. They had vacationed in Fiji before coming to Vanuatu and had rented a scooter to explore the island.

Everything had been going perfectly until they met one of Vanuatu’s potholes.

Now, Vanuatu does not fool around when it comes to potholes. Many of the roads are built on a limestone base, and the potholes are not gentle little depressions. They are almost vertical drops of six inches. Mini cenotes masquerading as road imperfections, I might say.

A ten-inch scooter tire never stood a chance.

One look at the wheel told the whole story. The tire was completely shredded.

“The problem,” the gentleman explained, “is that I don’t know how to contact the rental company.”

“Did you try the number written on the side of the scooter?” I asked.

“I did, but my phone won’t connect.”

“I had exactly the same problem with my U.S. phone. Have you tried WhatsApp?”

He hadn’t.

A few seconds later he did.

Success.

I could hear enough of the conversation to know the person on the other end was wonderfully calm. His instructions were simple.

“Just leave the scooter there. Walk to a nearby spot, relax, and I’ll come by with another one.”

That struck me as remarkably good customer service.

Later, Philip smiled and said, “I know him.”

Of course he did.

On a small island, everybody seems to know everybody. Apparently, the rental company was run by an Australian gentleman who is well-liked across the island.

As the guy began pushing the wounded scooter to the side of the road, I asked Philip where they could wait comfortably.

“The Blue Lagoon is about half a kilometer away.”

“Perfect.”

I rolled down the window again.

“If you’d like, we can drop you off at the Blue Lagoon. It’s only about a ten-minute walk for you, but we don’t mind the detour.”

The gentleman looked relieved.

“Will you drop us?”

“Of course. Grab your things and hop in.”

During the short drive, we chatted about their trip, their travels, and how one pothole had become the most memorable part of their Vanuatu adventure.

He thanked us repeatedly as we dropped them off at the spectacular Blue Lagoon to wait for their replacement scooter.

As we drove away, I turned to Philip.

“Did you notice something?”

“What?”

“The lady didn’t say a single word the entire time.”

He laughed.

I said, “I have a theory.”

“What is it?”

“I think she’s still mad that he drove into that pothole.”

Some silences need no translation.