Mexican save

So we’re back in 2002, and the 50th anniversary of Mercedes-Benz winning the Carrera Panamericana road race with the W194 300 SL, the first Merc with gullwing doors and the prototype for the famed production car of the same name that would arrive a couple of years later. It was also time to launch that car’s five generations descendant, the ‘R230’ SL roadster.

Would it not be a wheeze to retrace at least some of the steps of that famed race in one? You bet it would. We flew into Mexico City, our final destination being Tuxla Gutierrez near the Guatemalan border, running in the opposite direction to that travelled in 1952. They even sent the original SL in which Hermann Lang came second that year.

All of which was fine. Slightly less reassuring was the briefing at the start saying that long stretches after Oaxaca were deemed to be bandit country where there were no shortage of people who’d be only too delighted to relieve you of your shiny new SL500 and happier still to leave you in no state to bear witness to their larceny. We were told of all the tricks used to make you stop: someone runs into you; you come across someone lying in the road, an apparently broken down car or, as usual as any, a group of men just sitting in the middle of the road, apparently playing a game. You slow to a halt and discover it’s not quite the game you thought, and you’ve just become unwittingly and unwillingly part of it.

Whether to reassure us or not, we were then told that things were sufficiently bad right now that we were going to need a police escort, which rather dampened my enthusiasm for the entire escapade. I’d read enough about the inside of Mexican jails not to want to sample one first hand as a result of letting the SL stretch its legs a little. And hundreds of miles spent sitting at the Mexican open road speed limit of 50mph didn’t appeal much either

But there they were at the morning briefing as we prepared to leave Oaxaca, in a pair of suspiciously low and throaty-sounding Chevrolet police cars. They spoke no English, so the briefing was via an interpreter, brief and direct. ‘Don’t leave the route, don’t lose the escort, and if anyone tries to stop you for any reason, any reason at all, do not stop. Do not even slow down. On the contrary: accelerate.’

On we drove through villages where my understanding of poverty was redefined. I’ve been to plenty of places where people get by on very little but nothing like this: children dressed literally in rags, appallingly young, standing at the roadside covered in grime, holding out rudimentary bowls or just their hands. Suddenly a silver SL500 was the last machine on earth I wanted to be aboard. It felt obscene to be driving such a car past scenes like these. Next to me sat Jim Fets, a hard-bitten Detroit photographer, who murmured, ‘I thought I’d seen it all, but this is something else…’

The route started to climb from the valley floor and the first thing I noticed was that Mexican police cars didn’t not hang about. At least these ones did not: later, via the interpreter, they told just how modified they were – engines, suspension, brakes, the lot. Nor were they afraid to hold back. Honestly? I’d have been slower without them because I’d have always held back. But when these guys weren’t doing 100mph, they were doing 120mph and with one up front and one behind, not only did it seem wrong not to follow suit, it was near enough impossible.

Then came the corners: hairpins at the edges of vertiginous drops, all lined with crucifixes, tiny memorials to all those lives that had come this way and, all too suddenly, gone. It rather took the joy out of such a road.

It was therefore in a mood of sober reflection that we entered a small village, a single road leading past a few shacks and tumbledown dwellings. There was a group of men, some sitting on stools, some standing, not quite blocking the road but hardly caring to keep to the sides. I thought they must be playing a street game – they looked like boules players though I accept that’s unlikely in southern Mexico. The police, however, thought otherwise. Suddenly there were lights and sirens and a single shout on the radio, telling me to get my foot down. The Chevy accelerated, small block V8 thundering towards the men who scattered with impressive alacrity as we swept past. I tried to look in my mirror as we hammered out of the village, but my view was entirely obscured by dust.

What had happened back there? I will never know. My gut said then and still says now it was probably nothing. On the other hand, by now I knew our guardian angels well enough to know they didn’t scare easily so they, at least, thought there might be trouble. But I expect they were playing safe, if accelerating a two-tonne Chevy as hard as possible towards a crowd of people can be described as being in any way safe.

We said our goodbyes shortly thereafter. They were good enough to throw me over the bonnet of their car and bang on the bracelets for the amusement of Mr Fets and then they were gone, assuring us we were clear of the potential trouble spots and it would be plain sailing from hereon in. But having resented their presence at first, I’d got used to having them around as the miles accrued, become at times grateful beyond words that they were looking after us and really rather missed them when they’d gone.

We drove the last few miles fast, wanting to reach the safety of the city. Fast enough indeed for one of our number to come across some other members of the Mexican law enforcement community who seemed rather less keen on us going fast than their colleagues. Happily for them, a Mercedes person who knew Mexico well was on hand to handle the negotiations. The bidding started at a carton of cigarettes and concluded with the handing over of a Parker pen, as good a currency as any in this part of the world.

We flew back to Mexico City and then straight on to London. Within 24 hours of escaping what may have been an ambush with who knows what potential consequences, I was back in my flat wondering if it had all been real. But it was, and I have the photographs to prove it.