The early hours of the am saw my body violently revolting against the dinner of the night before. My guts churned. My stomach heaved. My poor roommates. Sadly at one point I heard my heaving’s echoing throughout the hostel as others seemed to making the same intimate acquaintance with the toilet bowl as I was. I felt terrible. To make it worse I thought I had lost my new found friends.
I dragged myself out of bed in the morning to let them know that I would not be joining them that day. As I arrived at their hotel, Christian was waiting for me, the looking the same ashen shade of yellow as me and holding his stomach. Marjolein was still in bed. It confirmed the dinner as the cause of our pain and we negotiated a free night in which to recuperate. I crawled back to my hostel, with water, fresh bread and a banana and almost slept through the whole day and a night.
The next day we decided even though still feeling a little queasy the fresh air of riding would do us good. We both lost almost a week with breakdowns on our bikes as we arrived in Mexico, and we were feeling that our timing was getting behind. Conversations with others had ruled out Batopilas, my roommates having been there a week ago reported AK47 wielding men madly searching their bus. They stated they always felt on edge walking around the town, and scared of what they would meet when they rounded the corner. There were no police and army in this town, only the cartel that seemed to be overactive, and blatantly showing their force. Others told us that the road had been washed away again in the rain and was inaccessible. As none of us were feeling fully up to speed we choose the safe route, bypassing Batopilas and on towards Durango.
On the way we passed through the ‘Valle de hongos’, a picturesque valley with interesting rock formations where the indigenous Ramamuri people live in caves amongst the hillside.