Off the Grid Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Randy Denmon

  Foreword © 2017 by Jim Motavalli

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Rain Saukas

  Cover photo credit: iStock

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-1739-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1740-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Men wanted for hazardous journey to the South Pole. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger. Safe return doubtful. Honor and recognition in case of success.

  —Ad placed in a London paper by Ernest Shackleton for his 1902 Discovery Expedition. He said later: “So overwhelming was the response to his appeal that it seemed as though all the men of Great Britain were determined to accompany him.”

  Contents

  Foreword

  We’re Off

  One Day Earlier

  Drug Lords and Federales

  Don’t Come

  Latin Electricity

  Out of the Desert and Into the Tropics

  The Riddle of Mexico

  Ancient Mexico

  Second Thoughts

  Highway to Hell

  Topes and Potholes

  Bouncing into the Clouds

  Stranded by a Snowstorm

  Land of the Maya

  Crazy Drivers, Big Mountains

  Photos

  The Car Steals the Show

  Southern Summer of Love

  Guatemalans’ Hospitality and Short Memory

  Guatemalan Math and Bridges

  We Ain’t in Orange County

  Fleeced or Robbed?

  Poets, Volcanoes, and Hugo Chavez

  Through the Lobby

  In Mr. Twain’s Footsteps

  Just Another Border Crossing

  Highway of Death

  Gringo to the Rescue

  Touch and Go

  Redneck Engineering

  The Real Jungle

  Saved by the Marriott—Again

  Sometimes You Just Have to Wing It

  Postscript

  Foreword

  Asked why they bought an SUV when a sedan or minivan made more sense, many Americans cite the concept of “personal freedom,” meaning that—if they wanted to—they could take it off road, into the trackless wilderness and fordable streams featured in the commercials. Of course, only 15 percent of owners actually take their SUVs off the school/work/mall/house-of-worship axis, but it’s important to these buyers to know they could.

  Four-wheel-drive boxes are dominating the market, while battery electrics are in the doldrums—only .37 percent of the American market in 2016. Why? Price and range anxiety mostly, though that’s changing as affordable 200-mile cars like the Chevy Bolt hit the market.

  The Tesla Model S, the car owned by Off the Grid author Randy Denmon, can travel up to 265 miles on a charge. And that means owners rarely suffer range anxiety, and they can—and do—take their cars across country, or at least on long vacations. You meet Teslas in the craziest places these days.

  There are 790 Tesla Supercharger stations in the United States, and what a comfort that is for travel in the Lower 48. But somebody had to be the trailblazer to take their Tesla further afield, and that turns out to be Randy Denmon, with his complaining sidekick Dean Lewis.

  In the grand tradition of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, or more recently Bill Bryson and Stephen Katz taking a walk in the woods, they leave the Superchargers behind at the Mexican border and head due south—with the Panama Canal as their destination. And bicker with each other the whole way.

  Like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—without the drugs, but with the paranoia—this is a road book and a rollicking adventure story. It’s called Off the Grid, but actually it’s about the grid, or at least the patched-together, intermittently available version of it that exists south of the border.

  Will our intrepid heroes connect to 230 volts before their battery indicator reads zero and they’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the drug cartels to swoop down? Will the Tesla survive potholed roads, torrential storms and crooked customs officials with their hands out for bribes?

  You’ll have to read the book to find out, but there’s no doubt that even attempting a crazy trip like this is a sign that electric cars are—finally—entering the mainstream. And you bet that’s a good thing.

  Jim Motavalli

  Fairfield, CT

  January 2017

  We’re Off

  Under a sapphire sky, the guard post on the south abutment of the three-mile long Anzalduas International Bridge came into view. Below, in a deep gorge, the Rio Grande trickled by, an unassuming brown slice of water. The far bank seemed no different from McAllen, Texas, a multitude of concrete and buildings wedged between throngs of people.

  But on the other side, everything was different. The land was foreign and exotic, the people mysterious. Over there, nothing back here mattered. The little river divided two peoples, one born into a fortunate land, the others….

  The federal agents of the United Mexican States stood in their imposing uniforms, machine guns held at port arms. The cool January morning was clear, temperature in the forties, and a half-moon was setting to the west.

  Where were we going? Butterflies filled my stomach. My hands twitched.

  I have heard all journeys have a purpose, even directionless ones. This journey had a direction, if little else. Maybe it was a spiritual trip as much as a physical journey.

  The queue of cars inched forward. I turned to Dean Lewis as I eased the wonderful piece of modern technology that would get us across the border, just a few feet in front of us. The four-door sedan looked rather plain, like something any typical American salesman or soccer mom would employ to efficiently move through suburbia. But this high-tech machine, the new Tesla Model S, was powered only by electricity.

  Two Louisiana rednecks were fixing to drive this car through Latin America to Panama, and maybe beyond. Perhaps not my brightest idea, but then, I have been known to pursue some insane endeavors.

  The EPA estimates the range of this Tesla at 265 miles per charge. Of course, that’s running at a constant 65 mph, with no air conditioning, with only 300 pounds of cargo, over flat ground, without headwind, and without other devices—wipers, lights, radio, etc. Who knew what the real-world range of the car would be over bumpy, third-world roads, crossing varied terrain loaded down with 600 or 700 pounds of cargo? Theoretically, the car could travel over 400 miles at a constant speed of 35 mph. But then, everything works in theory, or over a smooth test track somewhere in California.

  I looked to the dash and the car’s speed-range curve. Bigger problems lay ahead other than the car’s range, most notably, how would we charge the vehicle’s lithium-ion battery pack every day? It takes twelve hours to charge the Tesla with standard 240-volt, 30-amp power, and two and a half
days with 120-volt electricity, equivalent to a two-prong plug for a typical American living-room lamp.

  I had conjured up the idea of this trip a year before, really only hoping I might get a chance to give it a go in the near future. Maybe the trip would produce a book? We’d see how it all turned out.

  I had, over the last year, learned how to get a Tesla charged in rural Louisiana. Two factors were critical: 1) have plenty of charging cords—the power source might be a significant distance from the pavement, and 2) have plenty of charging options. In the United States, there are more than twenty-five available sockets that supply 240-volt power.

  Before the trip, I fabricated two very long 240-volt extension cords with a combined length of three hundred feet. These are big, thick rolls of three-quarter-inch wire that weigh about thirty pounds each. I had also purchased all the plugs and adapters I could get my hands on.

  As for driving through Mexico and Central America, I did very little planning. It’s kind of like driving across America. Of course, there are a few small differences. It’s too dangerous to drive at night, and the roads are much worse or likely to be closed without warning, and you’ve got perpetual military checkpoints, shady cops, and bad guys. You get the picture.

  A couple of weeks before we departed, I did research the best route through Mexico, the best route being solely determined by safety and the current status of the Drug War. There were three or four areas that needed to be avoided at all cost, but there’s no ducking the bloody, border region south of Texas. What was the best and quickest way through here? I thought I had it. Onward, where to get a charge and how to keep safe on the road would govern the route, and determining that would likely be best determined by word of mouth and day to day.

  We had really departed on a whim. I had a rare break in my work schedule. Dean was available and willing. It was now time to get in the car and GO.

  The third world lay ahead. Charging the car and finding our way would certainly be a difficult, cautious process of trial and error.

  • • •

  How had I arrived here? Somehow, my life had gotten too boring, plain. It needed spice. Something more than just producing more goods and services than I consumed. What had happened to that young, adventurous, romantic young man who freely passed the days doing nothing, smiling, enjoying almost anything, even a trip to the grocery or just a beautiful spring day?

  Surely, like many urban American men of my age, in the prime of their lives, I wasn’t starting to suffer from that awful disease—having such a vastly inflated opinion of one’s self-worth that my disappearance for just a few weeks would result in a national disaster or cause the Earth to stop spinning. Still, I needed something—adventure, freedom. Maybe this—especially if we succeeded—would appease my trampled, wandering spirit before I looked into the mirror and saw nothing but a nerdy, yuppie robot.

  Somehow my life had been transformed into a daily grind of bland social outings and long hours at the office, all without zest. Now in my forties, I seemed to move through the world without meaning or direction. Nothing made the soul explode with anxiety or joy as it did in my youthful days, when optimism penetrated everything. I needed to get off the grid, away from the cell phones and emails. I needed some freedom. An overreaction? For sure it would be a hell of an undertaking, worthy of headlines.

  Just a few days earlier, the national papers had been filled with stories of the first cross-country trip in an electric car, Los Angeles to New York. That was peanuts compared to what we were attempting. A few electric vehicle (EV) enthusiasts had plans to drive to Alaska, and message boards across the country were filled with threads discussing how to drive an electric car across rural Wyoming or Texas. But nobody had yet attempted anything this bold. Even if we failed, just trying would soothe my psyche. We had the balls to try if nothing else.

  • • •

  I reached to the backseat and grabbed a pack of cigarettes, throwing it on the dash.

  Dean looked at me, his forehead crinkled. “You’re not going to smoke those all the way there, are you?”

  “I’m only a recreational smoker,” I said as I lit up, exhaling a long drag to calm my nerves. “I’m trying to take up Nicorette gum, but it’s costing me a fortune. Not from the price of the gum, but the two root canals I needed from chewing on that shit. But my experience has been, in Mexico, and probably everywhere else we’re going, American cigarettes seem to appease the local bureaucrats.”

  “Just give them the pack then. Save your lungs.”

  “Giving them a pack of cigarettes might be construed as bribery. Having a smoke with them, and accidentally leaving a pack is just good foreign relations and forgetfulness.”

  I pulled up to the Mexican Customs and Immigration building. We had to get our driving permits and bond the car to get it across the border, in addition to our passports.

  Another long drag, and the nicotine shot through my synapses. The last two days had been hectic. I had no idea what the coming ones would bring, or the magnitude of problems and setbacks we’d face.

  What could go wrong? For months, my mind had been besieged with endless scenarios that now sped into my brain. A stolen car, a wreck, or mechanical problems were statistically the most likely. The latter two were as problematic as the first because repairing a Tesla in Latin America would be almost impossible.

  Could we get such a car across so many borders? Would the primitive roads be too much for the sedan, its clearance only a little over five inches? Would we get stranded in the middle of nowhere, unable to charge? We’d be driving through the murder capital of the world, Honduras, and a few other countries not far behind that statistic. My simple little life was about to enter a realm of chaos.

  One Day Earlier

  The silver Dodge truck nudged forward atop one of HWY 59’s triple-deck overpasses. Ah, Houston congestion. Hardly an open space occupied the thirteen lanes of freeway. I scanned the strip malls and subdivisions outside the window, where the traffic, clustered and snarled, moved along at a snail’s pace. It was only 4:30 in the afternoon. What would it look like in thirty minutes or an hour?

  I looked around in amazement at the urban jungle. I knew this city well, and its traffic. Over the years, I’d wasted what seemed like years sitting idle on these modern concrete arteries, watching bright red taillights and listening to honking horns. We were now south of Houston and might make the 300 miles to McAllen in time to get some sleep before our early start the next day.

  • • •

  The day before, I’d left my dizzying world behind. There had been the mundane, personal chores before any extended leave: paying bills, arranging for mail to be picked up, etc. These were rather simple as I’m single and without dependents.

  But as a partner in a multimillion-dollar engineering firm, for which I had been named president only a year earlier, larger problems had to be sorted out. There were dozens of projects and clients to keep happy. Needless to say, it was a monumental chore that would require managing, even from half a continent away.

  I looked at my desk one last time. Stacks of paper abounded: bills, invoices, drawings, letters, engineering reports of every type. My days were filled with endless meetings and emails. I was a dull workaholic. My profession had been partially responsible for this, if not the catalyst. Engineering is a job with long, mind-numbing days filled with paperwork, deadlines, endless correspondence, staring at a CADD drawing on a computer screen, and worrying about your work. I’d even started to find the task of sending out invoices burdensome. Certainly, I wouldn’t miss that world.

  Over the years, my friends had become dads, some with kids now in college! A few friends had even passed from this world from natural causes.

  Ahead there would be no monotonous meetings to attend, no agonizing decisions of whether to go on an exhausting run or bike ride, no worrying about what to wear, or having to attend the social gatherings to see the same people talk about the same things.

  I had de
cided, at least for a time, to start living again, not in the cookie-cutter box the world had made for us but instead unbound by everyday rules and norms. What I really yearned for—a challenge, the unknown, some true gratification—hopefully lay ahead.

  I turned to my computer where I’d typed out an email to some current clients. The missive was carefully vague, stating only that I’d be out of the country on vacation for several weeks, and giving the contact information of others in my office who could lend a hand in my absence. Only a fool would entrust the management of a multimillion-dollar project to someone who would head off where I intended to go. A few recipients might envy me, but most would probably think I was crazy.

  I clicked the mouse and sent the message out into cyberspace, almost not believing I was really leaving.

  • • •

  Now, beside me in the Dodge truck, Dean silently doodled on a computer pad. Fraternity brothers at Louisiana Tech a quarter century prior, we’d both been reared and had spent our formidable years in Louisiana’s Mississippi Delta, traipsing the flatlands in the heart of the Protestant South.

  Black-headed, with sharp, alert eyes, Dean stands about my height, five feet, ten inches tall. I’m thin and wobbly, but Dean’s frame is thick and sturdy. Or at least it used to be sturdy. Like me, a bulging, pudgy ring of tissue had developed around his mid-section in recent years. Dean’s life wasn’t as rigid as mine. After we’d both served in the Gulf War, the Army had sent him on to the Defense Language Institute to study Chinese. Where he’d gone from there was probably classified. His military days long over, he’d recently returned from working as a business consultant in China for several years. His side of the story was that the pollution in China had chased him back to the land of capitalism and federally mandated environmental laws—which usually means clean water and air. Whatever the truth, he had a break from the real world while he looked for a new career, and the trip fit his meandering nature.

  I wasn’t really surprised when Dean agreed to take the trip with me. He was well equipped for it, having frequently spent months, if not years, working in some of the world’s most exotic locales in the Middle East and Asia. Extremely low maintenance and frugal by nature, strange landscapes didn’t frighten him. Unlike most travelers who go away and think of nothing but home, almost ready to return the day they leave, he liked to wander without the constraints of time.