A ferry from Tampico: (18 Apr 2000) The drive from Matamoros to Tampico was much too far to tackle in the short day remaining after retrieving our truck from its time in custody, so it was necessary to stop along the way and spend the night at a well lit filling station which also had sandwiches for sale. That was our second night (Please help me keep count.) spent in the cramped cab of our make-do as a substitute, mobile motel. When we got to Tampico, we had the first (another count, please) little bite of mordida while on the road rather than at an official mordida payment station. As would become the usual case, I had no idea what our violation, if any, was. But, the policeman seemed content with the amount of the "fine" - which I offered to pay directly to him rather than to put our loaded truck under the kind protection of the whole local police force during the duration of more formal proceedings. Tampico did not appear to me to be half so attractive as it was pictured in the movie, "The Treasure of Sierra Madre," or half so pleasant as sung about in the Herb Alpert ditty with the same title as that of the town. The ferry part: (19 Apr 2000) I don't remember if my AAA Travelogue told me that we needed to take a ferry to head south out of Tampico, but we did. It was another ordeal (out of my innate sense of courtesy, not detailed to you) which involved waiting in a long line for the next trip of the ferry, being forced aside for a few more trips while the operators figured out what to do with us, and (you may have guessed again) paying a toll that was (How shall I put it?) negotiated. But at last, we were out of Tampico and off for the ancient and magnificent city of Vera Cruz, at which we were planning to have a well-earned day of rest.

La Bestia Roja: (06 Mar 2000) Somewhere in the wilds of Mexico, Mike and I decided that the dump truck, having got us this far, should have a proper name. We thought of one, pulled the truck over for a proper christening, and scrawled "La Bestia Roja" in the accumulated dust on both doors. Yes, the writing was red because the red of the truck showed through in the places where our fingers had scratched. If you don't know what "La Bestia Roja" means in English, look it up - a clue being that, from there on out, she (no longer an "it") was called, by Mike and me, The Red Beast. Well, since it didn't seem to rain in that part of the year in that part of Mexico, the written titles stayed there all through the trip and drew many smiles or puzzled looks, or both, from innocent bystanders along the way.

Vera Cruz and other crosses to bear: (23 Apr 2000) After the unscheduled delays in Tampico, we knew there was no way to make it to Ciudad Vera Cruz before dark; but, partly because we did not see a safe place to park our mobile motel for the night and partly because we were looking forward to spending the night in a first class hotel after the rigors we had endured in Matamoros and Tampico, we plowed ahead and did, in fact, make it all the way to Vera Cruz without incident other than Mike's ordeal of a little night driving. The other crosses to bear part: (26 Apr 2000) We didn't know, but found out as soon as we entered Vera Cruz on the Saturday night before Easter of 1980, what the traffic would be like in a large Mexican city on a holiday weekend. It was a (no pun intended) nightmare. The road which was marked as our path led us into center of town and by a large plaza with hundreds of people milling about. Mike wove his way through the throng in the plaza and stopped by the side entrance to a large hotel. I jumped out and ran to ask about lodging and/or parking for the night. The manager looked at me as if I were from outer space instead of just from outer Vera Cruz. Need I say more about the outcome of my quest? (29 Apr 2000) As I got back to The Red Beast, I spied a large policeman engaged in a conversation with Mike. Mike told me that he thought his policeman wanted me to get in the police car with another policeman so that both vehicles could "go someplace". I told Mike to stay calm and do just as was suggested. My policeman, who was not a friendly sort of cop, and I followed The Red Beast, Mike, and Mike's policeman, who was the MFIC of the caravan, to a part of town where no life forms (except for the four of us) were out and about. Both vehicles stopped in that dark and ominous location and the four of us exited and gathered at a spot between the two. The MFIC seemed to be highly irate about the fact that the 3/4" rebars extended about two feet beyond the rear of the truck bed. He was very experienced in dealing with gringo transgressors and, in setting the amount of reward he would get as payment for his polished performance, he used excellent tactics - such as using the reliable "okay, we'll go to the police station" gambit - always effective to strike terror in the hearts of gringos. Finally, a bargain was struck and Mike and I were once again back on the road in search of lodging. (30 Apr 2000) The drive out of Vera Cruz, being necessarily risked on a dark night, along a narrow highway between mountains and with no rest stops on either side, and during a Holiday weekend when everyone in Mexico seemed to be going to or from Vera Cruz in one hell of a hurry, was hard on poor Mike. He was so pressured and agitated that I would have felt sorry for him had I not been too frightened, by the vehicles whizzing past us in both directions, to worry about the emotions of someone else. After about three hours of the ordeal, we found a lighted area at what, in Oklahoma or Texas, would be called a truck stop. There we could stop, eat, and rest from what was left of the night after the Vera Cruz fiasco. Vera Cruz, for me, just ain't what it's cracked up to be.

Villahermosa and vittles: (15 Apr 2000) Late in the afternoon of an arduous day among what seemed like many, we drove along a stretch of road high which passed high above the city of Villahermosa, Chiapas. The city, beneath us on the right, presented a very pleasant view which I was enjoying very much when Mike suddenly shouted, "Merv, look up there!" I did, and there was indeed a beautiful, mirage-like, sight above us on the mountainside road. Lo and behold, it appeared (and turned out) to be a first class hotel with an easy entry for The Red Beast. I am almost certain that this is a recently found photo of that hotel and its surroundings. The hotel is the large building near the center of the photo. We checked in, secured The Red Beast, performed our ablutions, and went to the dining room for a few libations and a well deserved feast. The vittles part: (17 Apr 2000) The food, service, and ambience offered in the dining room were excellent; but, since pure drinking water is always a problem for gringos in Mexico, we were forced to be satisfied with drinking a good local beer served in huge frosted schooners that you would expect to see in a San Francisco or Milwaukee pub, not in the sub-tropics of Mexico. We bore the inconvenience with fortitude, mostly because when you emptied one schooner, the friendly waiter didn't refill it, but brought you another one just as full and frosted as was the first. In fact, Mike and I were bearing up so well with our water deprivation, that a startling event occured. As Mike's second schooner was getting a little low and mine was empty, I gave the waiter, who was standing far across the room and out of Mike's line of sight, a little nod that the waiter and I knew was meant to signal him for another round - by this time, the waiter and I had found a solution to the language barrier. Soon thereafter, the waiter, bearing two replacement schooners of beer on a large tray, approached our table from behind Mike and reached around him to pick up Mike's almost depleted schooner. Then it was that Mike, alert to the presence of a possible predator, saw the hand approaching his mug, jerked up his head toward the interloper, and shouted, "Not so fast, Rodriguez!". Well, maybe the waiter was named Rodriquez, because he didn't take the event so hard. He just jerked his hand back as if it were burned, waited until Mike took one last swig, and finished his waiterly duties. The next morning at breakfast, we drew the same waiter. This time, he seemed anxious to make Mike happier with his service and gave him a high degree of courtesy and attention. But, maybe, he overdid it some with a maneuver that, literally, made me break out in gales of laughter. Finally, it came time to empty the ash tray, which was placed half way between me and Mike. The waiter, all the time keeping his eyes glued on Mike, who was engrossed with his refried beans, gingerly moved his hand toward the ash tray; but, he pulled his hand back before daring to grab the dirty object away from Mike. Then, with a very stealthy move, he finally picked up the ash tray, let out a brief sigh of relief, and hurried away from the table. Buster Keaton could not have performed the skit with more skill.

A ruinous day off: (17 Feb 2000) By this time, Mike and I deserved a whole day off away from The Red Beast and the Federales (I know they weren't Federales.) so, after breakfast, we joined a tour of the ruins at Palenque (yes, that's a link to its home page) which was not a long drive from Villahermosa. Besides needing the respite and satisfying my standing desire to visit any nearby ruins, another good reason to visit some ruins at this opportunity was that, the relationship between Guatemala and Belize being what it was at the time, there would be no practical way to visit the much larger ruins at Tikal, Guatemala, about fifty miles from the Belize border. Tikal is now readily accessible by land (cheaply) from several starting points on the Belize mainland and by air (not expensively) from Belize City and San Pedro. You may visit Tikal and learn about physically getting there from Belize just by clicking here. After the tour and one more night in the hotel, we were off on the last leg of the trek through Mexico.

A day in Chetumal: (06 Mar 2000) Chetumal, Mexico, to be mentioned again in Two ways north to Mexico, is located just across the Hondo River from Belize and not very far from Corozal, Belize. The Red Beast, Mike, and I arrived there, early in the afternoon. Mike and I noticed that the town had a new, clean, and planned look about it. We didn't know, at the time, that this was partially because Chetumal, which, at some previous time, had been known as "Playa Obispo", had been leveled by a hurricane - in 1948, I think. We also didn't know that several San Pedro families had migrated from that part of the Yucatan. Anyway, our plot was to spend the night in Chetumal and face the border crossing, along with the full day's drive to Belize City, early the next morning. But, the tropics (I guess that, technically, we were in the sub-tropics, but we were below the Tropic of Cancer, and that's the tropics to me.) frequently force a change in the best laid plans of lizards and men. As we were going along, looking for a place to spend the night, we heard the seemingly inevitable sound of a Mexican type siren. Looking behind, I spotted this little brown police car whose driver was frantically waving us to pull over. Mike pulled over, stopped the Red Beast, and slumped over on the steering wheel, while I thought about how to handle the expected lecture in broken English which would improve as soon as the speaker was asked if the fine could be paid directly to him. By this time, I was getting pretty good at that ritual. But, before I could begin the routine by asking what the problem was, the officer said in perfect and unaccented English, "Would you like to sell some of those 3/4 inch iron reinforcement bars?". With much relief, I explained that we would like to, but they were listed on our papers and we had to have them when we left Mexico. He nodded, smiled, and said, "Okay, thanks a lot for stopping." After he left, Mike and I looked at each other and both of us, almost in unison, said something like, "Let's get the hell out of Mexico." That we did, and pronto.

Both sides of another border: (19Apr 2000) We had only one more international border to cross and, like the one farther north, one of its sides was both the same. On the north side, there was an ordeal which consisted of the border guards faking an inspection of our cargo to make sure everything we brought in was listed in the papers, meticulously peering at and stamping those papers for about thirty minutes, and (surprise, surprise) telling me how much more money we owed. Having endured those inconveniences with the best imitation aplomb we could muster, we were allowed to cross the bridge; thereby, and with premature relief, we passed out of Mexico and into Belize where, temporarily, I felt at ease. (27 Apr 2000) I had thought: that the second border check of The Red Beast and its cargo would be cursory since all our transport papers on each were in order and stamped with Mexican ink smudges in proof of that fact; that, even though the Belize government relied on duty as its main source of revenue, the amount of duty we were to pay would be certain and easily calculated from our transport papers; and, that the formalities of such checking and payment would be done in Belize City where the trusty Rudon could defend our goods from the claws of officialdom much better than I. Alas, I thought wrong three times in a row. (10 May 2000) It was late in the afternoon when we crossed the bridge into Belize, and the event reminded me of the remark my dad used to make when we crossed a bridge over Red River and re-entered Texas from Oklahoma: "Smell that air, boy. Ain't it better?" (23 May 2000) Just across the bridge and to our right was a fairly large building that housed the immigration station. A quick check there revealed that we would not be allowed to proceed to Belize City to be processed and to pay the inevitable duty, but that we would have to spend the night right there and do the ordeal the next morning. Of course, that would mean another night in The Red Beast and two new experiences for Mike, being (1) his introduction to the Belize Sand Fly, a tiny but especially vicious animal that comes in droves and compares to the Oklahoma Chigger as lightning does to a lightning bug, and (2) his first taste of a Belikin Beer which, in preparation for what proved to be a miserable night, we found in a small store located just across the street from the immigration station. I could not identify whether the store, which had a few tables and a few cases where canned edibles were stored, was primarily a food store, diner, or beer joint. But, at any rate, it was operated by a very nice lady who was, obviously, the owner, waitress, cook, dishwasher, and bouncer. (25 May 2000) The nice lady let us stay until early in the morning when she got sleepy, which seemed to coincide with her having no more Belikins to sell. So Mike and I were ousted to endure the sand flies and things that come and peer in the night. (26 May 2000) We had been told by several people, including the Belikin lady who was the only one of the advisors whom I assessed as being reliable, that we would fare much better at the immigration station if we got a particular individual to represent us. That gentleman seemed (and proved) to be a welcome addition in getting us and The Red Beast processed, and he quoted a reasonable fee for his services. The procedure was for some guys to crawl into the bed of The Red Beast and check things off on a piece of paper, this being (presumably) for the purpose of disclosing any contraband not listed in the lengthy manifest; but, had we known of those guys' efficiency in that regard, and been so inclined, we could have grasped a fine opportunity to be first class smugglers. The whole operation was overseen by a imperious and swaggering martinet in some kind of uniform and carrying a large night stick. His manner suggested that he was there to enforce the rules and regulations without pity, compassion, or sense of humor. At the end of the process, the martinet had disappeared and left it to our rep to come to Mike and me, standing a little way from The Red Beast, and break the news as to how much duty was owed. I had no idea of what the correct amount was and was not startled by the final figure; so, with U.S. cash being full faith and credit in Belize, I gave our rep the amount owed as duty and the amount of his fee. I naively assumed that, as soon as he returned with the receipt, we would be on our way - but no, that was not to be. (02 Jun 2000) When he returned, he had the receipt and manifest in hand but told me that several items had been left off of the duty by the martinet (who had by then emerged and parked himself, with chest puffed out, by The Red Beast) and that, before we were allowed to leave, we needed to pay some sort of "adjustment" on account of that oversight. While we were discussing the proper amount to accomplish the "adjustment" and I was expressing my reluctance to pay what amounted to a bribe, the martinet grew restless. He then bashed The Red Beast with his night stick and yelled something like, "This is not proper. This is incorrect. Something must be done about this." When I went over to him to inquire what the impropriety was, other than that he wanted what about 100 yards north of where we stood would be known as his mordida, he irately pointed his night stick at the speedometer and said, "This has been around more than once." I asked him to wait a minute and went back to where Mike and our rep were standing. I asked the latter to find out how much it would take to make the "adjustment". Then, I watched intently while he went over to the martinet for a short visit and listened with interest when he gave me the figure which, as I now recall, was $175.00 U. S. I was reminded of the old comedy routine entitled, "Pay The Two Dollars" and coughed up the amount of the "adjustment". Our rep made the exchange of dough for papers and, as soon as the papers were in hand, Mike and I hurried back to the relative comfort of The Red Beast and our journey deeper into the interior.

An arrival and a big step indeed: (07 Mar 2000) We got to Belize City just before dusk. After all the rigors of the trip, and the recent difficulties at the border, all we wanted to do was to get the truck to Rudon for safekeeping, registration, and licenses, to check into a hotel, to clean off the Mexican and Belizean dust, and to have a few beers and a good meal before bedtime. It was unfortunate that we got there at the time of day when traffic was at it's most jamming. There was a policeman in the center of Front Street where we wanted to make a left turn (just before we got to the swing bridge) and go to Alamilla Wharf - Rudon's usual haunt. When Mike slowed to make the left turn, the policeman looked like he would have apoplexy and frantically waved us to proceed across the unswung swing bridge. That Mike did; and, we went on through the middle of town to a safe turning place and retraced our steps through the center of town and across the still unswung swing bridge again, this time to make a right hand turn. The same policeman gave us a broad smile and politely waved us on down Front Street for half of a long block where stood Rudon at his usual station when he did not have a fare. Rudon told me not to worry, that the truck would be safe at his house where he had barking dogs and a shotgun. When Rudon told me not to worry, I didn't - as always. I gave Rudon the keys and agreed to meet him sometime the next day when he would have the truck registration papers for me to sign. The big step part: (08 Mar 2000) The rest of the evening's agenda when pretty well. We walked the two blocks to the Luxury Hotel for one of those "Nights in the lap of Luxury" (about which you may read under that title on Page Three). We checked in with the proprietor at the hardware store next door, performed our ablutions as well as could be expected in our cubicle, and stepped outside to meet our fate for the evening. That is, I stepped, but Mike practically bounded out the door and, faithfully following the directions he was given, strode towards the Upstairs Cafe for "Dinner upstairs" (about which you also may read on Page Three). Then, out of the night, a booming voice asked Mike, "Where you goin', Big Step?" Anyway, the query having been rhetorical, the evening at the Upstairs Cafe and the Luxury Hotel went well and without surprises.

A banker and a beginning: (26 Feb 2000) The next morning, after breakfast at Mom's, I, in my seersucker silliness again, waltzed into the Royal Bank of Canada across the street, met a banker, and (with a check drawn on the US bank where all the Victoria House money was deposited) opened an account in BZE Dollars. The then (and during all of my stay in Belize) official rate of exchange was two BZE Dollars for one U. S. Dollar. The bank was allowed to charge, and did charge, as always, an exchange fee of .875% on each exchange - either way. I knew that there was an unofficial exchange rate on the streets where one could do much better than that with a US Dollar, but I sure didn't want to mess with that can of worms, at least not in such a large transaction as the banker and I conducting. It was necessary to put all the money in BZE Dollars because the law was that accounts in US dollars were not permitted without government approval. I knew that this money would soon go bye-bye, so there was no need to wait for the nod. In our discussion just before the account was opened, I pointed out to the banker, whose name I well remember but see no need to use, that, since I was, in effect, loaning the bank money right then, it seemed reasonable that, in the future, the bank would reciprocate in that regard. Then, I said, to effectuate a beginning of that reciprocation, I was willing to deposit a larger sum in an interest bearing account against which I would borrow at a lesser rate of interest. He patiently listened to my silly spiel and, just as patiently, explained to me the quaint (to a gringo) Belizean custom of a bank lending money through the allowance of overdrafts on a (secured) account, and that the total amount of money the bank could lend, from time to time, was subject to governmental regulation and, therefore he might not have the money to lend at the time I wanted to borrow. I did like his candor and, mostly because of his continuing candor and honest frankness, he became my all-time favorite banker. My past experiences with bankers had caused me to rank them just below used car salesmen and far below bookies in honesty and candor qualities. (30 Mar 2000) Well, lo and behold, through the miracle of the internet and the astuteness of Fidel Ancona, I have just re-established contact with Francis Castillo, my favorite banker, and gotten his permission to disclose his real name, provided that I don't stretch the truth about him too much. We expect to keep in contact. Now, ain't that a good show after these many years? The beginning part: (12 Apr 2000) Now it was time to get to San Pedro and get to work. I walked back to Rudon's haunt at the Alamilla Wharf, where Mike was to meet me with our suitcases. Rudon was there with the papers to sign in order to register and license the Red Beast. After that, Rudon was to have the cargo of The Red Beast reladed on the Caribbean Queen and/or the Emma V. for shipment to the main pier in San Pedro - at the time I told him we were ready for it. I didn't worry about the stuff being okay in the meantime, because Rudon had already explained to me that his home was in the country and well guarded by his well trained dogs (trained to bark for warning and bite for effect) and his twelve gauge shotgun. Well, there was nothing left to do except have Rudon take us to Municipal Airport for Mike's first trip to San Pedro.