I read this after his account, The White Rock, which shares with Tequila Oil a first half set in his youth--here, Mexico 1979 at the age of 18, and a follow-up thirty-odd years later, returning to Latin America to pursue his archeological investigations. It's more casually told in the initial section, as befits his punk-lite, English kid on the make characteristics. He tries to drive a '72 Olds through Mexico into Belize to make a dubious profit and to outwit the customs police. It's entertaining, and a lighter read than the following part. As with White Rock, he contrasts his earlier views of a foreign place with how it and he have changed, better or worse. As I happen to be his exact contemporary, I couldn't help but compare where I was that year--in his homeland--while he drove across my native country, and south from its Texas border. Thomson is again insightful about how travel books, in this case those of Greene, Lawrence, Huxley, Lowry, and Waugh, influence one's own anticipations and reflections.