(03/08/26)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
"Bottle Green Mercedes"
​Our arrival in the mid 70s pre-dated the substantial diaspora of gringos, which would begin to descend on Belize, en masse, about a decade later. Die-hard ex-pats like us had arrived with the specific intention of becoming homesteaders. We had made the grueling trip overland through Mexico in ancient non-air-conditioned trucks, cranky half-broken-down campers, or ancient RVs. Those of us who came from the eastern U.S. or the Midwest usually crossed at Brownsville. And, within the first 3 to 5 miles after Matamoros, we would hit our first checkpoint.
​The checkpoint were glaringly militaristic. There were usually four soldiers: one inside a little concrete hut, peering out through the single open window, one motionless armed-guard, and two others who brusquely approached us with automatic weapons. They would check our passports, ask about drugs and guns, and give a cursory glance into the vehicle. Without exception, these soldiers were hugely intimidating. I felt like we were breaking a law, just by virtue of being there. Sometimes, we were detained for twenty minutes with no explanation. Twice, we were forced to get out of the vehicle altogether, while the soldiers searched our vehicle right down to the floor mats. 
There was one particular checkpoint where it was hard to tell if they were military or banditos. Just three guys, a simple sunshade, two stop signs (written in English?) and a bunch of orange road cones. One guy was dressed in a shabby uniform, one looked like a Mexican cowboy, and the third wore a ruffled gold satin shirt, straight out of a disco. These random checkpoints had to be endured all the way through Mexico, from Matamoros to Chetumal.
However, in the early 80s, a slightly different type of gringo started to show up, this time by air, even though only TACA and TAN/SAHSA served Belize at the time. These gringos were curious enough to visit Belize, but not looking to commit. They weren’t quite “tourists” yet. It was too early, as the country lacked the infrastructure to provide accommodations, restaurant facilities, and organized local tours to points of interest. All of that was yet to be conceived.
It was a Saturday, market day in San Ignacio, when I stopped in at Eva’s—the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant on Burns Avenue—owned by a former British Army officer. I had been chatting with Mick and Lucy from Chaa Creek Cottages, when a guy named Jim overheard our conversation, and asked if he could join us. This was pretty typical. All visiting gringos asked questions and for the most part, we homesteaders were gracious. After all, our lives were unusual, exotic, and exciting, and we liked sharing our stories. However, we were also curious about others who had traveled through Mexico, and enjoyed the opportunity to compare notes.

Jim Lorenzo was one of the new “curious,” and did not fit the image of the would-be homesteader. Instead of the long hair, beard, and colorful tie-dye of the hippie era, Jim was short-haired, and clean-cut, dressed in the sports-casual and leather shoes of a businessman. He was Italian American with classic good looks: olive skin, black hair, and well-trimmed mustache. Unlike many of us, he was a West-coaster, having come from California. And amazingly, he had not arrived by air, but had, indeed, also driven overland, having crossed at Tijuana.
“So how many times did you get pulled over at checkpoints?” Mick asked. “Did they give you a hard time?”
 
“No.” Jim replied.” To tell you the truth, I didn’t get hassle at all. Not even once.
In fact, those guys never even waved me down to stop. I was driving this old bottle green Mercedes. It was used, but I’d gotten a great deal on it in San Diego. I figured that, because it was diesel, it would be less hassle finding gas.”
He’d had a good point. The fuel sold at the Pemex and Nova stations was dirty, and very low octane. There was even a joke about it, as “nova,” in Spanish, translates to “doesn’t go.”​
“The first time I approached a checkpoint, just outside Tijuana, the guards suddenly jumped to their feet with a stiff salute, and waved me through,” he explained, with an amazed look. “I was kind of shocked, and wasn’t sure what to do. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I saluted back. After that, it happened every single time. They’d jump to attention and salute me, and I saluted back.
I mean, I could have been running bales of drugs, or smuggling enough weapons to start a small revolution. Instead, I ended up saluting my way through all of Mexico.” He laughed. “I found out afterwards that the only people who drive a bottle-green Mercedes are the Mexican generals.”
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