Troubles with the Spanish tongue

A year, a whole year I wasted with my Rosetta Stone Spanish language course. Learning how to say ‘my name is Yuri, I come from Moscow’ or ‘the granny has grey hair’, and a bunch of other classic irrelevant phrase book bollocks. Consequently as soon as I crossed the border to Mexico I had all the communications skills of a deaf mute. When the levels of frustration reached the same insufferable levels as the stench in my sleeping bag it was time to do something about both.

Finding an English teacher in this town of San Miguel de Allante is not hard, but finding a good one is. Jumping up and down, thi

A room with a picture postcard view

and local teacher procured it was time to stomp the ming out of my bag. Almost as worrying as putting my card in a foreign ATM machine was soaking the bag, will I ever get it back - to its pre soaking fluffy puffy form.

I dragged it like a sack of dead ducks to the roof top. It was too heavy for the washing line, so it bleed and drained its reluctant saturation from the railings. Three days of shaking and de-clumping, airing and relocating as the sun moved round the planet. But now it has the form of hot air balloon just before it’s ready for takeoff. I have not however managed to inflate my Spanish vocabulary quite so easy.

There are schools, proper schools for the students who have the ability to soak up knowledge like a down filled sleeping bag does water. Organized family stays to immerse yourself in the language and culture. I though, having all the saturation qualities of a ducks back, opted for a slower, up-close and personal approach. No one can accuse this teacher of going too fast. He clearly has some problems, possible stroke victim or vallium addict. He moves with the agility of gravity challenged sodden sleeping bag, he struggles with the continuity of the alphabet and drawing a clock face on the board was painful. In real time the hands he drew ware running late before completion. When he goes to look up a word in the dictionary he starts at 'a' for a word beginning with ‘t’ - ‘tocino', meaning bacon, that was after he tried to draw it in blue pen on the board to show us what it looked like.
I wouldn’t want him on my team at Pictionary; incidentally the wall supporting the whiteboard resembles a dart board wall, with blue spots around the outside of it from stray stabs with the marker pen. We spent a good 15 minutes deciding that ‘col’ was cauliflower and not cabbage. He reminds me of cross between Gordon Brown, with his slow but deliberate buffoon type manner, a prolonged certainty that inevitably ends in forgotten actions; and John Merck the Elephant Man, intelligence trapped inside a dysfunctional body. Despite these insulting similarities, this man is a really lovely honest man, with enthusiasm and a massive heart, all be it of questionable performance. I thought he was going to cry at the end of our last lesson when Andy gave him a pair of £1 Tesco reading glasses, ‘For me? How sweet’. Arrhh, bless.

At first it was annoying, he was going to be fired after the first excruciating lesson, but we gave him one more chance, a morning lesson, when the body still has some resilience against the numbing medication, when the coherence is at comprehensible levels. Thankfully his grasp of exchange rates is equally inaccurate, so what we lack in translation we make up for in transaction. He even had a new haircut the next day, surely a treat from his unexpected boost in income, I would have remarked but didn’t pay attention when we did the word for haircut, well why would I?

Anyway we reasoned we aren’t that quick either, we need slowness to take this stuff in. So we actually complement each other quite well.

I still feel like I'm on the edge, at any moment all this knowledge will fall into place and I will become a cunning linguist of the Spanish tongue. I can see myself talking Spanish in my sleep or suddenly bursting forth with a mouth full of sentence at an appropriate opportunity when all things a line with my retained vocabulary and an audible, comprehensible, grammatically correct stream of words will be spouted with assertion and confidence. A perfect dialect and emphasis on the accented letters of the words. Relayed so faultlessly and more importantly understood but the intended receiver, that will result in a hushed reverence at my linguistic skills, as all around, behind hidden mouths onlookers will whisper, that surely I must be some kind of albino Mexican to have such a perfect grasp of the language. Actually that will only happen in my sleep, my dreams, not in reality, although I did order red sauce with my lunch the other day, sauce being ‘molé’ pronounced ‘moe-lay’ as in guacamole, but when the word was looked up in the wrong side of my Spanish/English dictionary was described as ‘as small black fury mammal with sharp pointy teeth. An untrustworthy sauce of underground information. But there are lots of similarities; ‘in an organization a mole is the sauce of the information’.
Dirty is ‘sue-c-o’, so now we know Phil Collins was singing about a dirty Spaniard.

Anyway word association combined with my ‘Michel Thomas’ audio lessons means it is all coming together, I have no time to ride, no time to write, go out or speak to the locals, but like a garage band rehearsing in private, I have bedroom Spanish. Pretty soon I will go out on tour and see if I can spread the word, whether it will be understood, and if the reply is comprehensible remains to be seen.
We have a room with the most amazing dome brick ceiling,

another ancient town of Spanish construction, with a bright blue high altitude sky pieced with the spires and bell towers of numerous churches and cathedrals,

that all ring out of sync, without punctuality or meaning, but with an acceptable noise pollution that compliments the tweeting sparrows morning chorus from the hanging flowering plants that cascade down from the sleeping bag airing balcony. Lying in bed with morning soft focus on impossible angles and construction, not arched enough to hold its self up, the agony of analyzing how it possible came to shape with symmetrical herring bone precision occupies one sense whilst unfathomable audibly time announcements play havoc with another sense, all this as I’m trying to recall and make sense the simplest of Spanish sentence is actually a wonderful way to start the days awearness.

Speaking of awareness, we found ourselves entering in a very dodgy Mexican bar where the urinal is unhidden and right next to the least preferred table, breeze blocks walls are painted red (to hide the blood?) it’s not exactly a calming colour. The bar entrance has swing saloon doors and would be cliché in any other place, but here it is authentic and not for foreigners to see, frequent or god forbid actually come through and drink in.

However after a nice safe clean, expensive roof top sunset, guide book recommended beer,

it was time for something darker and seedier, man did we come up trumps. I had just the right amount of beer in me to deal with such a place. Stone cold soba and I would have turned right around, drunk, and I like to think I would have decided I’d had enough, but at this particular stage of acquiring a Friday night celebration feeling after a week of alcohol abstinent and audible absorption; I had the perfect combined ingredients and drive to continue to walk to the bar, as conversation is hushed and all eyes are upon us. The choice is beer, ‘ya want it or not?’ No umbrellas in voluminous glasses shading multicoloured liquids. No voluminous women in multicoloured dresses. This is a place to come to to escape the hard world and indulge in some hard drinking and dirty lovin’, ‘Cheers’ it is not – everyone may know your name but no one gives a shit. The women are whores and huge beyond any beer goggles. Not the kind of women for picking up, unless you have a forklift.

One lucky punter got 2 minutes in the stinking toilet for his hard earn Pesos,

a drunken decision that was perhaps a little rash, and that, will be his only recollection of the encounter. Two old men with cowboy hats and droopy moustaches serenade the matchless couple during their post transaction dance, with guitar and accordion.

No one bats an eye. We too have blended in (as well as a gringo can against red walls, even a chameleon would be challenged), but when opportunism and intrigue are combined with alcohol courage and nicotine addiction, I'm approached; I understand she wants money for cigarettes, having her full attention, her full figure in my face a number so large, I haven’t learnt to count that high yet; I use my slurred Spanish to confirm her request and ask what I will get from the deal. Not having learnt the word for blow job yet, although I made a mental note to put it on the list of things to find out, along with wet and dry, (for riding conditions of course, nothing sanded or sordid about those words.) I was able to ask for a kiss and my 5 Pecos was not entirely wasted nor was a week long course I have the Spanish tongue.
After 2 beers and no blood spilled we decided it was time to leave and count our blessings on washed and scrubbed hands because I don’t want to be putting any other filthy things in my mouth.

I was quite proud of my newly acquired linguistic skills, but then paying for breakfast the following day, instead of telling us the total bill she said half the amount from both of us, and utter confusion ensued. Why couldn’t you just say 60? I feel once again I am back at day one. Like guitar playing and surfing, speaking a foreign language is just something I will only ever watch other people do.

Today we were supposed to move on but the pulled back curtains revealed a grey and wet November morning the first rain I've seen in over 2 months and best viewed from the window of a comfortable room than from a wiped and smeared visor.

When I eventually press my starter button again, I think sign posts will have meaning and like a movie with subtitles I will get the gist, I just have too. I have so much to say, it’s a crime to be lost in translation.

An independent revolution solution

‘The coolest place you’ve never been’ said the guide book, ‘well ifs that’s not the kiss of death’ I thought... a place of high expectations and no doubt prices to match. But intrigue over ruled cynicism, a rare behaviour trait but none the less it has to be acted on. The first thing I discover about what’s going on is what’s going on with me. Until I got here I had not heard the phrase although I'm not sure which came first, disease or diagnosis, ‘traveller burn out’.
As soon as I heard the words, much like ‘commitment-phobe’, I knew I was a sufferer.
Every day, finding your way, finding food and a place to stay, trying to understand the language, what people say and all the other challenges of the day, that don’t occur if you don’t go away. I need to stop going. The symptoms are exhaustion, sleep for 11 hours yet next morning the yawning begins after 2 hours riding, and the opening of the guide book is a daunting proposition. I don’t want to miss anything but equally the research is a chore that can’t be faced.

I need a holiday, 9 months of homelessness. When you romanticise about a Saturday morning bacon and egg sandwich in your November cold kitchen, in the company of ya favourite radio programme, it’s not so much homesickness as longing for a place where you are independent and self contained. Wait a minute, 2 wheels of liberty and 2 panniers of processions, if that’s not independence and self containment then what is? Ok, its familiarity I lack then, a routine and a structure. Like packing up the tent, rolling up my Kelty sleeping bag and fitting them skilfully in their travel positions. Routine and structure; its right there. So what am I whinging about? I'm tired, I'm knackered, I’m exhausted. I want to sit in a little private space, to know where to buy my fruit and bread, have my wifi and communication requirements, a soft pillow instead of a rolled up fleece and a door I can close, not zip up behind me.

We are zigzagging across Mexico like an Estonian at a car boot sale. The thing I've discovered is its many varied climates, ‘you know that I love you boy, hot like Mexico enjoy’, sang Lady GaGa but her fame is not for her weather reports. Mexico is like a chilli that’s been taken out of the freezer and put in the oven for a minute, it’s hot on the outside but cold in the middle. High elevation makes for frosty saddle mornings, then drop down to the coast and up comes the temperature and humidity.

So here I am at 6000feet. Chilling with the citrus trees. In a city I can’t leave. Morelia won’t stop happening, and even after, happy hours in street cafes, surrounded by physical and architectural beauty of 16th century colonial Span, cathedrals of stone and extravagance, that are lit at night by dramatic lighting extinguished only for cascading fireworks, accompanied by powerful music blasted from the street.

Live free open air concerts in the historical squares of arched and sculptured backdrops, where the local musicians wait for a vacant spot to serenade the public with an acoustic guitar and the joy of performing and only separated by the pounding bass of passing enticement. Followed by inadvertent tequila invitations that lead to salsa dancing in a tiny local bar,

And if all that stimulation of audio and visual art is not enough they even have a Woolworths selling artificial trees and flashing lights to remind me it’s going to be Christmas for certain types of people.
However there are other more significant and immediate celebrations, November 20th, every town has a street called 20th November Street, the date of the Mexican revolution, 101 years to the day.

There is something different about my room today; there was no hangover in it and no really pressing things to do. But at 7am the explosions started, not the hand grenades of ‘la familiar drug cartel’ that caused the 2008 fatalities but the inpatient celebrators of fireworks to come all be it under the sun.

I've been paying extra for a room with a TV I don’t have time to watch, after 4 nights of city life or was it 5, I have already forgotten what phase of the moon we are in and I haven’t seen a dawn from the right side since I dried the dew off my tent last week and then soaked my liver. It’s time to go, I'm feeling ok, before I forget which way I came from. Packed up, clean undies, and the others drying on the panniers, tank bag located, goodbyes said, gratitude expressed and a few more email addresses to carry on with. The bike is carefully ridden out of the hotel courtyard, revving to high on choke, slipping the clutch so as not to slip on the polished floor. And out into the empty Sunday morning Street. Significantly empty it is. A left and a right two blocks to the Av Madero Paniente where it all happens all the time, this morning is no exception, the street is lined with people, not shopping or strolling, but waiting, almost like they are there to wave us off, but our impact on their city has not been as great as their cities impact on us. Waiting they are, for the parade of celebration of independence. All traffic has been stopped or diverted and we stick out like a cauliflower in a burrito. 2 gringos on overloaded, overland bikes, going the wrong way down a closed street that, 10 minutes ahead of us and heading directly our way is a 2 hour procession of all things Mexiconic and patriotic.

We divert quickly before our prominent positioning produces police interest. What are we going to do now? I hate to think I’m missing something.

We have a brief overlander meeting. Una mass noche? (One more night?) What are our choices? Fight our way out of a gridlock city on a street that is named after today’s date to stay a night by a mozzie infested swamp or back to our peaceful courtyard, park our bikes and go celebrate the day with the masses.

Its s an easy decision, but not an easy direction, we can’t get back, every road is blocked, by overzealous part time positioners of barricades who are not about to let us pass. One way systems of gridlock, jams and frustration lots of direction and proportion but no sense, by a little judgement and a whisper of luck, I pop out on a familiar street. And back to the hotel.
‘What did you forget?’ is the look I'm greeted with.
‘There’s a party going on out there ya know?’
So I'm back, 3 miles riding in right angled spiralling circles and I end up 2 doors down from my last room. ‘The coolest place I've never been?’ This cities invitation, an obligation, a commitment, an independence, one of the cooler things I couldn’t get out of. I feel a long stay coming my way.

Batopilas to Urique, Copper Canyon, no GS's on that road

There’s getting off the beaten track then there is being beaten by the track. Dirt roads, 5 days of dirt roads ‘wouldn’t it be a good idea to go to Copper Canyon via the back roads marked on the map’ the map of questionable accuracy. If they had started off in the same condition they were to become a u-turn back to black smooth road would have been an easy and instant decision.
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.

It’s not brave to go lidless in such terrain it’s cowardly, it’s about not feeling pain. It can also be justified by saying, it’s about immersing yourself in your surroundings of canyon walls where trees grow like they were slapped to the rock, winding roads, steep switch backs, the dust, the warm breeze from the canyon floor, the condors flying over head, and the continuing plod of a single cylinder bike still running in either first or second gear.

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.