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- Joined
- Oct 24, 2005
- Messages
- 255
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- Location
- Wills Point, Texas
- First Name
- David
- Last Name
- Bell
Batopilas
The road to Batopilas is being paved. The gravel will soon be gone. On the one hand, it will be sad that this great dual sport road is gone, but on the other hand, the people of Batopilas have a right to paved roads, round the clock electricity, and a Wal-Mart, if that's what they want. There is only a 25 mile stretch that is left to ride. I'm glad I got to ride it. The paved part is pretty awesome mountain twisty riding, maybe the awesomist I've ever seen. When you get to the gravel, the road is only wide enough for one. I have learned to ride to the mountain side instead of the cliff side, so that I'm pulling off the road into a ditch instead of a thousand foot drop to the canyon bottom. All along the way, there are Raramuri village at the bottom and numerous trails crisscrossing the trails. There are goats that seem to go straight up vertical walls, burros that stand in the road, and Raramuri people walking along the road, the men with a sort of skirt that they gather, and all tops of very colorful wool. They are shy people and do not generally want their pictures taken.
I have to say that Mike was riding an RT. That's right, a BMW that is completely encased in plastic. With Road Tires. He made the entire ride just fine. That should give you an idea about how rough the road is. The gravel is actually pretty smooth, with few areas of deep rocks, washouts, or very tight switchbacks. I hate tight switchbacks because that's where I experience brain lock and fall, however, they provided some very nice 'swing outs' at the start which keep them from getting too gnarly. The only part that Mike did not like was the very high Topes in the actual town of Batopilas.
Batopilas used to be a copper mining town, and the copper company built the road and there is a mansion there that was owned by a big wig. Now, there are lots of cars and everyone seems to know everyone else. There are some gas vendors there. In small towns in Mexico, you have to ask around about gas. You don't just pull in to an Exxon. The government owns Pemex and that is the only kind of actual station you see but there is no Pemex in Bato. You pull in and an attendant pumps your gas (Lleno el tanque, pronounced "yeno el tank-kay" means fill er up. Then you pay with pesos, at a current rate of 12 pesos to the dollar. In Bato, you ask around and everyone points up the street to a hose coming out of a wall, and that's the gas station. If you ask me, being the gas dude in Bato would be a pretty good gig. You are in the center of town and see where everyone is going today. There was an oil change station that consisted of ramps going out over the river. The cars pulled out on the ramps, and the oil change dudes stood on boards below and drained the oil into the river. ****, it's all biodegradable, right?
Also in Batopilas, you have to ask around about a restaurant. Everyone knows who is open and who has food. Since the generator only runs at certain times, our breakfast was cooked on a wood stove by the light of a kerosene (what Grandmother called "coal oil") lamp. Most stuff looks closed because we are so used to tons of light, but there, you knock, whistle, and holler til they open the door.
For security, we pulled the bikes through the owners apartment at the hotel to the court yard, which was surrounded by a brick wall and full of lime trees. A shy dog that looked like a fox walked around and finally allowed me to scratch his ears.
At one point at the hotel, a man came up to me and started speaking rapid Spanish but he was pointing up at our rooms on the second floor. I wasn't understanding a single word, and I thought he might be insane. He finally walked off, and the phrase "Aqua Caliente" started bouncing around in my brain. That means "hot water" and it sounded really really good, since the morning had started off with frost on the seats. I walked over and said "Aqua Caliente?" and he said "Si" and pointed to our rooms, evidently wanting to know which rooms we were in. I first said "109" which was, of course, last nights room number and had no resemblance to any room at this inn. Then Alan or someone said 4 and 5. Oh yeah. 4 and 5. Man that hot water felt good. There was no heat in the room, as far as I could tell.
Alan had broken his shifter in half the day before. I reassured him that all Mexican villages and towns have a welder and that I was sure he could get it fixed very easily. I started off after the wood stove breakfast asking everyone I saw about a Soldador. They all pointed to a house up the street, and I asked around. Turned out that Morales would not be back for 3 hours, but I could buy mangoes instead. I approached some 20-ish guys with full auto AR-15 rifles and asked them if they were police and they said "si". They were wearing baseball caps, jeans, and had the weapons slung over their backs like bad *** gunslingers. They told me where a welder was, but I only understood about every 15th word. Finally their boss made the two youngest walk me up to the welder, where they whistled until he came out. He fixed the shifter with a made in America Lincoln Welder and charged $4. I tipped him $2 extra, after all Alan had to pay, and he was very embarrassed and tried to refuse the tip. He asked a lot of questions about my KLR 650 and remarked that it must be very, very fast, being such a huge bike.
So, with the shifter welded, we were on our way back to Creel.
The road to Batopilas is being paved. The gravel will soon be gone. On the one hand, it will be sad that this great dual sport road is gone, but on the other hand, the people of Batopilas have a right to paved roads, round the clock electricity, and a Wal-Mart, if that's what they want. There is only a 25 mile stretch that is left to ride. I'm glad I got to ride it. The paved part is pretty awesome mountain twisty riding, maybe the awesomist I've ever seen. When you get to the gravel, the road is only wide enough for one. I have learned to ride to the mountain side instead of the cliff side, so that I'm pulling off the road into a ditch instead of a thousand foot drop to the canyon bottom. All along the way, there are Raramuri village at the bottom and numerous trails crisscrossing the trails. There are goats that seem to go straight up vertical walls, burros that stand in the road, and Raramuri people walking along the road, the men with a sort of skirt that they gather, and all tops of very colorful wool. They are shy people and do not generally want their pictures taken.
I have to say that Mike was riding an RT. That's right, a BMW that is completely encased in plastic. With Road Tires. He made the entire ride just fine. That should give you an idea about how rough the road is. The gravel is actually pretty smooth, with few areas of deep rocks, washouts, or very tight switchbacks. I hate tight switchbacks because that's where I experience brain lock and fall, however, they provided some very nice 'swing outs' at the start which keep them from getting too gnarly. The only part that Mike did not like was the very high Topes in the actual town of Batopilas.
Batopilas used to be a copper mining town, and the copper company built the road and there is a mansion there that was owned by a big wig. Now, there are lots of cars and everyone seems to know everyone else. There are some gas vendors there. In small towns in Mexico, you have to ask around about gas. You don't just pull in to an Exxon. The government owns Pemex and that is the only kind of actual station you see but there is no Pemex in Bato. You pull in and an attendant pumps your gas (Lleno el tanque, pronounced "yeno el tank-kay" means fill er up. Then you pay with pesos, at a current rate of 12 pesos to the dollar. In Bato, you ask around and everyone points up the street to a hose coming out of a wall, and that's the gas station. If you ask me, being the gas dude in Bato would be a pretty good gig. You are in the center of town and see where everyone is going today. There was an oil change station that consisted of ramps going out over the river. The cars pulled out on the ramps, and the oil change dudes stood on boards below and drained the oil into the river. ****, it's all biodegradable, right?
Also in Batopilas, you have to ask around about a restaurant. Everyone knows who is open and who has food. Since the generator only runs at certain times, our breakfast was cooked on a wood stove by the light of a kerosene (what Grandmother called "coal oil") lamp. Most stuff looks closed because we are so used to tons of light, but there, you knock, whistle, and holler til they open the door.
For security, we pulled the bikes through the owners apartment at the hotel to the court yard, which was surrounded by a brick wall and full of lime trees. A shy dog that looked like a fox walked around and finally allowed me to scratch his ears.
At one point at the hotel, a man came up to me and started speaking rapid Spanish but he was pointing up at our rooms on the second floor. I wasn't understanding a single word, and I thought he might be insane. He finally walked off, and the phrase "Aqua Caliente" started bouncing around in my brain. That means "hot water" and it sounded really really good, since the morning had started off with frost on the seats. I walked over and said "Aqua Caliente?" and he said "Si" and pointed to our rooms, evidently wanting to know which rooms we were in. I first said "109" which was, of course, last nights room number and had no resemblance to any room at this inn. Then Alan or someone said 4 and 5. Oh yeah. 4 and 5. Man that hot water felt good. There was no heat in the room, as far as I could tell.
Alan had broken his shifter in half the day before. I reassured him that all Mexican villages and towns have a welder and that I was sure he could get it fixed very easily. I started off after the wood stove breakfast asking everyone I saw about a Soldador. They all pointed to a house up the street, and I asked around. Turned out that Morales would not be back for 3 hours, but I could buy mangoes instead. I approached some 20-ish guys with full auto AR-15 rifles and asked them if they were police and they said "si". They were wearing baseball caps, jeans, and had the weapons slung over their backs like bad *** gunslingers. They told me where a welder was, but I only understood about every 15th word. Finally their boss made the two youngest walk me up to the welder, where they whistled until he came out. He fixed the shifter with a made in America Lincoln Welder and charged $4. I tipped him $2 extra, after all Alan had to pay, and he was very embarrassed and tried to refuse the tip. He asked a lot of questions about my KLR 650 and remarked that it must be very, very fast, being such a huge bike.
So, with the shifter welded, we were on our way back to Creel.
