Few people have traveled the world like the Wescott’s. Take a look back, as Gary tells us what they’ve learned over their years on the road.
by Gary WescottPhotography by Gary & Monika Wescott
It was 1969. I had been on the road for maybe five months, traveling through Eastern Europe to Turkey, Iran, and Afghanistan, following the infamous “Hashish Trail.” (Yes, I had read Midnight Express.) My mode of transportation from Holland had been thumb, bus, and train, always looking out the window at places I wished I could have stopped to explore.
Now I was sitting in the Pudding Shop in Istanbul, sipping a cup of Turkish coffee, the kind you almost have to chew—and there it was, right across the street in the little plaza: a Land Rover Dormobile. That had to be the answer.
Travel was in my blood. San Diego State was my 13th school, including three in Mexico. After a second trip to Turkey to export sheepskin coats, meerschaum pipes, and Turkish puzzle rings—remember those?—I was more determined than ever to stay on the road of adventure. Then, on another fateful day, walking down Lombard Street in San Francisco, there it was again: a blue 1967 109 Land Rover Station Wagon sitting in a British car showroom. I bought it on the spot.
I called it La Tortuga Azul, The Blue Turtle. Its ancient 6-cylinder, side-exhaust-valve engine came out of a Rover touring saloon in a futile attempt to give the 109 enough poop for American freeways. Nineteen sixty seven was the last year this model was imported. But hey, one Land Rover with a tire on the hood looked like it was going somewhere. Two together looked like an expedition. Was that an elephant I heard?
I started buying maps of South America, even believing that I could drive across the Darien Gap. I had a Land Rover! Never mind that the engine choked on Mexican Pemex Nova. No problem. I stopped at airports and bought five gallons of 130-octane aviation fuel, and mixed that with Nova and a can of Marvel Mystery Oil. I felt like a bartender. I traveled slowly with a house on my back, and I could go anywhere. The analogy fit, and The Turtle Expedition, Unltd. was created.
Along the way, I met Monika on a beach in Baja. Being Swiss, she tolerated my Capricorn perfectionism. She knew how to rough it, and she liked my kitchen, so we got married (short story).
Many changes later—roof racks, a support trailer, auxiliary fuel tanks, an overdrive, and finally a Chevy 250 6-cylinder engine swap (major improvement), I came to realize that despite the aura hovering over Land Rovers, I had been blinded by that tire on the hood. Repair shops for Land Rovers in Mexico were few to non-existent. We won’t talk about brake and clutch master cylinders or axles, okay?
Still, I’m not complaining. After nine years on the road, throughout Mexico and parts of Central America, the Turtle I served us well. Even the two-fuse electrical system seldom failed. We had learned the basics of what was required for an overland travel vehicle: a comfortable bed, a place to prepare healthy meals, safe water, security, and room to pack the tools, repair parts, and toys for the destination. Absolute reliability of your vehicle came later.
La Tortuga Azul had a sink, a comfortable couch that converted to a bed in seconds, a fully equipped kitchen that slid off the custom rack and hooked on the side, a solar shower, a shovel and a folding toilet seat, and tons of storage for skis, backpacking gear, a canoe, fishing and diving equipment, and more. We lived outside. Chairs, table, ice chest, speakers, everything came outside. We could stop anywhere and set up a comfortable camp in minutes. People we’d meet on the beach would laugh at how well prepared we were. “Wow. You brought chairs?”
