The way it works is this, the road is paved then there are road works, not a ‘traffic light and contra flow’ type of road works just a bunch of machinery and a completely ploughed up road, go for it if you like, it’s your decision. If you want to try your luck through the ploughed ruts and the recently soaked slick mud, the blinkered graders and swerving rollers then just go right ahead. Alternatively you can wait ‘till they have finished, 2017 I think that will be. After the road works section you are left with dirt road, long established and well used by big old American pick-up trucks.
In fact I recently realized the American roads are no longer filled with those big gas guzzling yank-tanks that you see on all the 80’s movies and cop shows. They have become a thing of the past, it’s all modernized now, where did all those 2 ton cars go? Mexico is the answer, they live and breathe a battered and prolonged existence where tyres are worn to the wire and windscreens are held in with duct tape. Lights not only don’t work but are not there at all. It’s almost nostalgic in a death trap kind of way. Health and safety here means looking out for yourself not waiting for warning signs. Sharp corners and blind bends don’t have signs they have shrines, in memory of the people who lost concentration, lost control and consequently lost their lives. There are a lot of corners; there are a lot of shrines.
So to the first little village on the road of dirt and the first of many un-signed forks, choices I’d rather not have. If you live here you know, if you don’t, then why are you here? Whilst Andy doubles back to look for lost luggage and a bungee cord that didn’t perform, I'm approached by an old man with a cowboy hat and a very impressive moustache; in fact this country inhabitants supports a lot of impressive moustaches, mostly worn by the men but not exclusively.
This man actually, weather by coincidence or pure luck seemed to ask questions using words I learnt on my Spanish course. No other situation before or since has had any level of comprehension from the speaker or indeed the listener. So after a bit of monosyllabic banter about his interests, women, marijuana growing and alcohol he waved down a pick-up truck which was driven by the local English teacher. He was good at his chosen profession and was equally shocked and impressed that 2 Englishmen would come to his village, it was an honour he said and warned of the treacherous road ahead. My off road skills like my Spanish are intermittent. I hope they when return when most needed.
The road was in yellow on the map, that made it better than a white one so how bad could it be? 3-4 hours he indicated it would take us to get to our destination, lots of forks lots of wrong turns ahead he warned. Military and drug barons, he said. Although it turned out the real dangers were the people who had no clue where they lived in relationship to anywhere else, had never been anywhere, never seen a map but still felt obliged to point positively in a direction that had no relevance to anything except saving face on behalf of the pointer.
On we went. Lots of little villages of little significance, that certainly didn’t seem to justify, in the opinion of the map makers, an entry on the page of said map, that, indecently, didn’t get turned in a week. At one dusty junction there were a few dwellings one of which had the front cut out of it and sold beer over what aspired to be a counter, to the men who rode there on horseback. One very distinguished rider trotted his horse over to mine to shake my hand we both stretched as far as we could to make contact, it was a brief moment of unity, so much and so little in common, he confirmed out direction was correct.
‘Is it ok to start my bike now?’ I indicated, ‘no problem’ his reply almost definitely was, and with a press of my starter button the horse took off. Sorry amigo.
The first 40 or so miles from the ferry flew past, judging by the scale the distances should not be so great. But as the darkness arrived no destination was in site or, for that matter, any sign that the destination was closer to where we are now compared to where we were. So we wild camped and tried again the next day. But that is not what this post is about.
When the first 2 vehicles you see in the morning are military Hummers with a large automatic gun on the roof manned by a fully bullet proofed soldier who is backed up by 6 other bullet proof soldiers all supporting guns you have to question whether this is making your journey safer, how much they actually need their bullet proofing and weather perhaps you may be a little under dressed.
Most of the soldiers waved and all passed us by without concern. Until one particularly bored group decided to flag us down to stop. The soldiers in the back of the Hummer were on alert but not alert enough to see why their vehicle had actually stopped; so upon slowing down they instinctively jumped out, rifles poised ready to shoot down the potential danger. Unsure of what to do in such a predicament the proceeded to engage in an interrogation of me and a search of Andy. They soon lightened up when the higher ranking one left the comfort of his passenger seat. Maps were looked at, directions given and photos taken, they were just bored and good humoured. I asked one if I could take a photo of him with his gun by my bike, it was all going well until Monklet said to the soldier he had seen his sister in ‘opium whore magazine’ and it very nearly turned quite nasty.
He’s so bad.
A spin the bottle, point the direction kind of girl who worked, live and entirely existed in a wooden shack that doubled as a sweet shop at a fork in the road sent us in the wrong direction for 7 or so miles. Which on such roads is an hour’s bone grinding riding.
I was keen to point out her mistake on the return but found a road that we may or may not want before we passed her hovel. It was tough, big rocks deep furrows and steep gradients, all the more worrying that we weren’t even sure it was the right direction, to turn back along this track would be no fun at all assuming we could find a turning spot. I flag down a pick-up truck that was hurtling towards us, on dirt I always stop for oncoming vehicles as my bike doesn’t always go in the direction I was hoping for. The cab contained 3 unshaven and nervous looking men. The bed of the truck was full of opium and marijuana, almost definitely, the cab was full of guns, I'm pretty sure, they were skittish and edgy, and in two sentences they confirm we are heading the right direction, immediately followed by a warning of military with guns at the next village. And why would that worry us? You amigo, are a far greater concern to my safety than the soldiers. They spun their wheels and left us in dust and doubt.
We find a village, it has supplies
it even has a fuel pump. It appears we missed our other points of reference and are actually ahead of ourselves, well jolly good, not sure how it happened but on we go. Then the village we were supposed to have passed appears. Well at least we know where we are now, unlike the residents of fuel-pump-ville.
Why is this place even marked on the map when there is nothing here. A friendly old guy came to our assistance, ‘we need water’ no problem he ran to his house and grabbed a bottle of frozen water in a coke bottle. Hummm that’s out of your tap isn’t it? I can’t say ‘I have a fussy western tummy and can’t drink your contaminated water I afraid’ so I took it graciously. I must just say, without exception everyone has been friendly and helpfully, generous with their time and advice. Lovely people, I just wish I could communicate better.
Anyway it was the end of another day and we camped at the only flat spot we could find, a preferred hangout for the local cattle I think, there were cow pats everywhere.
But that’s not what this post is about.
3-4 hours eh? Day 3 and surprisingly we made the next town in no time at all; there are some very inconsistent distances on this map. It took 3 days to do a distance that looked like it should take 3 hours and now we are whipping through towns quicker than a politician on the campaign trail.
So, the last bit, to Batopilas at the very south of the Copper Canyon National Park (the bit I wanted to write about). The road climbed steeply, hair pins and staggering views of the villages below.
But the most dramatic of the scenery was being left behind for rolling hills of farming. My instincts niggled, when we did make it to the next point of civilization a man with 2 guns (an automatic metal rifle type thing hanging at his waist and a hand gun in a holster) told us we were not where we wanted to be, not only that but an alternative short cut was also not an option, not sure why, but he had more guns that me so why argue.
Well bollocks. We head out and after well over 250 miles of dirt road 1st and 2nd gear only; there in the distance is that magical site, a ribbon of black tarmac winding round the mountain which led to a real town. The dust blew away as 3rd, 4th and 5th gear were selected, the road was so smooth and 50mph seemed so fast.
3 days of dirt road, bumping and abuse, lost sub frame bolts and pounded suspension, and where did it get us? We were 140kms (2 smooth fast hours) away from where we had left the good road in the name of a short cut. I suppose we did want to get away from it all too.
But that’s not what this post is about.
It’s not over ,its only just begun. Next day we entered the National Park of Copper Canyon. It’s not like a reserve, no entrance gates, no fees, nothing but a few villages spread out over an area 4 times greater than the Grand Canyon and deeper too. A working canyon of mining, fishing and farming, but mainly marijuana and opium growing. We were back on the dirt heading to Batopilas, this time from the north.
There were sheer drops, well over 1000ft. I took off my helmet, if I'm going to be going off the edge of this single track dirt road I’m dead for sure and I don’t want to prolong it, feeling the impact on my broken and crippled body, I want my head to hit first and be unaware of all that follows.
Well it took a while but we are here now, camped in the bottom of a canyon, by a river, the setting sun illuminating the top of a sheer rock face 5000ft above out heads in a bright red glow. Warm breeze, wash in the river, fetch firewood, pitch tent on a sandy river bed, it’s one of those idyllic camping places, free and wild, no rules, no people, no signs of life. No life that is, until, whilst watching the lentils cook in the pan something caught my eye, a big hairy spider, Tarantula size, scuttles right by us, 8x8 drive it really moves fast but despite its speed and agility decided to just park its self 8 feet away(that’s distance, not what was on the end of its 8 legs) its golden eyes reflecting the beam from the head light that was regularly shone to check its whereabouts. Its body was the size of... well it was bloody big, you couldn’t suck it up ya average vacuum cleaner, screaming like a little girl would not have been unjustified. Not that I did, I just swore my shock to alert the cook what was coming his way. Its black hairy legs rippled with spider mussels, I'm pretty sure that he didn’t make webs, he would just sidle up to a bird, head butt it and then ate it. He was a well hard spider.
(I goggled tarantula to get the spelling right, it would appear our unshaven company was not like a tarantula but was in fact a tarantula it also the site I chose, said harmless but can cause irritation, yeah a bite of neuro-toxic venom, attacking the nervous system, causing intense pain, perfuse sweating difficulty in breathing, violent convolutions, and finally death, is undoubtedly somewhat of an irritation. I did up my fly sheet that night.
But that’s not the point of this post.
So we’re ready, the point of the trip, from the canyon and the remote town of Batopilas to Unique another town in another canyon. A simple task to the uninformed. Up and out of the canyon and then back down into another one.
After we left the river and started out ascent I decide to do a little bike repair, I’ll timed now there was no water to wash my hands clean afterwards. I managed to drop my bike before I even started to work on it. In doing so I knocked out my dash electrics, which include a sat nav that doesn’t even recognize Mexico but is useful for direction, a voltage gauge and most important of all my fan switch (which makes the voltage gauge drop) cus when your revving in 1st and 2nd with no real speed the engine gets hot and having a switch to turn the fan on all the time is very useful, but not anymore, none of it is working. Electrical faults can take ages to find, I’ll fix it later.
This is a steep road, 4000ft in 8 miles and its tough, really tough, the hairpin corners have deep channels carved in them from the draining rains. I go round blindly on the wrong side, slowly but fast enough to keep balance, the front wheel sinks into the deep rock filled rut, I have to turn the throttle against instinct to get out and the back wheel follows, it smashes the suspension on the bike and also my bent knees that are holding my aching arse off the seat. There is a rhythm to it, but its brutal to bike and body, but not as brutal as dropping my wallowing loaded steed. I can kind of decide where I want to go but that doesn’t always mean I will go there, I get precariously close to the cliff edge at times, hit the rock I was specifically trying to avoid. Fall in the rut that took off me what little control was left.
There was one bit that was like a dry river bed,( not a grassy picnic inviting river bed, but a violent white water, salmon beating, beaver bashing, raging, rock moving, tree felling river bed) it wasn’t a road, it was precipitous, covered in big jagged rocks, a sheer drop on one side and dynamited mountain edge the other. I tried but failed. It was tortuous, I couldn’t get it to go up; the bike is so heavily laden the trail so sheer. The surface so uneven, I dropped it and struggled, I wheel spun forward, slipped back sideways, I stalled and slipped the clutch, I revved and panted, I balanced and fought and with no grace, control or style I got up to the flat of the 180 degree bend. Fuck, that just shortened the life expectancy of all involved. Even the rocks I scraped and gouged with the plate beneath my engine are a few days closer to being sand.
It just keeps going, it’s horrendous. Challenging, treacherous, exhilarating, arduous, the same words keep coming back. Adrenalin keeps you going but exhilaration just wears you out. Standing on the pegs, physically manoeuvring the bike around sump piercing, wheel bending obstacles. I'm beginning to wonder just how many canyons I need to see. Everything aches, I’m shattered, I'm sure it’s the most challenging dangerous road I have ever ridden, how can Bolivia’s road of death be any worse?
The bike was doing so well, there was not another vehicle in either direction. Then fruit trees turn to pines and the plateau gives us some reprieve from the vertical challenge and the heat, but before I can even regain my gasping breath; there across the track is a barbwire fence. Purposefully stretched across, but why? If it was to stop vehicles then rocks would do.
I know this is drug baron territory, I know it’s fraught with robberies and shootings, cartel and dodgy dealings. It’s a very significant fence, not is structure but in location. To turn back is unthinkable. But if going on results in something nasty no one would ever understand why we didn’t simply go back down the hill, because they never saw, witnessed, endured and conquered the hill. It was a one way trip regardless of why. Fuck it, I'm not going back, this could be the stupidest decision I ever made, it could quite simply be fatal. I undid the barbwire and opened a gap to get the bikes through. Trespassing into an illegal cash crop? Dead men tell no tales, we have been warned, not by the paranoid but by the informed, that if you see such a crop get out as quick as you can, the grower does not want a pre harvest visit, he wants privacy and he wants it at any cost.
Almost immediately I see two calves, see, that puts my mind at rest, it was to keep in the cowlets. And after some uneventful flattish pine shaded riding another ‘gate’ and I feel safer, except then there is a 3rd. I need a lunch break. I sit and eat my half an avocado and protean bar. As we pack up a man on horseback with 2 way radio rides up to us. I'm glad we are looking like we are leaving. I think we were being watched the whole time. He doesn’t dismount and it amounts to nothing, a brief exchange of non understood words and some appropriate unthreading body language. Then several more gates are encountered, opened passed through and closed behind us.
This ride is so demanding I can think of nothing more than the road. I can’t be distracted by other thoughts; I have not had phone reception for a week. After the initial frustration it’s actually quite liberating. The only world I am in contact with is the one I pass through. It’s the way it used to be and I am not controlled or distracted by things going on in a time and place I can’t get to. I'm not even sure I can get to the other canyon.
When the track is flat enough my mind wanders but not to anything flowery and lovely, but how I will deal with a loaded gun pointing at me and demands I don’t understand or want to comply with.
The decent comes into view, it clings to the cliff edge, it winds out of pines and out of site.
1st gear, dry mouth, heavy breathing, intense concentration, exhausted, 5000ft, 4000ft, standing on the pegs leaning over the front mudguard due to the sheer gradient of the road. The rear wheel turns the engine, I dab the break and it locks, the bike skids sideways and I'm still gaining speed. I’m facing the abyss, gently squeeze the front break, I mustn’t lock the front wheel, I daren’t , I can’t drop it, not again. Got to keep upright, got to face down, got to keep control, got to find the best route even if it means wrong side on a blind bend, better instant impact from an oncoming vehicle that from a 1000ft fall. With the decent comes the heat. One more discomfort to contend with.
Oh yeah canyon, scenery, unless you stop you don’t even see it. Can’t take ya eyes off the road for a moment, I can see the river now. The roof tops of the village, I optimistically look for a camping area from this vantage point. The hardest road I've ever ridden. The dangers from drug cartel were nothing compared to the dangers of a momentary lapse of concentration, or loss of control. No one else drove it. 62 miles 10 hours of arduous riding. That 6.8 mph as an average speed. Hot engine, hot air blown on to a hot body. (This will play havoc with my split ends)
But now we are down. Just one more thing - the town is the other side of the river. The river has no bridge; the river is 200ft wide, flowing well and the low sun is shining right on it just to make it a little more tricky.
It’s not the relief it should be to take off boots and wade into it. The rocks although quite even are slippery, the depth varies. I walk it back and forth twice, try to plot a route. Turning back is unthinkable. At any other time a 200ft river crossing would be too, exhausted, fatigued but it simply can’t stop us. Do I want to go first or second? I've done both, go first and fall the other learns from your mistake, go second, the pressure is on not to fail, the first bike made it. I go first. Not glamour, feet down several times, but the bike stays up. I break on through to the other side.
What else, surely nothing else. The town shop had pot noodle to offer, 2 cold cokes and the inevitable audience as bike boots are put back on as trousers drip the saturation of river water and body drips the exertion of the day. One man says Batopilas and indicates that we are strong to have ridden such a road.
Out of town, its dusk, need a camping spot quick, find a mozzy infested swamp pool at the side of the river on a spit of land.
It’s close to the road too, a man shouts from the window of a passing truck ‘marijuana’. I've been hearing it all my life, wantta buy it, got any to sell, why then is this encounter so frightening? Cus he’s not an opportunist dealer, he’s a grower, wholesaler, he’s hunted and he’s prepared for it. This aint ya average neighbourhood stoner with a baggy to sell, it’s a wild place.
I open the guide book; it says there is a camp site with showers a mile out of town. We must have done a mile. I’ll go check though. I have my bike boots on, shorts, shades, mussel shirt and a half loaded bike. I ride a mile, then one more. I find a town, a real town, the town that the other one wasn’t. Eureka I've found Urique. It has beer sellers and hotels, beer cans and restaurants, people drinking beer and a one way system, drunks with guns and street lights. It’s alive, vibrant and pissed. And I've left my wallet in my jacket at camp. Its dark, no time to find a camp site, no money to buy good things. Back to our mozzy spit for a protein bar and an early night.
And that, that was the point of the post was.
The next day we meet some Utah bikers on 350 dirt bikes, they bought them here in a van, and they did the same road, un-laden, torquey and light. Apparently there are 2 ways to get from Batopilas to Urique and when they discovered we did the hard road on our fully loaded bikes they were in awe and respect. And we felt a genuine sense of achievement. Hard earned and well deserved. Perhaps just a little guilty for giving the bike so much abuse so early in the trip. But all the more appreciative at its ability to endure and when the tarmac returned it banked round the corners and metamorphosized back to the street bike qualities it had been deprived of. I have so much respect for my KLR and its seems to accept me and my intermittent ability to ride it to its limits.
And as for monklet, well... When he has a gun pointing at his head he smiles, when he’s the only one wearing a helmet he smiles, when the dust blinds his sight he smiles and with cable tied captivity on the handlebars and a tarantula on the loose monklet still smiles.
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