lostCANADIAN in Mexico

Warned, with absolute fervor in town to completely avoid Rancho Truchas as the banditos were very dangerous, we retraced yesterdays tracks in the dirt road. Riding about twenty kilometers through the dirt, slipping a bit from time to time, but otherwise enjoying the ride as the sun slowly rose, cooking us in our motorcycle suits, we reached our first destination...

Prior to this trip, Mihai had met some friends at a motorcycle meeting and one fellow had previously done this route and in one small village he had taken photographs of some children on his motorcycle. These pictures had somehow ended up in Mihai's possession to be given to these children.

Reaching La Culebra, a very remote village of sixteen families, the steep descent over very rugged terrain with few jarring rocks was enough to bring me down again, completely taking off my left mirror this time, nothing that duct tape could do, I accepted the loss. Reaching the town center amid a swarm of these very same children in the pictures, we began handing out the photos and taking some of our own. There are never any travellors here, because there simply isn't anything here, in so inaccessible and remote an area, deep within these barren mountains. Waving to the army of kids, we once again set out.

Pushing through valleys and hills, we made good timing on the next twenty kilometers, until finally reaching a small restaurant where we stopped for a meal. Unforuntately, being a white devil and all, we were not very welcomed by the small Indian family. Very gruffy they took our order, but even so they prepared us an excellent little feast. The foreman for the roads pulled by for a chat as well, informing us we'd have to make a right turn after the next bridge and also giving us some haunting news, that we were still four hours away from our destination. How could that be? We were already well over four hours into our trip that was originally promised as four, with another four to go, we were a bit daunted.

Very well, we still had plenty of day light. Crossing the bridge, we came to the road, which was little more than a donkey trail amid only the largest rocks with the sharpest edges. My first comment to Mihai was that this couldn't possibly be the road, it was un-rideable. Confirming with a nearby villager, we pressed forward, slowly and cautiously.

I can't even describe the difficulties we endured that were unlike any other imaginable, and the pictures do so little justice. Riding through bone chilling, hair raising curves high into the mountains with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet on so small a dirt road with only sharp, jagged rocks, we went down an uncountable amount of times. Going uphill at least allowed us some meager control through these rocks, but downhill, with gravity accelerating the bikes on steep cliff walls was a bit out of our control. Down time and time again, leaving incredibly sized bumps and scratches along our legs and missing parts of the bikes, we crawled through this spectacular country. With a searing sun overhead, at a high altitude, the overheating light on my bike blinked on continuously while I completely drenched several shirts underneath my jacked with sweat and struggled for every single gulp of fresh air through my helmet. Muscles over-strained while attempted to control my bike as it was jerked left and right, it became so incredibly difficult to lift these overburdened bikes time and time again from the ground as our precious gas leaked from them every time they lay on the ground. Perhaps with more suited bikes and less of a load, this might have been easier, as the backpack on my back is easily the weight of a second passenger, it creates a higher level of gravity giving me little to no control.

Past physical exhaustion and suffering from heat exhaustion, we made it into a valley as I hyperventilated in my helmet. I needed a break. Wrenching off my jacket and helmet, my head spun with dizziness. Making our way over to a group of farmers, we sparked up the usual conversation. "Hello, we are Canadians travelling Mexico by motorcycle." Surrounded by eight of these large farmers, we overlooked our maps, and finally asking where we were, they spoke the dreaded words. This is Rancho Truchas, and these were the notorious banditos. Very well, chugging down some water and wishing them well, we got going.

Not soon after we reached a river that cut the road in half. Knee-deep and fifty feet wide, we contemplated how to accomplish this latest challenge. Only one solution, carry our gear across and then return with the bikes. Splashing through the river, slipping on algae covered rocks, we both made it through without incident. Filling up our empty bottles with lake water and soaking our faces, we finally had a chance to cool down, but were concerned with the small amount of drinking water we had left. This river water was fine for cleaning our radiators of dirt, but hardly qualified as drinking water.

Being told by a local man, who we came across blocking the road while he pissed on the tire of his truck, piss drunk, that we still had three hours to go to Batopilas. After he offered to sell us a kilo of marijuana, we gave up trying to determine how long it would take and just pressed on, back into the steep mountain roads, spilling even more blood on the jagged rocks, sliding too close to the edge of the cliff time and time again. I fought against heat exhaustion, until finally giving up, drenched completely in sweat again, I guzzled down some hot tap water we had been carrying since Choix, praying it would not sicken me.

My handlebars now completely bent out of shape, we struggled endlessly through the remainder of the day until night quickly descended on us, reducing visibility to nothing. Passing by a small village, we were at least able to acquire a bottle of coke and another of fanta, but they had no water.

Mihai insisted on pushing onwards with more promises that it was only an hour left from most of the locals. We did, but did not make it very far when Mihai dumped his bike twice in a couple of meters. Deep in the canyon now, visibility gone, we made our way back to a small farmstead we had passed not long before to ask if we could camp on their property.

A young couple insisted that we could camp at their parents house. We were so happy to finally stop, we rolled our bikes right through the gates and met the parents, a blind old man and his wife who were taking care of the young couples two children. Telling them of our stories and sharing our drinks, we were enjoying ourselves with this little family, until out from the darkness a truck pulled up and four drunk men stumbled out. "Ah yes, they live here too, they rent part of the building."

Nervously, we greeting these men, all of which were very drunk and continuing to drink. We all sat around retelling our story. "Hey gringo, you want one of these beers?" one inquired as he chugged one after another down. "No gracias." Wanting to keep my wits about me, I watched them all warily as the family disappeared, we were left alone with them.

"How about some marijuana?" he inquired again. "Hey can you bring some to Canada?" Impossible. "Come on, want to buy a kilo? We have over a hundred, we grow it all over." Little did we realize at the time that this was also the area of Mexico that was reputed to have the most marijuana farmers in all of Mexico.

One of the men was extremely aggressive and set my nerves on end, as everytime we'd talk in English he would insist on knowing what was being said, if I'd laugh he would angrily ask why! It was time to set up the tent and get some rest.

Although rest was impossible, listening to them drink all night, playing with our bikes, even passing some cocaine through their noses. Cramped in a small tent together, stuffed with our gear, we lay awake for hours, until finally hearing silence, we could drift off a bit, only to awaken shortly afterwards, trying to get comfortable when every single part of our bodies was bruised, cut and battered.

Hang out with banditos, why not... Camp on the porch of marijuana farmers... why not!