Chapter 44: I Crossed the Border
Chapter 44: I Crossed the Border
“So, what’s your answer?”
Rafael asked bluntly.
Judging by the broad grin stretching across his face, however, he was thoroughly enjoying the situation.
“This car is an original.”
“Oh? Why?”
In truth, I had realized the Shelby Cobra was genuine rather than a replica the moment I entered the reception room.
Even without examining the car, anyone could have guessed it with a little thought, considering Rafael’s personality, the scale of his dealership, and where the car had been stored.
That meant the reasoning behind the answer was far more important than getting the answer itself right.
Rafael seemed to think the same way.
“First, the body is different. Replicas are made of fiberglass-reinforced plastic, but the original has an aluminum body.”
To create those formidable curves, the aluminum body of the original AC Cars model had to be hammered into shape by hand.
Naturally, traces of that work were bound to remain.
“Hmm. It’s true that ninety-nine percent of replicas use fiberglass. But there are a handful that also copied the aluminum body.”
Rafael was not going to let me off easily.
Of course, that was not the only reason I had reached my conclusion.
“Yes. That’s why I checked the frame next. Replicas usually use a conventional rectangular frame, but the original has two round tubes running through the center of the body.”
“Oh? What else?”
Rafael urged me on like a child asking his father to read the same storybook again.
“The rivets in the doors are different too… and unlike a replica, the pedals are positioned unusually far to the left. Then there’s the speedometer. This is a reverse-sweep speedometer, isn’t it?”
(Translator’s Note: Reverse-Sweep Speedometer — A speedometer whose needle begins at the right and moves counterclockwise as speed rises. Smiths Instruments supplied this distinctive gauge for original Shelby Cobras.)
The so-called reverse-sweep speedometer.
It was one of the original Cobra’s defining features.
On an ordinary speedometer, the needle begins on the left and moves clockwise toward the right as the speed increases.
On a reverse-sweep speedometer, zero begins at the far right and the needle moves counterclockwise.
The original Shelby Cobra used this reverse-sweep speedometer manufactured by the British company Smiths.
(Translator’s Note: Smiths Instruments — A British manufacturer founded in the nineteenth century and historically known for automotive, aviation, and industrial gauges used by numerous British vehicle manufacturers.)
“Hahahaha! Impressive as always. You got everything right!”
Rafael clapped his hands in delight.
“You surprise me every time I see you. It seems you’ve been studying hard in addition to doing restoration work. You have quite a sharp eye.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it studying hard, but I’ve been reading automotive books whenever I have spare time.”
“That’s a good attitude. If you keep moving forward without becoming complacent, you’re bound to accomplish something greater. I’m fairly confident in my eye for people as well as my eye for cars.”
Rafael grinned.
Honestly, it felt extremely good to hear something like that from a man who had become this successful in the industry.
“In any case, it seems I can trust you with this. The truth is, I’ve received a particularly demanding request. The client is an old friend and major customer of mine who operates a large tequila distillery in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. He wants to have a car restored, but there’s a deadline, so I’d like you to focus on it. What do you think?”
“Fortunately, my schedule is completely open at the moment, so I can do it. But I’ll need to see the car before deciding whether to accept the restoration.”
“Hmm. It’s right to approach it cautiously. As you know, introducing a customer is a sensitive matter that puts my own credibility on the line. But if you succeed, there will be benefits beyond the profit alone.”
I listened carefully to everything he said.
“Then… how about meeting the client in person and deciding after you see the condition of the car and hear the terms?”
“Yes, that works for me. It would be more certain that way.”
“Good, good. Then let’s get going. You brought your passport, didn’t you?”
Rafael rose from his seat and put on his signature cowboy hat.
Noon in El Paso, Texas, was every bit as hot as Arizona.
Between the heat rising from the ground and the exhaust fumes pouring from the vehicle ahead, there was no way I could open the windows.
Perhaps because of that, Dusty lay down with a dissatisfied expression throughout the drive.
The Bridge of the Americas at the border was packed with vehicles traveling between Mexico and the United States.
“Take out your passport in advance.”
At Rafael’s words, I pulled out my nearly unused passport with its dark blue cover.
Soon afterward, we entered Mexican customs and stopped beneath a large electronic sign when our turn came.
It was the random inspection system known as the semáforo.
(Translator’s Note: Semáforo — Spanish for “traffic light.” At Mexican customs, it refers to a red-light/green-light selection system used to determine whether a traveler’s vehicle or luggage will receive additional inspection.)
Ding—
Fortunately, the display above us lit up green.
We were cleared to pass.
Just as I thought we had gotten lucky, however, a Mexican soldier wearing body armor and carrying an M16 rifle over his shoulder tapped on the window.
“Leave this to me.”
Whirr—
When I lowered the window, Rafael stepped in and exchanged a short conversation with the soldier in fluent Spanish.
The short-haired soldier glanced at my face, then called out, “¡Pase!”
Even after passing through there, however, the border-crossing process was not yet complete.
I stopped again at Banjercito near the customs area.
(Translator’s Note: Banjercito — Mexico’s military-operated banking institution. Among its public functions, it processes temporary vehicle import permits for foreign-plated vehicles traveling beyond designated border zones.)
To drive a vehicle with American license plates into Mexico’s interior, I needed to obtain a temporary import permit there.
“What year is this vehicle?”
“It’s a 1999 model.”
“Perfect.”
After hearing my answer, Rafael took out two hundred and fifty dollars and handed it to the clerk.
The deposit varied depending on the vehicle’s model year.
Vehicles from 2007 onward required four hundred dollars, models from 2001 to 2006 required three hundred, and vehicles from 2000 or earlier required two hundred.
The additional fifty dollars was an administrative fee.
Only after attaching the holographic sticker the clerk gave me to the windshield was the entry process finally complete.
“What do you think? Simpler than you expected, isn’t it?”
Rafael lightly patted my shoulder and laughed.
After crossing the border, I drove out of the congested streets of Ciudad Juárez as quickly as possible.
(Translator’s Note: Ciudad Juárez — A major city in the Mexican state of Chihuahua, directly across the Rio Grande from El Paso, Texas. It was officially renamed Ciudad Juárez in 1888 in honor of President Benito Juárez.)
Street vendors rushed toward us at every traffic light, loud noises filled the air, and the asphalt was riddled with potholes.
It truly felt as though I had arrived in Mexico.
“From here, just take Highway 45 straight south. It should take about three or four hours.”
Rafael adjusted his sunglasses and leaned back comfortably in his seat.
Throughout the drive, the vast Mexican landscape beyond the road was not very different from Arizona’s barren scenery.
Ochre sand, red rocks, and cacti.
I rested one arm casually on the window frame and simply kept steady pressure on the accelerator.
After driving for around three hours and entering the area near Meoqui in the state of Chihuahua, the uniformly ochre landscape gradually began turning blue-green.
“That’s blue agave. Have you never seen it before?”
(Translator’s Note: Blue Agave — Agave tequilana Weber var. azul, the blue-green succulent legally approved for tequila production. Under tequila’s appellation rules, tequila must be produced from this variety within authorized Mexican regions.)
Apparently, Rafael had not been asleep, because he spoke while looking out the window.
“Not this much of it.”
“Haha. Doesn’t it look like a strangely colored sea?”
He was right.
The sharp, upright leaves of the blue agave rolled like blue waves.
It felt completely different from the green cornfields of the United States.
“All of that is used to make tequila. The client you’re meeting today also operates a large tequila distillery.”
Rafael added the explanation when he saw my fascination.
After driving much farther along an unpaved road between the agave fields, a brilliant white wall finally appeared in the distance.
It belonged to a Mexican country estate in the style locals called a hacienda.
(Translator’s Note: Hacienda — A large agricultural, ranching, or plantation estate historically found in Spain and Spanish America. The system expanded during the colonial period and often centered on a substantial main residence.)
As we drew closer, I could make out the texture of the white plaster coating the outer walls.
Brilliant purple bougainvillea bloomed luxuriantly along the top of the wall.
“¡Es Rafael!”
Rafael called briefly into the intercom beside the enormous iron gate.
With a harsh electronic buzz, the gate opened automatically.
“Wow…”
Beyond the iron gate lay a world completely different from the desert outside.
The driveway was covered in white gravel, with prickly pear cacti and palm trees lining both sides.
Sprinklers sprayed water throughout the garden, lowering the temperature and lending the air a refreshing coolness.
Sniff, sniff—
The moment I lowered the window slightly, Dusty stood on his hind legs and stuck his nose outside.
I parked beneath a red-tiled shelter and headed toward the main house.
“¡Alejandro!”
A man in a white linen shirt was sitting in a patio with a fountain at its center.
Hearing Rafael’s call, he rose from his seat.
“¡Rafael!”
The two appeared to have known each other for a long time.
They called each other’s names warmly and exchanged a brief embrace.
“This is Jason, the man who will work his magic on your car. And this is Alejandro Vega, the owner of this estate and the proprietor of Tequila Don Vega.”
“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Welcome! Rafael has told me a great deal about you. He said you’re highly skilled and very dependable.”
Alejandro’s voice was vigorous, and his skin was reddish-brown like sun-baked pottery.
His entire appearance showed that he was not a wealthy man who spent his life behind a desk, but an owner who worked directly in the field.
“I still have a great deal to learn.”
“Haha. The young man is humble too. You’ve had a long journey, so first, have something to drink.”
Alejandro made a small gesture, and a man who had been waiting behind him offered us glasses of a drink.
“It’s agua fresca. It’s cold and delicious. Try it.”
(Translator’s Note: Agua Fresca / Aguas Frescas — Mexican nonalcoholic drinks made by combining water with fruit, flowers, seeds, grains, or other ingredients and lightly sweetening the mixture. Common varieties include hibiscus, tamarind, and rice-based horchata.)
Rafael smoothly cut in from beside me to explain.
Judging by the situation, it seemed to be a customary welcome drink served to guests in Mexico.
“Thank you.”
The agua fresca was a pale, cloudy white, almost like heavily diluted milk, with hibiscus petals floating on top.
“Hmm…!”
The taste was unexpectedly close to plain water.
There was only a faint sweetness and a slight refreshing tartness.
“All right, Alejandro. Show Jason the car first.”
“What? Without tasting the tequila?”
“Haha. Later. If he tastes your tequila now, he won’t feel like working.”
Rafael expertly pushed Alejandro forward by the back.
Following the disappointed-looking Alejandro, we headed toward a stone storage building behind the main house.
Inside, a small, rounded vehicle sat beneath a cloth cover.
“Here! This is the car I want to commission.”
Alejandro grabbed the edge of the cloth and swept it off forcefully, revealing a car less than thirteen feet, or four meters, long.
A 1956 Nash Metropolitan.
(Translator’s Note: Nash Metropolitan — A compact car designed for the American market and built in Britain by Austin. Production began in 1953, and sales continued into the early 1960s. Its small size and colorful two-tone styling made it unusual among postwar American automobiles)
Now this is another car I never expected to see.
I had never imagined that such an adorable little vehicle would emerge from the storage building of a bold Mexican plantation owner.
True to its metropolitan name, the Nash Metropolitan was a distinctive compact car created from the radical idea of serving as a second car for women at the time.
Its two-tone paint and small size even earned it the nickname “candy on wheels.”
Its unusual appearance had also made it somewhat popular among celebrities.
Steve Jobs drove one when he was young, and Britain’s Princess Margaret had also owned one.
“What do you think? It isn’t exactly the kind of car restorers like you enjoy working on, is it? Haha.”
Rafael looked back and forth between the car and my face as he laughed.
“No. It’s not an easy car to repair.”
At the time, most American automotive production facilities were designed primarily for large vehicles.
To manufacture a compact car like this, Nash commissioned the British Austin Motor Company to build it.
(Translator’s Note: Austin Motor Company — A British automobile manufacturer founded by Herbert Austin in 1905. It manufactured the Nash Metropolitan and later became part of the corporate lineage that produced the original Mini.)
As a result, it had the unusual identity of being an American car with the heart of a British one, which was precisely the sort of thing that made restorers like me clutch our foreheads.
For reference, Austin was also the company that created the famous Mini.
“But this car doesn’t look as though it needs restoration.”
The exterior, painted in a strawberry-milk-like pink-and-white two-tone finish, was flawless, and there was no visible corrosion.
The interior was also remarkably well preserved, without any cracks or breaks in the plastic dashboard.
Even—
Rrrr-r-r-r—vroom!
The notoriously troublesome Austin engine was running normally.
“That’s right. I went to considerable trouble to find one in good condition and paid a very high price for it.”
Alejandro looked pleased by my assessment.
“But the person who will be driving it is my daughter, Valentina, who will soon turn sixteen.”
“Ah… You mean…”
“I want you to turn this into a car Valentina can drive comfortably. In its current state, there’s no way I can send her out onto the road without worrying.”
Only then did the mystery become clear.
So this commission isn’t a restoration. It’s a restomod.
Restomod was a portmanteau combining the contradictory ideas of restoration and modification.
In simple terms, it meant installing modern parts in an old or classic car to improve its convenience and durability, making it suitable for everyday use.
Judging only by its exterior, the Metropolitan was cute enough to charm anyone.
If a sixteen-year-old girl like Valentina appeared in one, she would immediately become extremely popular at school and on social media.
However, there were many practical problems with driving a car over sixty years old based solely on its appearance.
There were concerns about safety, including chassis rigidity and braking performance, and it had almost no modern features.
“…What do you think? Can you do it?”
Alejandro cautiously asked for my opinion.
“For reference, money is no concern. I intend to pay very generously for the work.”
When he saw me hesitating instead of answering easily, Alejandro anxiously added more favorable terms.
“Ahem. Jason, there is a time limit, but with your skills, surely it is worth attempting?”
Rafael supported Alejandro from beside him.
“Besides, that man is completely devoted to his daughter. If you do a good job, he certainly won’t leave you disappointed. He raised her alone without a mother.”
Then he lightly nudged my side with his elbow and whispered the last part.
“All right. I’ll do it. However, as you said, the deadline is tight, so the parts may cost quite a bit. I won’t have time to search around for cheaper options. I’d also prefer to agree on a fixed labor fee in advance rather than calculating it by the hour.”
“Hahaha! Of course! I have no intention whatsoever of saving money on the man building the car my daughter will drive! That isn’t what matters to me.”
Perhaps this was the confidence that came with wealth.
Alejandro laughed heartily as he lightly patted his thick belly with both hands.
[Nash Metropolitan]
CC BY 2.0, photograph by GPS 56