It was a humid spring day in 1992. I was standing at a rent-a-car kiosk in Fort-de-France, Martinique. We had decided to take a family vacation to the Caribbean. My daughter Alexandra was less than a year old. We expected terrific French food in addition to the delights of the tropical scenery. When I asked what cars they had available, I did not imagine I would be embarking on a quest that would culminate 23 years later at an Arizona auction. There were the usual array of bottom-of-the-line Japanese cars, but the clerk added that if I wanted to be “adventuresome,” […]
It was a humid spring day in 1992. I was standing at a rent-a-car kiosk in Fort-de-France, Martinique. We had decided to take a family vacation to the Caribbean. My daughter Alexandra was less than a year old. We expected terrific French food in addition to the delights of the tropical scenery.
When I asked what cars they had available, I did not imagine I would be embarking on a quest that would culminate 23 years later at an Arizona auction.
There were the usual array of bottom-of-the-line Japanese cars, but the clerk added that if I wanted to be “adventuresome,” they had something called a Méhari available.
Still waters run deep
I was mystified and intrigued by this plastic-bodied Citroën 2CV.
Mastering the umbrella-handle shift lever took most of the morning. I think I fastened Alex’s infant car seat with a bungee cord. I noted that the doors appeared to have been removed, with just little pieces of chain crossing the openings.
After years baking in the sun, the hood had assumed an even more concave shape. I discovered that after a typically heavy downpour, rainwater would collect in the trough. At 30 mph, the water flew backwards, into and over the windshield, drenching the occupants of the car.
There seemed to be many large dogs running free on the island. I was afraid that if they chased and caught the car, they would pick it up and shake it like a bone.
You can’t always get what you want
Because of this adventuresome experience, the need for my own Citroën Méhari — the name derives from a thoroughbred dromedary race camel that originated in the Sultanate of Oman — became firmly implanted in my car-seeking subconscious.
In those pre-internet days, finding a Méhari was not simple. I scoured the Portland Nickel Ads and AutoTrader. Over the years, a few were listed nearby, but they were generally projects, offered as “buy all three to make one good one.” I passed. I bought and sold many other cars, but I never stopped yearning for a Méhari.
At the 2015 Arizona Car Week, I had just finished touring the multi-million-dollar cars being offered by Gooding & Company, RM Sotheby’s and Bonhams. Of course, there were no Méharis, and to be honest, I hadn’t expected to find one. To cleanse my automotive palate, I went to the Silver Auctions sale in Fort McDowell.
Just as I walked up to the auction block, a 1970 Méhari appeared in the staging area. My dream car! In Arizona, just 1,332 miles from SCM World Headquarters. This was much closer than the 4,135 miles from Martinique. And it was running and driving!
Fortune favors the bold
Despite my years of searching, I knew very little about Méharis. I had no idea how to tell if it had the correct “big-block” 602-cc, 29-horsepower air-cooled twin. I forgot to ask about “weather equipment.” I was deep in the red mist, and the only way out was to use my bidder’s paddle as a flashlight.
Evan McMullen, a collector-car dealer from the Seattle area, approached me. “I hear you’ve been looking for a Méhari,” he said. “I own this one and it could be yours.”
The baited hook was now firmly inserted in my wallet.
The Méhari failed to meet its reserve. That was no surprise, as a Native American reservation outside of Phoenix is not likely to be a hotbed of Citroënista.
We worked out a deal: For $10,000, delivered to Portland, the Méhari was mine.
I called Alexandra immediately. “I bought a Méhari! I bought a Méhari.”
Her response was slightly chilly. “Dad, I expected you to come home from Arizona with a Ferrari, not a Méhari.”
Francophile fun
When the car arrived in Portland, SCM’s resident French-car expert, Paul Duchene, put me in touch with local Citroën guru Bill Lonseth. (Sadly, both have recently passed away.)
Bill remembered this particular Méhari. He had been involved when a fleet of them were sold to Aloha Rent-a-Car in Maui, to be used like golf carts. The venture failed. Few Americans could master the strange shifter. Also, as there were no doors on the cars, inebriated golfers frequently fell out onto the fairways.
I had no such problems. I drove everywhere in the Méhari, including taking it on the Forest Grove Concours wine tour. At 55 mph, flat-out on four-lane Highway 26, I felt like I was in a Bugatti Chiron reaching 220 mph at the factory test track near Wolfsburg. At top speed — with my son Bradley strapped in the back — my Méhari was both as terrifying and as exhilarating as any supercar.
I installed a radio and created a “French Café Music” channel on Pandora. All I lacked was a beret and a cigarette.
After a year, I had extracted every bit of pleasure I could from the car. My fantasy had been fulfilled. It was time for Cinderella to move on to her next ball.
The Méhari was sold to an SCMer from Greenwich, CT. He had bought a Méhari a couple of months earlier, and wanted another for his wife.
Of all the cars that have passed through my life, my racing camel will always be my favorite. It was a dream I chased for more than 20 years. It didn’t disappoint in any way. (And yes, I managed to break even financially.)
I will always be glad that, when asked if I wanted something a little more “adventuresome,” I said, “Yes.”