by Jim Richards
Despite my investigations, there was limited information available regarding these events in far-off lands. So my mindset was (and still is): if you want to do something, you have to get off your arse and go and do it. Sure, the locals might try to flay me alive, as Haslam suggested, but then again they might not. All of the historic gold rushes I had read about were full of foreigners trying their luck – why not me?
First up, I had to resign my hard-won commission. I went to the adjutant to seek permission from the CO to leave the army. The adjutant was Andy Bale, of waiter-beating fame. As well as being mad he also had a reputation as the rudest man in the British Army.
‘What the fuck do you want, Richards?’ he inquired.
‘I want to see the CO please, Andy.’
‘Why?’ He lingered on the word ominously as he continued working.
‘I want to resign my commission and join a gold rush in South America.’ Suddenly I was not feeling quite as flash as when I was bragging about this plan to my younger colleagues.
‘Fuck off,’ said Andy without looking up.
I fucked off.
Later I managed to collar the CO at lunch in the mess and got the ball rolling. In truth there was little they could do. My three-year short-service commission had only another couple of months to run, and I was not renewing. But I think Bale just liked telling people to fuck off.
My last day in barracks was spent handing back all of my kit. I called in on the company quartermaster.
‘Hello sir, I heard you were leaving,’ said the quartermaster in a welcoming tone. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going to South America to make my fortune in a gold rush, Q.’
‘You stand more chance on the fucking dole, sir.’
Always nice to get a vote of confidence from the sergeants’ mess.
My own confidence, though, was good. During the last three years I had led my platoon through tours of Cyprus and the USA, and faced down the IRA on active service in Northern Ireland. The army had taught me I could mentally and physically overcome whatever obstacles were in my way. Most importantly, I had also gained self-belief. With my gold rush plans, I now just had to beware the pitfalls of self-delusion.
When you leave the army, you can choose a short course of study by way of resettlement. So for two weeks I attended a Spanish language school at Earls Court in London. In 1990, air travel was a lot more expensive than it is today. I planned to get a free military flight to Belize in Central America. From there I would move south through the Spanish-speaking regions, picking up the language and some mining skills along the way as I headed to Brazil. Once in Brazil I could switch to learning Portuguese, which was a modest step from a start in Spanish.
I chose to get my army pension allowance paid out in a lump sum. This was my grubstake money that would get me to the goldfields, buy some equipment and start me off. That’s what pension money is for, right?
But one problem was troubling me – my girlfriend, Sarah, a student at the nearby University of Surrey. Sarah was in the OTC at London, as I had been, and was something of an intrepid type herself. She had tumbling brown hair and a sunny temperament; her girl-next-door looks were made all the more attractive by a husky voice and a hint of vulnerability.
She was upset by my plans and didn’t completely buy into my idea, but was such a trooper that she still supported me. Sarah’s father, on the other hand, seemed to think my gold-rush plan was a terrific idea. Squadron Leader Symes was in the RAF and was handily the head of the RAF station at Brize Norton. Indeed, with enthusiasm he assisted me in getting the free oneway flight out of Brize Norton on the regular RAF milk run to Belize in Central America, just to help me on my way.
With my personal savings and pension payout, I thought I should have enough money to last me for about four months. I hoped by then I would be into paydirt. As I had learned from the tales of the California gold rush, I wanted to travel ultra-light and not weigh myself down with loads of kit before I got there. Dollars were more portable than equipment, and I could always buy some gear when required. My preparations for the trip were made easier by following the old maxim: take half the luggage and twice the money.
At least I stuck to the half the luggage part. I was keen to melt into the background and not appear like a tourist or backpacker. That’s hard when you look Anglo-Saxon, but carrying a western-style backpack would have been a dead giveaway.
I bought a robust nylon bag about the size of a small briefcase. I took no spare clothing and instead planned to wash my garments each night and wear them again the following morning, as they would soon dry in the hot climate.
Preventing mosquito bites was critical if I was to avoid malaria. I had a long-sleeved cotton shirt and thin loose cotton pants; everything was cotton to prevent heat rash. A thin woollen pullover for chilly nights could provide warmth, even if damp. I had a strong pair of comfortable sandals.
Into the bag went my trusty geological compass, with attached mirror for shaving. I sawed my toothbrush in half to save on weight. Everything was pared down to the absolute minimum. The ITM maps were first class and I had one of Central and northern South America.
My medical kit included water purification tablets, antiseptic, malaria drugs and antibiotics. I also packed mosquito repellent, a facecloth for a towel, shaving kit, small Maglite torch (with spare bulb), full-brimmed hat, polarised sunglasses, a small fine mesh mosquito net and a water bottle.
I carried my limited funds in a moneybelt as cash and traveller’s cheques (international ATMs didn’t exist in 1990); I took $2,000 all up. I had my passport with spare photos for visas. For company I had a diary and a Spanish grammar book. The total weight of my baggage was 3 kilograms, 1 kilogram of which was water. This was what I was going to conquer South America with; it was gold-rush lite.
The water was critical. This was before the days of ubiquitous plastic bottled water, so you needed to carry enough to tide you over to the next clean and trustworthy refill spot. You also did not want to skimp on drinking freely in the hot climate or you could soon run into real trouble.
I was justifiably concerned about malaria and so I had paid a visit to the London School of Tropical Medicine library in central London. The literature contained so many contradictory points of view that I came to the conclusion (rightly, as it turned out) that you are better off during extended stays not to take any prophylactic (preventative) drugs for malaria at all, especially as different malarial strains have varying resistance to drugs that change with location and time and the side effects could be nasty.
It was better to have a few different malarial drugs on you, in case you came down with the parasite. You could then self-treat depending on local advice and diagnosis, if available, using trusted drugs from home rather than the local, possibly counterfeit equivalent.
The Paras doctor, Paul Cain, assisted and advised me well. He also administered every conceivable immunisation jab.
I procured a Guatemalan visa and an American visa, which could come in handy if I had a medical emergency.
Last of all, I paid a visit to London Zoo, to sketch and memorise the poisonous snakes and spiders I might encounter in the South American jungles. Despite this idea being good in theory, the venomous animals were so numerous that I gave up and decided just to avoid all of these creatures wherever possible.
I felt well prepared and had tried to think of and cover most contingencies. This also helped my confidence a bit: as the army saying goes, ‘Prior preparation and planning prevents piss poor performance’.
Before I left, I spent a few days with my parents, who were mystified by my plan. My mother was always supportive of whatever Jane and Aileen, my sisters, or I did, but Dad, who had been relieved when I’d joined the army, found all his old worries about me returned.
My father, Stephen Richards, was one of seven children born on a remote farm in Mid Wales. He was a bright child, winning a scholarship to the regional grammar school, and from ther
e he gained a place to study medicine at Guys Hospital, London. It was a remarkable achievement for someone from such a humble background. He went on to become one of the country’s leading ear, nose and throat surgeons and was quite brilliant in his field.
A childhood infection had left Dad deaf in one ear, leading to his interest in medicine. This example of turning a negative into a positive was something I understood from an early age.
My mother, Dorothy, was also a qualified doctor, in an era of few women doctors. As we grew up, she practised medicine part time, and for a large part of her life she worked running women’s health clinics in disadvantaged areas in the Welsh valleys. With Dad working very long hours, my upbringing was influenced more by Mum than Dad. She was an ever-supporting and loving influence for my two sisters and me, which added to my confidence as a child.
Dad was happiest at our family holiday cottage in the hills near Llangurig, the highest village in Mid Wales. He bought me a shotgun when I was thirteen, which I used to shoot rabbits. I would gut and skin them, and my sisters would cook them, feeding the family in the process. Fishing was also a passion, tickling trout with my hands or spearing them under torchlight. Dad and I got on best when we shared our common love of the outdoors, and we had some great times together.
Despite this, my relationship with my father could have been better. His inspired brilliance was no match for my teenage wilfulness, and at some point Dad realised that he had little influence over me.
But my father had an ace up his sleeve: his youngest brother, Wyn Richards, to whom he was close. Dad packed me off on school holidays to my Uncle Wyn’s farm in Mid Wales, and I spent carefree summers hanging out with my cousin Heather and her attractive female friends, helping on the farm.
I already liked my Uncle Wyn. During an earlier encounter, at age nine, I had decided to give him a test. I had instigated the demolition of an old stone toilet behind the farmhouse, recruiting my young cousins to help. When Wyn caught us, he surprised me. He gave us a disapproving look, took us to a muddy field and helped us to build a small structure from mud and stone.
He didn’t get angry, which is what I had expected (and probably wanted). Wyn simply spent his time with me, showing me how to build something rather than destroy it. It was a lesson I have never forgotten.
Wyn was, and is, a truly remarkable man. He can make, mend or fix anything and is a superb carpenter, apiarist and farmer. He also has a wonderful way with children; as a kid I thought he possessed the combined wisdom of humanity. Along with my own parents, Wyn gave me two valuable things that helped me to avoid some of the traps and people that lay ahead: my moral compass, and my values.
I was a fortunate child indeed.
On 9 March 1990, I was ready to leave on my gold rush. I spent my last night in the UK with Sarah at her parents’ house near RAF Brize Norton. I felt bad about leaving her. She felt bad about me going. It was a dismal evening.
I promised her that, somehow, I would get enough money together to visit her in Florida (Sarah had a summer job lined up at Disney World).
‘But if you do find someone else, I’ll understand,’ I said.
She cried, and I felt like a rat.
At 4 a.m. Sarah drove me in silence to the departure terminal at RAF Brize Norton. She came with me to the check-in counter, offered me her cheek, which I kissed, and then she turned around and walked out; she didn’t look back.
Two hours later I took off on an RAF DC10 aircraft, headed for Belize in Central America. Alone. I felt exhilarated, apprehensive and sad all at the same time. It was just me and my plan versus, well, everyone else.
CHAPTER 5
LOST CITIES OF THE MAYA
A lot of people had attempted to stop me getting on this plane and it was a relief to be finally on my way. There was also some fear and trepidation going on somewhere in my bowels. First-day nerves perhaps?
How was I going to survive when my money ran out?
Where would I get the funds to fly to Florida and see Sarah?
And, most worrying of all: how the hell do you actually mine gold?
This may seem slapdash, and it was, but to paraphrase Napoleon: ‘First action, then see what happens’. I felt I had prepared as best I could, and with no real information available, I just had to get out there and have a bloody good go.
The plane journey gave me a chance to review my initial sketchy plan as to how to manage the next couple of months. I needed to speak good Spanish, fast. My language school friends in London had informed me that the city of Antigua in Guatemala was a centre for learning Spanish, and as Guatemala was right next door to Belize, it seemed like a logical place to go.
After that I figured I’d make my way to the nearest goldfields, which I had read were in the next-door country of Honduras. Once there, I’d try and learn a few things about small-scale gold mining and get a feel for what I was up against.
Then on to South America, where the big gold rushes were taking place and I could make my bundle. Admittedly there were a few holes in this plan, but if you don’t have a plan you can’t change it.
During the long flight, I spoke briefly to the man next to me, a Ministry of Defence civil servant who, when I described what I was doing, looked at me with unconcealed disdain. I took this as a reminder to review what could go wrong and what to do if it did, on the principle of ‘hope for the best, plan for the worst’.
My greatest fear was getting conned out of everything I had in the first week. This would possibly require me to crawl back to Belize and beg a return flight to Brize Norton. The idea of facing all those smug sceptics at home, who had poured scorn on me for daring this gold rush, would be too much to bear.
My fear was partly brought on by the story of Soapy Smith and his gang in the great Klondike gold rush of 1897. Soapy Smith was the greatest of all the gold-rush villains, because he destroyed the dreams of men before they had even begun.
Soapy operated in the town of Skagway in Alaska, set in a calm inlet surrounded by high snow-capped mountains and green forested slopes. During the gold rush, this town became one of the main transit points for the 30,000 miners heading to the riches of the Klondike in Canada.
Soapy Smith was a bearded con artist and gangster. Police and politicians were on his payroll and his gang had made the town a dangerous place. He had earned his sobriquet in the prize soap racket, a confidence trick fooling punters into buying soap in a lottery of sorts that held the promise that some of the bars were wrapped in money. In practice, the only winners were Soapy’s shills in the crowd.
As the newly arrived miners disembarked at Skagway, Soapy’s men were ready for them. There were stacked card games, spiked whisky, girls, violence and whatever else it took to fleece the prospectors. One effective trick was to distract a miner with a contrived argument and then have a friendly pastor intervene. The ‘pastor’ (a Soapy insider) would assist the miner, win his trust and then rob him.
Once Soapy’s gang had relieved their victim of his worldly possessions, Soapy himself would often appear, to befriend the injured party and feign outrage. If he could not recruit the victim to his gang, he would pay the passage home of any exceptionally troublesome fellow – this was known as ‘the blow-off’.
Soapy was eventually undone in a gunfight on Skagway’s wharf as he faced off the town’s citizens’ committee. He was shot through the heart.
Would the likes of Soapy Smith and his gang be waiting for me when I arrived?
As we entered Belize airspace, two RAF Harrier jet fighter escorts arrived on our wingtips. It was a reminder that all was not stable in this part of the world. After landing we disembarked to Airport Camp, which was the army’s main base.
In the reception area an army captain received us, waving wads of forms and barking instructions. I stood up and walked out. This felt particularly pleasing as it was exactly the kind of mindless briefing I had been wanting to walk out on for the last four years.
At the front gate of Airpo
rt Camp, I hopped onto a rickety local bus into town, free at last from the military.
Belize City was a mosquito-infested, humid, hot, crime-ridden hellhole. I ended up in a dirty guesthouse near the swing bridge. Unwittingly, without a guidebook, I’d found myself in the worst part of town. I went for a scout about.
In this part of Belize City, rastas tried to sell you drugs, people followed and hassled you, and mad-looking dogs seemed to be on a single-minded mission to transmit rabies to a white man. So much for blending in. The only good thing was that people here spoke English; Belize was previously a British colony.
Travelling light had been a good decision. Having nothing more than an inconspicuous shoulder bag made it easy for me to walk around without leaving my gear to get knocked off in the hotel room. Providing I didn’t personally get knocked off, that is. To mitigate this scenario I stashed my passport, cash and copies of my traveller’s cheque numbers in my underwear. Fresh out of the Paras, I fancied myself in a one-on-one encounter with a would-be mugger. Nonetheless, travelling alone, I was wary of getting into a situation I may not be able to get out of. I also became very aware of who was behind me and how far.
At dusk, I ate some Chinese food and went back to my hotel room. I certainly wasn’t going to hang around in Belize City after dark. I hoped fervently that the rest of Central America would be an improvement.
I bathed using a bucket of dirty water, being careful not to swallow any, and brushed my teeth with water from my own clean bottle. I rinsed out my clothes with the remains from the bucket and hung them to dry on the chair, which I then jammed against the door handle. I put up my mosquito net and had a fitful sleep in the hot and fetid room.
By early morning, my clothes were dry as a bone. At first light I was out of the hotel and found a bus to San Ignacio, known locally as Cayo, which is en route to the Guatemalan border. There were no set bus times – you just turned up and waited. On the bus I swapped stories with a Canadian couple. We congratulated ourselves to be leaving Belize City without having been ripped off.
