We called her Rosalita—a vintage VW camper van we bought for $800 and drove from Boston to Mexico. Hank and I were newly in love in the mid-seventies and ready for adventure with my daughter, Sarah. Rosalita would take us there.

In the state of Guerrero, Hank, bored from highway driving, turned onto a road that appeared to be a shortcut to where we were heading. Soon we were on a dusty trip with no certain destination in a foreign country. We didn’t pass homes. We didn’t see people. Finally, though, we came to a sign. Hank put Rosalita in reverse to read it, but the right back tire slid off the road’s shoulder. He couldn’t do anything as the van toppled slowly onto its side into a brush-filled gully. Thankfully, we were unhurt as the van didn’t have seatbelts.

Our plan was for Hank to hike seven kilometers back to the highway to find a garage with a wrecker, while Sarah, then two, and I waited. But just then, a bus rumbled toward us filled with local folk and livestock, and decorated with plastic flowers and statues of Jesus and Mary. The driver hung out the open window after he stopped the bus. His passengers gawked at the gringo family who had overturned their van. The driver motioned for Hank to climb onboard. I told him to go. Who knew when another bus would pass again? I gave him my straw hat and most of our cash.

After the bus left, I searched inside the van for a blanket, papers, food, and water. Sarah and I found a shady spot beneath a tree, but we weren’t alone for long. People came down a path, presumably from the village whose name was on the sign. They talked rapidly and gestured in Spanish. Even with my infantile knowledge of the language, I understood that Sarah and I were in danger. Men with big hats and guns—banditos—would come after dark. They would take everything we had. I must gather our valuables and hide. Now, I was scared.

It couldn’t have been 20 minutes when a dump truck, heavy with chrome and a fringe of pompoms circling the windshield, barreled from the direction we had come, its air brakes hissing as it stopped. Two men jumped from the truck’s bed with axes. The driver, their patrón—dark-haired and all-muscle, and a gut beneath his t-shirt—dismounted with Hank, who smiled and looked a little silly in my straw hat with the flat, wide brim I had bought in France. The bus driver, bless him, had stopped the truck to explain we needed help.

The patrón began barking orders to his men who chopped down two trees and stuck them beneath the van. Using the trees as levers, and a tow from the chain on the truck, they pried Rosalita upright and pulled her forward until her tires were on the road. I cheered.

The only damage was a cracked mirror. Oil was still in the crankcase. The patrón acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened as he pocketed the cash Hank offered. He went his way with his men. We, too, were on the road, trying to get out before dark, crossing two streams and stopping once to clean the dust choking Rosalita’s air-cooled engine. (Later, an inspired Hank painted Rosalita’s name in gold across her front white bumper.)

We drove to the ocean and eventually to San Cristóbal de las Casas, where we rented a house. That’s a vintage postcard above of the town in Chiapas I never mailed to a friend. Alas, we didn’t own a camera then.

 Rosalita rode high as we traveled to mountain villages, where the indigenous women doted on Sarah and sold us textiles. We left Mexico months later when we ran out of money and one night the federales made a sweep of the town, targeting foreigners. Ah, but Rosalita got us back home safely again.

A version of this story ran in Storied Wheels, a SOMOS Publication in Taos, New Mexico.