2011 08 30

So, we got to Zamora the end of May, and suffered through the heat with lousy creeping lung crud, and then actually started to feel human.  There was a bit of a deadline in returning to California to move the truck, as the registration was valid only until the end of August.  About July 12, we attempted to get the G-man his Michoacan driver's licence, but the bureaucunt in the office insisted that she could do nothing without his birth certificate.  Americans hardly ever carry this document, and their bloody passports state that the carrier was born in State, USA.  Not sufficient for Bureaucunt. This put us a day late for the flight reservations, but Volaris offers a flexibility option for a small fee, and we had availed ourselves of same.  Our Santo Paul drove us to Guadalajara aeroport and we dropped off the G-man in plenty of time to catch his flight.  However, the staff didn't understand the flexibility thing and refused to let him on the plane.  After much yakking and phone calling and shortening of temper, he was finally on-board a flight to Oakland - arriving three hours later than expected by our friends there.  That worked out because our Fox is a bit of a saint herself.  G spent some time with her and running around the Bay Area, and then headed north to the truck.

We had hired a neighbour, supposedly well-versed in the maintenance of diesel engines,  to get it prepped and ready for the road. We paid the pendejo to change the oil and fix anything that needed fixing and get it to the storage place G had arranged.  He assured us that he had done so.  Well, he is a liar.  And a cheat.  And an alcoholic.  However, the G-man collected the cat and finally got the truck started and on the road.  The first time he turned it off there was someone close to jump it back to life.  The second time he turned it off, he had to call the AAA.  The third time he turned it off was in the parking lot of Costco, where he bought a new battery.  End of that problem.  However, the air-conditioning didn't, and I don't remember everything else it couldn't, so the first leg of the journey was a little uncomfortable, but not that bad.  The poor old thing (I mean the truck) climbed the 7,000-foot range between California and Nevada very slowly, but the poor old thing (I mean my husband) managed to get it to limp into Nevada.  He got a couple days' rest in Carson City for two reasons:  the tyres and the heat.  As you may realise, as one descends from the heights, the ambient temperature increases - to 104F and higher in this case.  In August.  In the desert.  Without air-conditioning.  The G-man thought the cat was going to die, he was so hot he was panting and throwing-up any water he drank.  The G-man thought he was going to sweat to death.  He finally drove, to grossly misuse the term, into the parking-lot of a casino, encased the cat and hit the cold inside air.  Muttney was so grateful to be cool he didn't make a sound.

After recuperating (and losing $2.00), he walked outside to see the truck leaning to one side.  Upon inspection, the tyres revealed their true inner selves:  if you've ever wondered if steel-belted radials actually have steel in, they do.  And it ain't pretty.  About $1,200.00 and several hours at 114F later, all six of the tyres were back in fighting form and the passengers were in Las Vegas, TKO'd.  More resting in cheap motels ensued because by this time the G-man was not only frustrated, he had a sinus infection.  Muttney likes air-conditioned motel rooms.  Many calls back and forth to his Medicine Man in California, and the G-man had antibiotics and a better temper.

And here we leave our intrepid travellers to rest and regain their composures.  And I can therefore call the next instalment 'leaving las vegas' ha ha ha

R