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Published: November 28th 2010
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Burro Racing Getting to
Real De Catorce is a bit of mucking about. We caught a bus from San Luis Potosi to Matahuala, then another bus to Catorce. This bus heads down the highway for a bit then turns left onto a 15 mile cobblestone road through the mountains. The whole time the driver was flirting and making eyes in the mirror at a couple of girls sitting behind us which made the trip a bit more interesting.
The only access to Catorce is through a single lane tunnel, 3km long, dug through the mountain. This meant we had to get off the large bus and cram into a small one that would actually fit through the tunnel. Fitting all the people onto the smaller bus presented something of a challenge, and in the end me and my backpack were squashed into a seat next to a highly embarrassed high school girl whose friends were making inappropriate comments from the back. I simply smiled in what I hoped was a friendly manner, which no doubt made things worse.
Klaire was far more comfortable – she only had a massive sack of mince resting on her feet. And some chops.
We clawed our
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Burro Racing, main street Real de Cartorce way out of the bus and into the dust, checking the LP map. Again, we sprang for the cheapest place in town, and it was down the main street and to the right. Save for a couple of street lights, the walk along the main street was exactly like the opening scenes of a Sergio Leone movie – i.e. awesome. All it needed was a bell tolling and a couple of mules...wait, there goes the bells! There's the mules! Adam is now in Western heaven.
We made it about 5 steps before we were greeted by a gentleman spruiking his horse riding tour.
This is one of the highlights of Catorce, and we were certainly planning on doing it. He asked where we were going and we gave him the name of the hostel – Hostal Real de Alamos.
“Ahh, I can show you where is this place.”
So we let him give us his spiel. In the end we negotiated 600 pesos total for a 4 hour horse ride through the desert and the mountains. That worked out to around $50, so a pretty good deal.
“So then, jovenes, I will see you tomorrow morning at your hotel,
which is...” he pointed up the hill, directly behind us, and there it was not 20 metres away.
Sneaky bastard.
We freshened up in the hostel, and went back to the main street in time to see the finals of the burro races – blokes of all ages pelting down the main drag on nervous looking donkeys, hooves slipping on the cobblestone, kids and dogs scrambling out of the way, mariachi music blasting from everywhere, and the air thick with the smell of corn tortillas, churros, and horses.
We pretty much spent the next little while hanging out, enjoying the colourful, organised confusion, taking photos of the races, looking for a place to have a beer – this last having already become a common activity.
So far, a hell of a place.
We did find a place to have a beer, and some tequila. The little general store helpfully had more tequila, so we bought a flat bottle of El Jimador, which is a decent quality tequila. Back at the room there was nothing to drink it out of. Rather than swig out of the bottle like barbarians we quickly polished off a couple of cans
Back Streets
Plants in buckets of Tecate that we had just bought, which I then fashioned into two cups.
Civilised, that's us.
We drank our Tecate and tequila chasers sitting on the roof of the hostel, overlooking the entire town (at less than 1000 people, it's not real big).
Our mate with the horses was meeting us at 9:30 the next morning, so we ducked out to grab a quick bite and a coffee at a place on the main drag owned by a Swiss family.
We went back, found the horse fella, and followed him up the hill, where he introduced us to the horses.
Now, it has been almost 20 years since I last rode a horse, probably at Wongabillla in Darwin (next to the prison). Of course, being a Coles I'm a natural at it, so it came back pretty quick (bit of shush, Sarah and slowfeet).
Klaire looked good on the horse too, until it came to going down the first hill. Seriously, the very first bit of the ride begins with a Snowy River-esque descent down a ridiculously steep cobblestone street, and horses hoofs aren't equipped with grippy rubber soles.
We got out of town, and
into the desert. Absolutamente beautiful, it was. My horse, let's call him Terrence Two Speed, had just that. Two speeds. A ridiculously slow walk, or just short of a gallop.
Zacarias, the guide, had me lead off, so I did. A quick squeeze of the legs, nada.
A gentle poke with the heels. Still nothing.
“Mas fuerte!” says Zacarias.
A kick with the heels and suddenly I'm off, bouncing around in the saddle like a sack of spuds.
Clearly, not a natural, having forgotten how to sit a moving horse.
Eventually I got it figured out, as did Klaire, notwithstanding her right stirrup falling off at least 3 times.
Zacarias spoke about 3 words of English, so the ride turned into quite the test of my Spanish. We rode quite a way, my horse continually choosing the hardest trails – the steepest bits, the loosest gravel, the track closest to the 50m drop. Also, my genetically flat arse provided very limited cushioning.
None of which I really noticed at the time – the scenery was spectacular. We made it up to the top of one of the mountains having left the horses at the bottom. It was around
3000m up and you could see for miles. There was a spiral of stones that had been built by the indigenous Huichol mob for various ceremonies. (At least I think that's what Zacarias said).
Zacarias then convinced us to add another hour on to the ride and we visited Puebla de las Fantasmas – another set of ruins.
All very special.
So, saddle sore, sunburnt and happy, we walked the horses back into town. Lazy dogs blinking an eye as we passed, scrawny chickens scratching in the dust, a distant church bell, the sound of iron shod horses echoing off ancient stone buildings. Good stuff.
Next morning we had to get up pretty early. We wanted to get the early bus out so we could make it back to San Luis Potosi, and thence to Zacatecas; a trip which was likely to take all day. 2500M up in the desert in winter meant it was a bracing morning, but pretty. We walked to the end of the Ogarrio tunnel and waited. For a bit it looked like the bus wasn't going to come. According to the guy that operated the radio at the Catorce end
the bus driver wouldn't pay the fare. In the end he rocked up, and we were on the way to Zacatecas.
Real de Catorce, though, hell of a town.
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Sue Walker
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Nothing Beats a Good Western
You should be writing for Lonely Planet along with Slowfeet. I just love it!! Thank you for sharing.