EXPEDITION TRUCKS IN CENTRAL AMERICA

The names of the innocent have been changed, also the statute of limitations has not run out. I was present at the start of this story and the blanks were filled in at a later date by one of the survivors. Sitting round a campfire in the Arizona desert: this is how it all started.

“It’s as easy as walking round, picking up $100 bills.”

“Never had much luck with get-rich-quick schemes,” replied Kevin, “what kind of a dinosaur is a megalodon anyway?”

“Big dead shark, teeth the size of your hand, biggest fish the World has ever seen.”

Kevin should have felt safe; Arizona had no coastline. They were camped in the Sonoran desert but Rufus was a little bit sketchy and his proposition was bordering on illegal. The big problem for Kevin and Gabby was that funds were running low, they had under estimated the cost of touring the World in an ex-British Army 4x4 truck; they needed an income more than their online t-shirt shop and their Youtube channel could provide.

Gabby and Kevin were nearly six months into the adventure of a lifetime. That’s if you don’t count the two years building their overland expedition truck from a 1993 Leyland Daf T244 four tonner. The chassis cab had been cheap enough but building the living area and equipping the vehicle had eaten into their savings. The cost of shipping it to North America was reasonable but driving from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Fairbanks, Alaska, and then South to the Mexican border had made a huge dent in the running money.

The vast distances and expensive diesel fuel of Canada had been underestimated. The permanent four-wheel drive of the Leyland Daf gave horrific fuel mileage. Wild camping where ever they could had helped. They tried to avoid tourist traps and admission fees; paying out for just fuel and food but now the trip was stalled in the desert. They were at the crossroads of the trip. Central America and then South America lay ahead but the money was running out.

The BLM [Bureau of Land Management] land around the town of Quartzsite has been a magnet for recreational vehicles for a long time. Snowbirds from Canada, nomads from all over the States flock to Quartzsite in their thousands. For little or no charge the desert becomes the winter base for motor homes, travel trailers, 5th wheelers even tents. A community practicing economical living, that suited Gabby and Kevin just fine. They may have had the only UK registered Leyland Daf in the county but they had a lot in common with their neighbours.

Missy and Rufus had also built their own RV. A thirty year old re-purposed fire truck; lime green and white with chrome. A 4x4 overland expedition vehicle; one big and tough truck, the same as my Mack but an International. They were from Idaho, just wintering in the South-West, their second year of working just the summer. Missy would go back to waiting tables at her family’s restaurant; Rufus would try get back to dry-walling with his brother. Rufus didn’t relish the return to hard manual labour. Selling megalodon teeth on E-bay for a hundred bucks each was something he awaited with pleasure.

As the six travelers sat around a ring of stones, a small pallet wood fire flickered enough light to see the passing joint. Conversation was about the finer details of tooth extraction from Mexico.

“Technically it is illegal. Yes. But they turn a blind eye; they’re more interested in whole dinosaur skeletons and ancient man-made artifacts than old shark teeth that once were on the Pacific Ocean floor.”

“But how did these teeth end up in the Baja?”

“San Andreas fault, earthquakes and the clash of continents. What was seabed millions of years ago is now high and dry.”

“Who buys the ■■■■ things? Where’s the market?”

“Kids worldwide. Awesome thing to have when you are ten years old. A sixty million year old shark tooth that is massive.”

Cheryl and I were skeptical and Gabby was reluctant to commit to the scheme but Kevin persuaded her with a few more relevant points.

“ We have to get out of the US soon. Our B2 visas only give us six months. I know Baja California is not really on the way to Belize but I think it would be good to get some spending money together while we have the chance. We can sell on E-bay. We got Pay-pal. A little bit of poking around in the desert can’t do much harm?”

Next morning, we all went into town and wandered around the endless gem and mineral stalls that are an ever present feature of Quartzsite. We found a vendor with shark teeth for sale and Rufus bought a small megalodon chomper so everyone would know what they were searching for down in Mexico. Rufus wanted the six of us in the three trucks to do the trip but under Cheryl’s firm belief that it would all end in tears; we left it to the younger couples who had much more in common. Both guys were ex-army and had served in Afghanistan; although Rufus, the typical American, mentioned it at every opportunity and Kevin, ex- British squaddie, hardly ever. It is not often that I dip out from a chance of adventure but only time would tell if I was acting wisely.

There was a little bit of paper work to do before entry into Mexico but it was all available on the Internet. Tourist visas cost 538 pesos and lasted for 6 months. Vehicle insurance was mandatory but turned out to be cheap; $120 for thirty days, $125 for 6 months. Just how good the insurance was and what it covered was debatable. Gabby and Kevin went for the 180 days. They planned to continue on to Belize and had to also complete the formalities for a TIP, Temporary Importation Permit; normally a $400 re-fundable deposit to discourage travelers from selling their vehicle and leaving Mexico without it but free for motorhomes and valid for 10 years. Rufus and Melissa purchased 30 days insurance but did not bother with the TIP as Baja California enjoyed an exemption from the bureaucracy.

There were several options for crossing the border; none promised a quick easy passage but Calexico, crossing to Mexicali, looked simplest. Kevin and Missy led the way in the International, westbound on Interstate 8 from Yuma after south on Highway 95, then south on Highway 7. The Leyland Daf struggled to keep-up but was only a few cars behind as they joined the end of the line-up for the border. RVs filtered right and each took a lot longer and the cars in the other lines. The vehicle examination was more of a guided tour for the Mexican customs officer, every cabinet inside and every storage box opened but not rummaged through with any thoroughness. An hour later the pair of trucks were heading south on Mex Hwy 5 heading for San Felipe and Pete’s Camp, the iconic first night halt for first-time new arrivals.

Parking just yards from the Sea of Cortez, palapas by their side the four set up camp and retired to the restaurant for a discussion about the final plans with a couple of wood-fired pizzas and some Tecate Light, the local brewery offering.

“We can dump and refill with fresh water here, there are a couple of supermarkets in town. How long can you guys stay off-grid in the Leyland Daf?”

“About seven days. Are we going to need any tools for this digging? We got a shovel.”

“ Yeah, we need a shovel each. So let’s say we leave tomorrow and expect to stay out there for a week.”

Lunch was at Cow Patty’s loncheria with an interesting conversation about shark jaws with proprietor and his only customer. Random memorabilia and an old school bus were incorporated into a structure held together by the stickers of numerous Baja 1000 racing teams. Next stop was Coco’s Corner, an iconic spot manned by an ex-army, double amputee in his eighties. Coco the army veteran who had established the dusty rest area/ campsite/ snack bar said that several customers had been lucky fossil hunting at the foot of local “mesas.” Mesa means table in Spanish. Geologically, a mesa was an outcrop of rock shaped like a mushroom; formed by erosion caused by wind and rain. If there was evidence of seashells surrounding a mesa then it was reasonable to assume that it was once under the ocean. Find sea shells- find shark teeth.

From Coco’s establishment, a single lane track wound among the hills before dropping into a gorge. It was dry but obviously a water course when it rained. There were no tyre tracks to follow as the two trucks picked their way from side to side; trying to keep out of soft sand and the ruts caused by descending streams of water. Easier for the Leyland Daf than the International with its lower ground clearance and long rear overhang. In fact Kevin drove with a smile on his face; the Leyland Daf was now doing what it was built to do. Rufus was muttering an endless stream of expletives as the back end of the International constantly grounded on the stony track. Missy’s white-knuckled grip kept the dashboard in place while Gabby nonchalantly checked her cellphone for a signal.

Eventually the gorge widened into a flat dry riverbed, several more gorges entered the main watershed at the same spot. The Sea of Cortez was still out of sight but looking downstream; there were several mesas and they were in logical places to start digging. The women wanted to set-up camp first; level the trucks, open the awnings, bring out chairs and tables. The men grabbed their shovels and attacked a mesa without even bothering to close the driver’s door of their trucks. By evening they were hot, sweaty with blistered hands and toothless. Twenty-four hours later it was the same story except everyone had now worn gloves. The four had spread out; a mesa each. They found plenty of regular sized shark teeth and shards of whale bone but megaladon teeth had proved elusive.

It wasn’t as easy as picking-up banknotes from the pavement. Maybe they were in the wrong place. Conversation over dinner centred on whether to move on or dig deeper where they were. They decided to break camp in the morning and head for the Pacific coast. They were unaware of the storm coming in from the ocean.

A distant thunder roll was the first indication, then the white light flashes reflecting in the open roof hatch over the bed in the Leyland Daf. It was well past midnight when the first raindrops forced Kevin to close it. Within an hour, there was no time-lag between lightning flash and thunderclap. In such a deluge, it is a time when all campers in vehicles feel sorry for campers in tents and celebrate their choice of accommodation and the safety it affords with a dry comfortable bed.

All that changed as a flash flood roared down the canyons and gorges; uniting in the riverbed. There was a sharp jolt in the Leyland Daf as the stony soil beneath the back wheels of the vehicle was washed away. Kevin dressed quickly, climbed through the small hatch into the cab of the truck and fired-up the motor. The wipers did little to clear the relentless rain; the headlights just showed a raging torrent rushing past but the lightning lit up the scene just long enough for him to see a path to safety. The truck had started drifting sideways by the time Kevin had engaged the differential locks and low ratio in the gearbox. He turned upstream, edging over to higher ground and the cover behind one of the mesas; rocks and debris clunking against the front bumper. It was impossible to get completely out of the water and the current still swirled around them but they were on firmer ground and felt safe.

The same could not be said about Missy and Rufus. The International had no pass-through from the living area into the cab. Water was beating against the back door with such pressure that it was impossible to open. They had no skylight or roof hatch; they were imprisoned and at the mercy of the wall of water that began moving them downstream. At nearly twelve tonnes, the truck was too heavy to go with the flow but turned sideways and listed heavily; resting against a large boulder as the dirty brown water washed over it and slowly found every crack and gap. Slowly filling the interior.

Rufus delayed smashing a window and climbing onto the roof of the truck. A wise move as the water didn’t come up to the top of the dining table before if slowly receded. By dawn there was just a thin coating of silt and slime on the surfaces that had been underwater. Outside the flow of water had nearly stopped with just a trickle from puddle to puddle.

Kevin ventured out to find no damage to the Leyland Daf. He quickly fired-up the motor and eased the truck onto higher ground. It wasn’t so simple with the International; it was half buried on one side with a lot of sizable rocks that needed moving before it could be extracted. Luckily they had four shovels with them. They would level the ground behind the truck, dig away the soil at each side and reverse out, with the help of the Leyland Daf if necessary. Gabby cooked breakfast while the others washed out the interior of the American and after the meal they all got down to digging. It was a morning of slipping and sliding, getting down and getting dirty and barefoot was the way to go.

“Is this what we’ve been looking for?” said Missy casually holding a shark tooth that completely covered her hand.

“Well bugger me, two days looking and now we get one when we’re not!” exclaimed Kevin just as Gabby reached down and picked up an even bigger one.

Megalodon’s had 276 teeth that fell out and replaced themselves on a regular basis. Finding two so close together gave the diggers hope that they might have stumbled on the remains of a dead meg that had been unearthed by the flash flood. They dug with renewed vigour but only found two more before Kevin ran out his winch cable to the back of the International. The ground was still sticky but they managed to pull the stuck truck onto an even keel. It would be days before the river-bed had dried enough for the trucks to retrace their steps back to Coco’s Corner. But the sun shone and spirits were high; no damage was done. The stainless steel bodywork of the old fire truck was top quality engineering. Silt was everywhere but nothing a high pressure washer couldn’t return to pristine.

Two days of searching the newly eroded deposits around the mesas brought a steady stream of megalodon teeth; some broken, some of excellent condition and size. Enough to make the expedition a success; well into double figures and a four figure payday, each. The last night was party night. Rufus brought out a bottle of Patron Silver, the salt and the lemon. It didn’t last long as they drank while laying out the complete collection of teeth. Rufus tossed a coin for first choice and they alternately picked their share. Biggest and best down to smallest and roughest.

The guys decided to walk the course before tackling the road out. A good choice as there had been plenty of erosion by the storm. They handballed rocks into the worst of the ruts; taking all morning to get it all level as the women packed up the vehicles in their absence. On the way back down, Kevin saw the bright blue corner of a plastic oil drum laying on the riverbed. Always one to leave a place cleaner than he found it, Kevin went over and kicked at the plastic; bending over he found it was more than a broken piece, it was a whole buried drum. He jabbed the shovel through the lid, shattering the brittle plastic. Kevin dropped to his knees.

“Look at this, Rufus, come here and look at this.”

The Englishman and the American stood staring at the cling-film wrapped bundles of dollar bills that filled the oil drum.

“Cartel drug money,” muttered Rufus.

“Fill your boots,” grinned Kevin.

The guys went back to the trucks and returned with the women and as many empty bags as they could muster; back-packs, sports bags, bicycle panniers all quickly filled with cash that seemed to be all in the $20 denomination. They re-buried the drum; pulled up a pair of sage bushes, pulling them behind as they tried to mask their footprints as they went back to the vehicles. A quick count revealed about $3,000,000, stashing that amount in the trucks proved more difficult. Kevin was anxious to get going, his military training reminded him of his vulnerability; wide open position in enemy territory, they needed a safe haven and quickly.

The Brits fancied Belize although the Americans preferred to return to the US; reasoning that home turf would be safer than a tropical jungle state. After some discussion, they decided to stick together; the trucks struggled up the loose surfaced track, then hit the newly paved Highway 5; turning South, heading for La Paz and the ferry to mainland Mexico. They hadn’t noticed anybody watching them, the whole time they had been off-road, but crucially, they had not noticed the game camera attached to a Saguaro cactus that overlooked the burial site 

 When it came to hiding the cash in the Leyland Daf and the International; the drivers chose the classic, tried and tested hiding place: inside the spare wheel. The overland expedition trucks carried two spares, mounted on a purpose built racks across the back of the living quarters and they were raised and lowered by their own electric winches. One tyre full on banknotes still left a usable one full of air. The two trucks headed south and searched for an isolated spot away from Highway 1; a beach at the end of a rough dirt road where they could work in peace seemed ideal.

If you have a flat tyre on a busy highway; no one stops to help. Start messing about with a spare wheel in the middle of nowhere and somebody will rock-up and offer to help. With the job finished on the American truck, Kevin had just dropped down one of his spares and deflated the tyre when a German registered MAN TGM13-290 appeared over the horizon and made a bee-line for the Leyland Daf. Gunther jumped down, offered his hand and free advice on tyre inflation.

“All fixed, just need to air it up,” lied Kevin, “ Gabby, fetch a some of beers for our European friends.”

“ You have air-line? No. I have air-line.” gushed Gunther.

Kevin had met this sort before; ultra friendly, ultra helpful and they always assumed you knew nothing. He had learned the hard way; don’t argue, let them have free rein and don’t make it into a competition. Kevin let Gunther pump-up the tyre and helped him re-install it on the back of the Leyland Daf. After an evening of German hospitality; Rufus and Missy, Gabby and Kevin knew the life story and all about the world-tour of Petra and Gunther. It was past midnight before they were in bed, alone together for the first time since the Germans arrived.

“What the hell are we going to do with the money now?” asked Gabby.

“ Christ knows. Just wait until they bugger off and try again, I suppose.”

“But they know we are heading for the ferry at La Paz and so are they. What if they want to tag along?”

“That could be to our advantage; let them lead the way. Safety in numbers and all that. Just got to find another place for the money.”

Gabby and Kevin spent most of the night stuffing the mattress with banknotes after carefully cutting out sections of memory foam. They soon found out they would never again have a comfortable nights rest.

The tourist trap of Cabo San Lucas was the next stop. The two couples visited multiple banks and cambio [money changing] establishments in the port town at the most southern point of Baja California. Every time they changed $1000, cash, into pesos; everytime they came out and told Gunther their credit cards had been refused. Soon they had enough Mexican money for the ferry, fuel and food for the rest of the time in the country. A quick trip on a lancha [launch] out to the photogenic natural arch and the three trucks headed to La Paz and the ferry to Mazatlan.

Rufus was lucky that the Banjercito office at Pichilinque could issue a Temporary Import Permit for the International and their luck held as all three were loaded on that nights crossing although none were able to secure a cabin. It was a smooth crossing of the Sea of Cortez but no one slept well in their reclining chairs. No one would have slept at all if they knew what a close shave they had avoided at the ferry port.

Within hours of leaving their shark tooth campsite; a black Cadillac Escalade of the Tijauna drug cartel pulled in to check the game camera. It was stop 3 of a five stop tour; they changed the SD card and battery, then left. Back at base, inspection of the SD cards gave clear evidence of unusual activity. Arellano-Felix quickly ordered a return visit to the site and a check on the buried barrels revealed one was empty. They knew exactly what they were seeking; an International on Idaho plates and a weird looking cab-over. The Escalade called in at Coco’s Corner and the old man was wise enough to volunteer the information that they had turned South on Highway 5. The cartel assumed the trucks would be heading back to the USA but issued instructions that all their operatives in the Baja were to search for the thieves. Information came back that they had been sighted in Cabo but by the time they came to the conclusion that three vehicles were headed to the mainland, it was too late. Two heavily armed pick-up trucks raced across from Cabo; reaching the ferry port gates just as the Baja Star pulled away from the jetty.

Last on - first off; the unloading order of the stern-door-only roll-on roll-off Baja Star. The three trucks quickly disembarked and headed South on the D15 toll road to Tepic before taking the torturous Highway 200 to a night’s stop at Bucerias, just north of Puerto Vallarta. They were now in the territory of the Sinaloa cartel, deadly enemies of those from Tijuana. Their biggest enemy was the Topes, the ever present speed bumps that brought the speed down to walking pace at the entrance to every village or town or sometimes in the middle of nowhere for no reason at all. Missing a tope meant broken crockery for a motorhome. Letting Gunther and Petra lead the way, eased the worry for the others. Also, having the MAN at the front of the convoy meant that the Germans were first at every military and police checkpoint. The soldiers and police were always friendly and polite, usually inquisitive about departure point and destination with a curiosity about the trucks rather than searching for forbidden stuff.

Gunther and Petra were following the Pan-American Highway and had started in Alaska, similar to Kevin and gabby in the Leyland Daf. Money was not a problem for them and the suggestion of a side trip to Belize was eagerly accepted. Although Gunther could be overbearing; Petra bonded well with the Gabby and Missy, the first female company she had had for months. The Germans were surprised at the others’ generosity; always buying the beers and paying the restaurant bills but it was only payback for the pathfinding and deflecting suspicion. The little convoy stuck to the coastal Highway 200, leaving the turf of the Sinaloa cartel, through Michoacán cartel territory, skirting Acapulco and on into the Province of Oaxaca. Overnight stays were in beachside campgrounds recommended by the iOverlander app on their phones. Cheap places at 200 pesos per vehicle and the best of these was the Don Taco Overlander Camp at San Agustin Bay near Huatulco. Here, a couple from Holland had built an oasis of calm, security and cleanliness that people found difficult to leave. There was just room enough for the three trucks to fit inside the gates.

They stayed a week with the women going to town by taxi for groceries. With the trucks tucked away down a thirteen kilometre dirt road; it was if they had disappeared off the face of the Earth. The Tijauna cartel did not have clue, they thought the Mexico/US border was favorite and staked out as many crossing as possible. The loathing between the cartels made cooperation impossible, plus Tijauna did not want it known how they had been ripped-off. But eventually the six had to leave the idyllic beach where turtles came to nest and hatchlings ran off into the ocean under the moonlight. With warnings of the Ventosa, the high winds that rip across from the Caribbean to the Pacific, the trucks set off for Pelanque. A touristy thing to do but impressive Mayan ruins, the largest in Mexico. Now they were in Chiapas, the most lawless of Mexican states, but here it was not the cartels to watch for but gangs of young men forming barricades across the roads and extracting unofficial tolls. A length of wood with nails hammered through, laid across the road with a rope at either end was encountered. Gunther was adamant he would not pay this highway robbery but after some discussion the toll was found to be 20 pesos per vehicle; only $3 for all of them. This happened a couple of times as they made their way to Chetumal and the border crossing into Belize.

Gunther and Petra spoke good Spanish, the other four were looking forward to speaking English again and Kevin who had served with the British army in Belize would show them around. Border formalities were pretty straight forward with just the fumigation of the vehicles being unusual. Now out of Mexico and in a British Commonwealth country; Kevin felt safe but little did he know that the Tijauna cartel had strong ties with Belize and a message of their arrival was soon on it’s way to Arellano-Felix 

Two of the Arellano-Felix brothers and two henchmen arrived, early afternoon, on the half hour flight over from Cancun; after leaving Tijuana in the early morning. On the descent into Belize International Airport, if they had known where to look, they could have seen the Leyland Daf and International trucks parked at the adjacent Price Barracks. Named after former Prime Minister George Cadle Price, the barracks was home to the British Army jungle training unit that also doubled as the Belize Defence Force. The Welsh Guards were in residence and the Lieutenant-Colonel, senior officer, was a good friend of Kevin. They had served together in Afghanistan, when both had the rank of captain. Several others at the base also knew Kevin from their posting in Helmond.

Gunther and Petra had decided to split from the others and head for the coast at Sartenja; promising to meet-up again along the Pan-American Highway. The four with the money headed to the army base and were welcomed like long-lost family; at last they felt safe although that was far from being true. Belize City was gangland and the top two were the Crips and the Bloods. Gangs with their heritage back in Los Angeles. Since the 1980’s Belize has had a lot of emigration to the USA combined with a lot of citizens returning; bringing with them the gang culture of Los Angeles. This strong link is what had alerted the cartel to the whereabouts of their prey. The Crips were comfortable about helping the cartel but apprehensive of locking horns with the Welsh Guards. The gang ran most of the prostitution in Belize City and the British army was their best customer. They recommended surveillance with the brothers getting their money back somewhere else.

The Army had access to about 5000 square miles of jungle terrain for training, some of which was harsh, so of which was picturesque with clearings by rivers with waterfalls. The commanding officer proposed a picnic for his guests; deep in the jungle for just those with an Afghan connection. Four trucks left Friday afternoon for a three day/two night training expedition with beer. The two MAN HX 60, the Leyland Daf and the International were discreetly followed by a Toyota HiLux pick-up, driven by two Crips gang members who quickly reported the composition and direction of the convoy. Within an hour, the Crips had mobilized twenty heavily armed gang members and six pick-up trucks; they headed out into the jungle too.

But in a small country of 400,000 people, not much goes unobserved and intel goes both ways. The police knew about their Mexican visitors and about who they came to see; although not knowing the reason as the cartel didn’t want the Crips to know there was three million dollars up for grabs. An inspector of the local police thought it was about time he spoke to the duty officer at the base; warning that their guests were in danger. The information was compounded a few minutes later when a friendly ■■■■■■ phoned her best client, the duty officer to warn him also. The Lieutenant-Colonel was already out of cell-tower range but acting on his own initiative; the young officer quickly had five MAN HX 60 ready to go with thirty squaddies; unimpressed that their weekend plans were in ruins.

The picnic party had set up camp at a swimming hole with nearby cascade; pork ribs were on the barbeque and the cold Belikin lager was flowing when the first of the gangster pick-ups crested the ridge above the camp. The soldiers were unarmed and the cartel were keen to wade in with all guns blazing; but the Crips knew they would have to live with the repercussions, they implored the cartel to enter into dialogue first. They still thought the Brit and Yank couples had run off with cartel product; not knowing it was cash. The gang spread out across the ridge and descended to the river. A quick blast of gunfire got the attention of the picnickers who were soon hog tied and arranged in a row.

The sound of an automatic fire galvanized the army; quickly on the scene they assumed the elevated position on the ridge looking down on the inquisition that was about to start 

Five minutes into the stand-off, the local police arrived and tense negotiations began. The four Mexicans had poor English language skills and soon became sidelined. The Crips’ dire situation after being caught red-handed soon led them to sacrifice the cartel members to the police. With a typical British stiff upper lip mentality, the picnic continued into the night after the Mexicans were led away in handcuffs. The local gang members were given an amnesty; returning to Belize City with their armoury intact. The commanding officer had plenty of questions for Kevin and the situation strained their friendship. Eventually he recommended that it was better if the two overlanding couples did not return to base but took the road to Guatemala in the morning.

It was less than an hour to the border and the bridge across the Mopan River to Melchor de Mencos, Guatemala. They muddled through, helped by a lack of local traffic and a rough idea what was needed after checking iOverlander. Guatemalan quetzals from the money changer, temporary import permits from the customs office, 90 day visa from the Migration office and they were on their way; although the ninety days was to include time spent in the other C4 countries. Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua had an agreement making for restriction free travel between those countries but giving foreigners only ninety days. Bringing your own vehicle complicated border crossings and two hours was about the average time.

Meeting the MAN on the road just after the border had not been anticipated but was a welcome bonus for the women. Gunther suggested Belize had been humid and boring, just another stamp in the passport; all the others nodded in agreement and under the leadership of the confident German, they all set off for Tikal. The Mayan ruins had not been on the bucket list of Kevin and Rufus but they were soon as impressed as the others; climbing over the ancient pyramids and in awe of how it had all been put together. They camped in an adjacent field alongside a Swiss registered Iveco overlander. Now they were a convoy of four and the eight bonded among the sacrificial alters and ball courts.

The MAN and the Iveco took the initiative from there on; the Leyland Daf and the International hiding in plain sight with safety in numbers. Mayan ruins were a reoccurring theme as they crossed into Honduras and explored Copan Ruinas with it’s attendant flight of scarlet macaws. Honduras didn’t have much more to offer, soon they were in Nicaragua and on the ferry across to the island paradise of Ometepe with worries about the Tijuana cartel rarely on there mind. Indeed, the brothers and the henchmen never came back from the Belize Central Prison; suffering at the hands of the Bloods, the local gang aligned with the mighty Sinaloa Cartel, sworn enemies of Tijuana.

Costa Rica was expensive but that didn’t concern our flush travelers as much as the German and Swiss couples. Overlanding was expensive in big four wheel drive trucks, income was limited and outgoings were never ending. They pushed on to Panama, where Kevin and Rufus were surprised to find that the national currency was the balboa but American dollar was accepted absolutely everywhere. With three million dollars in cash, it would now be possible to live like kings. They researched the possibilities of of permanent residency and found Panama most welcoming. The quartet eventually split-up with the MAN and Iveco taking a ro-ro ferry to Colombia and continuing their journey to Ushuaia at the southern tip of Argentina. Rufus and Missy, Kevin and Gabby went to the town of Boquete, where the year round climate in the mountains was like an English Summer’s day. They rented villas, parked the trucks in a covered storage facility and kept a low profile amongst the big American ex-pat community. Slowly laundering their cartel dollars into their Panamanian bank accounts they soon had locally registered pick-up trucks and an idyllic lifestyle.

Kevin told me all this story when we met again about a year after our first encounter in the desert. I was riding my motorcycle two-up with Cheryl as my pillion on a tour of Central America. We too had discovered the high cost of overlanding in a big thirsty motorhome and were on a KTM 790 and staying in AirBnBs for half the price of touring in the Mack. It was at KM 59 on the tunnel road that I saw the Leyland Daf parked at a beachside bar. We were staying at the Surf Farm B&B, just north of El Zonte on El Salvador’s Pacific coastline. Kevin was with a pretty young Venezuelan woman who he had picked up while she was on a journey from her home country to a new life in the USA. One of many refugees making the dangerous crossing of the Darien Gap and heading north through central America.

Gabby had returned to Wales, totally stressed by the adventure, leaving Kevin alone and drinking too much with Rufus at their villas in Boquete. So what was he doing on the beach in El Salvador? Answer: Bitcoin!. The crypto currency was now legal tender in El Salvador and Kevin was exploring the possibilities of changing his Us dollars all into Bitcoin and getting back to the UK before converting back to good old Pounds sterling. Carrying all that cash about had become a burden but as I knew zero about crypto, I couldn’t help much. We sat about, mostly at the bar, where I heard this story as we watched surfers tackling the right hand break of this black sand beach. A week later Cheryl and I started out for home, leaving Kevin and Feleena as indecisive about their futures as when we arrived. Before we left he gave us a megalodon tooth.