Walking: here, there and everywhere, Isla Mujeres Mexico!

Heading out for a walk early in the morning

Slurping down my second cup of wake-up coffee, I can hear my friend Marcy’s voice outside my front door: “Hola, Hola.”  She’s come to collect me on her morning walk. Marcy is much more committed to exercise than I am. I need to be pushed into a routine. We typically head south on the Caribbean side, cut back west through the Colonias, and then walk around the pathway of the Salina Grande before returning home. 

Fruit vendor at the south end of Salina Grande

Along our route, we pass the fruit vendor’s makeshift stand tucked under the roomy shade of the trees at the southern end of the Salina Grande.  

She has tables and free-standing boxes stacked with fragrant, fresh vegetables and fruits, protected by an assortment of tattered old tarpaulins strung in the branches.

In the shallow marshy end of Salina Grande, there is a variety of birds: herons, storks, cranes, cormorants, a type of duck, and spoonbills paddling and hunting in the muck. 

Various birds in Salina Grande

Further on, a very sweet little pit bull-cross plays with us, begging for pats and belly rubs. We trek past several congenial young men having a quiet morning beer or two, chatting with friends, and enjoying the peace of early morning.  

They greet us with Buenos Días and a smile. Perhaps they are thinking that their way of beginning the new day or finishing the previous night is preferable to our method.

Pat me please!  (M.Watt photo)

Marcy and I are just two people out of the dozens who stride up and down, or around, the island in an attempt to stay active and reasonably fit. Every day, there is a steady stream of people passing our house. The long-legged former vice-principal of the high school, who now works in Cancun, marches past around six in the morning, with his arms swinging enthusiastically to increase his heart rate.  He returns an hour later, saluting a greeting as he passes our house.  

A little later on, another local couple and their sweater-covered lap dog do the same route from the Colonias into Centro and back. The little poodle manages to keep up most mornings, although occasionally, on very hot days, he gets a ride in the arms of his accommodating human.

Mango Café - "smoking chair"

Earlier this week, while Marcy was away, I trudged to the south end of the island to feed two kitties (not cats, I’m told) whose humans were out of town for a few days.  

Along the way, I snapped a few photographs: the colourful smoking chair outside Mango Café, the group of workers lengthening the ocean side path, the four-year-old sign for the still unfinished General Hospital, and the construction of a beautiful stone wall in front of Isla 33 condos.  

Fifty minutes later, I had reached my destination, chugged down a bottle of water, and then fed and played with the kitties. Retracing my route, I had planned to catch a taxi home.  

Four-year-old sign - General Hospital still unfinished

I soon discovered that on the Caribbean side of the island, there are so many walkers, joggers, and dog-walkers that taxis are few and far between.

Everyone is focused on exercise. They don’t want or need a ride. I was footsore and sweaty, and about halfway back to our house before a taxi appeared. 

By the time I got home, I felt righteous, very righteous, for all of my exercise.  

At lunch time, I indulged in an order of tasty beef fajitas and a cold beverage at the Soggy Peso with Lawrie, my other walking partner.  

He usually ambles around the various island neighbourhoods with me. 

Marcy, on the other hand, sets a brisk pace.  We hustle!

Hasta luego, Lynda & Lawrie

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Balance, Muscles, Coordination, building in Mexico!

Barefoot, casually balanced on top of our eight-foot-high patio wall, he slides the paint roller up to the top of the house, and back down again. His roller handle is constructed out of three five-foot lengths duct-taped together into one long, oversized handle. 

It’s hard, hot work in the tropical summer heat. He makes it look so easy. Up, down, up, down, dip the roller in the bucket and repeat. Nothing to it. 

It’s all in the balance, muscles and coordination. 

We often marvel at the easy grace of the local construction workers, performing difficult jobs with little or no equipment. Most worksites in Mexico would cause pulse-pounding night sweats for American OSHA or Canadian WCB safety inspectors. 

 

Scaffolding created out of lengths of wood, used and reused for every job site. 

 

Ladders nailed together in varying lengths and sizes, the steps a combination of wide, narrow, skinny, and thick. 

My favourite ladder photo!

 

Bracing, cobbled together from more bits and pieces of lumber, concrete blocks for levelling, and wire to tie the whole mess together. 

 

Our expressions of concern over their choices of equipment are met with good-natured grins, laughter. “No problemo.”

Concrete work is tedious. The sand, water and cement are mixed usually by hand or sometimes with a portable mixer. Then tendon-popping, ligament-straining twenty-litre buckets are filled, handed up overhead and lifted again to the next set of hands, and re-lifted to the top of the structure. 

The expensive pumper trucks are reserved for very large pours that can’t be accomplished in one day by the crew. 

Many workers are barefoot or wear ninety-nine-cent plastic sandals or flip-flops. 

Work gloves? Eye protection? Dust masks? Hard hats? No, no, no, and definitely no.

When our house and several of the houses along this road were built, the contractor instructed the workers to dig down to the bedrock before pouring the foundation. Some of the excavations went down eleven, twelve, thirteen, and for one house sixteen feet to find a firm base for the foundations.

 It’s a pretty good bet these houses will withstand a direct hit by a hurricane; however, watching the guys dig the holes, I could hardly stand it. There were no reinforcements of any kind. 

The part of my brain that stores the little bits of useful or sometimes useless trivia to do with safety, first aid, and cave-ins was spinning at 70000 RPM, looking for info on what to do if the walls collapsed. 

Thankfully, the information was not needed – this time.

I know I have said it before, but Mexico reminds us so much of Canada in the 1950s and 60s, before workplace safety regulations, before OSHA and WCB, when we too were casually indifferent to our safety. 

 

Now, we worry and fret about these guys, many of whom have become good friends. 

 

They are dads, and brothers, nephews, and sons.  Good guys, nice guys, hardworking guys. 

 

Hopefully, their balance, muscles and coordination will keep them safe. 

 

Even pets have good balance and coordination 

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Silly fun and sacred rituals: Halloween and Día de Los Muertos

Sponge Bob and Spider-person

Halloween: it’s the one time of year when perfectly normal people happily make fools of themselves playing dress-up!  

Lawrie and I love costume parties, especially when there is enthusiastic participation of other friends in the zany fun. 

In previous lives, we have worn some unusual outfits.

One year, I was an armless pumpkin requiring assistance to sip a drink through a straw.  Lawrie, on the other hand, was fetchingly attired in a green gingham dress.  Another year, I was a bruised-up accident victim, and he was the attending doctor.  More recently, we were a pirate wench and a headless butler, followed by Miss Piggy and Elmo. For the third year in a row, Curtis and Ashley Blogin hosted their annual costume party for invited guests at Villa la Bella.    

Sponge Bob and Spider-person who didn't have a clue!

This year, my date was a very handsome SpongeBob, while I was attired as Spider-person. I had a slight costume failure, arriving at the party wearing my costume backwards. Apparently, getting dressed without the aid of a mirror or without looking at the end result before heading out to a party is a very bad idea. 

SpongeBob was of no assistance with wardrobe advice as he couldn’t see his own feet, never mind what I was wearing. 

SpongeBob also had a slight physical challenge; he could not reach his mouth with a beverage container, so he cleverly inserted a length of clear plastic tubing up his arm and into his mouth to aid with the consumption of a beer or two.  

 

Richard and Linda Grierson

Halloween or All Hallows Eve is still a relatively unknown tradition in Mexico. The dress-up, trick-or-treat customs originated in Europe and the British Isles and were brought to North America by settlers. Eventually, the traditions found their way into parts of Mexico via television and stores like Walmart, Sam’s Club and Costco. Immediately following Halloween are two very important Mexican national celebrations. 

 

November 1^st, Día de Los Inocentes honours children, and November 2nd, Día de Los Muertos, honours adults. In Mexico, the rituals and celebrations venerating ancestors can be traced back about 3000 years to the Olmec, Aztec, and Maya civilizations.

The Día de Los Muertos celebrations include building private altars using sugar skulls, marigolds, favourite foods and beverages of the departed.  Some families leave a pillow and blanket outside the door to provide a resting place for their loved ones. In many settlements, people have picnics at the gravesite of their family members, including the departed in the feast. 

The holiday is celebrated joyfully with food, music, or parades with elaborate costumes in the bigger cities. The emphasis is on honouring the lives of the dead, rather than fearing evil or malevolent spirits.

Flowers being delivered via UltraMar for Day of the Dead

Our traditional North American Halloween merriments are small in comparison to the Día de Los Muertos celebrations – but various North American and European symbols such as witches, pumpkins, vampires, bats and black cats are slowly permeating the Mexican festivities. 

 

We have recently started to participate in the Día de Los Muertos rituals. We have a small altar in the kitchen, decorated with photos of our parents, flowers and candles and mementos. Just something to remind us of those special people. 

It is a fun time of year with the costume parties, and a contemplative time remembering our family members.

Hasta luego

Lynda & Lawrie

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What a Beautiful Noise! Daily life in Mexico.

A man on a motorcycle slowly cruises past our house. He is singing a Spanish love song at the top of his voice, oblivious that we are eavesdropping from our upper-floor deck. The sound is beautiful, haunting. We frequently perch on this street-side deck with our feet resting on the aluminum railings, our toes wiggling a hello to passing friends.  With a morning cup of coffee or an evening glass of wine in hand, we are watching and listening to locals. 

We are voyeurs!

This island thrives on noise, music, and laughter. 

Early in the morning, the honking of a bicycle horn lets us know the tortilla vendor has started his route, followed by the whine of motorcycles as they whiz past depositing teenagers at the college, and still later we hear the squeal of brakes, slamming of car doors and laughter as kindergarten students arrive at school. 

Walk through any neighbourhood and you will hear the overhead noise of a rooftop alarm system, the family dog, peering over the edge, barking at anything or anyone that infringes on his territory.

As the day progresses, the sounds change. 

Every vendor or delivery person has their own signal to let customers know they are nearby. Want freshly squeezed orange juice? Just wait for the beep-beep of the moto horn outside your door. 

 

Need a 20L bottle of agua purificada?  Two blasts from a truck’s horn and the squeak of the suspension – and you know the Cristal delivery truck has arrived. 

The deliverymen for the small portable bottles of propane have a recorded song that reverberates from a speaker: Zeta Zeta, Zeta gas. 

 

The cheese salesman sings a short refrain offering queso queso as he balances the large wheel of cheese on his head. The knife-sharpener tootles a set of panpipes, trudging through the various neighbourhoods. 

 

Businesses like Super X-Press and Chedraui hire car-and-drivers with loudspeakers to cruise the island advertising the weekly specials. The municipality uses a similar method for advising islanders of upcoming important public events. 

 

The really intriguing part of this boisterous culture is the number of parades that take place annually, complete with music, costumes, decorated floats, and hundreds of marching participants. 

We have many photos of Christmas parades, the Night of the Kings, Carnival parades that happen nightly for a week, political parades, Independence Day, Revolution Day, cowboys riding to the bull fight-ring, caged lions and tigers complete with loud music advertising the circus, numerous religious celebrations, and national holidays.  

 

 

 

 

Then added on top of the parades are the five or maybe six annual fishing tournaments, and a music festival that attracts islanders and visitors alike – the noise level just keeps increasing.

And then there are times when the noise is a bit too much; the over-loaded mufflerless dump trucks racing to catch the last car ferry off of the island, the poorly maintained city garbage trucks that blat and grind and wheeze along the roads like old men struggling with a bad case of gas. 

 

Some businesses, like Farmacias Similares, seem to have a corporate policy of annoying the general public with exceptionally loud music piped outside for everyone to enjoy from early afternoon until late at night.  Even our favourite store, Chedraui Super Store, has earsplittingly loud music blasting from the stereos, competing with in-store music, announcements of today’s specials, or requests for a manager to call the service desk.     Oh joy!

The ocean-side view at our island home.

We grew up in a relatively quiet country, Canada, where noise is quite strictly regulated. We have lived on country acreages, in rural homes, and in a converted warehouse-condo located on Beatty Street in Vancouver, BC.

Living here is similar to residing downtown in a big city where the ambient noise level is ever-present, but with a lot fewer people creating the noise - that beautiful noise. 

When it all becomes too much for us, we can retreat to the ocean-side of the house and listen to our favourite noise of all; the sound of waves sliding in from the Caribbean Sea, swooshing up onto the beach, slowly receding, and gently pulling the white sand back into the ocean.    

 

Ah! Joy!

Hasta luego

Lynda and Lawrie

 

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Our skewed perspective of Mexico!

Lawrie standard island attire

We wear shorts, t-shirts and sandals 360 days a year.  The other 5 days, when the weather is chilly, we wear jeans, t-shirts and sandals. 

Gone are my designer label business suits, stiletto heels and nylons. Lawrie still has one pair of expensive Italian dress shoes, tucked into a storage bin, slowly turning to mounds of fuzzy grey mould. 

When we left Canada, Lawrie gave away dozens of expensive ties, suits, and dress shirts. 

We now live in a small fishing community, Isla Mujeres, not far from Cancun. Resort-style clothing is the norm. Island living has skewed our perspective. 

 

Back in the day when we still worked!

Our recent jaunt to Guadalajara and Morelia reminded us of the more traditional Mexico. The residents dressed in business clothes, long pants, shirts and well-polished shoes for the men; dresses and high heels for the women. Shoeshine stands were plentiful in both cities. 

Here on Isla, almost everyone wears sandals or flip-flops; no shoe polish required.  Many island residents wear t-shirts advertising a political candidate in either an upcoming election or a previous election. It’s a free shirt, given out by the thousands during the months before an election. It doesn’t matter if you support the candidate or not; a free shirt is still a free shirt.

Customers dressed for breakfast in Morelia.

In Guadalajara and Morelia, we heard English spoken twice during the week. We struggled to communicate with hotel staff, restaurant servers, and the Ford service department. 

Isla Mujeres, on the other hand, is primarily a resort community with hundreds of expats living here, so the necessity to learn Spanish is not so pressing. At least six months of the year, we speak English. 

Many English-speaking friends on Isla.

During the other six months when our expat friends have returned to Canada or the US, we speak Spanglish, brutally massacring the beautiful language. 

We try to speak correctly, but our brains just don’t retain the words. Falling asleep at night allows most of our newly acquired words to leak out of our brains – evaporating quickly into the night air. It’s hell getting older.

Casual Fridays every day on Isla

The Spanish spoken here on Isla is different, heavily flavoured with informal island slang and many Mayan words, as most of the inhabitants are of Maya descent.  The Spanish we heard spoken in Guadalajara and Morelia was similar to the Rosetta Stone computer language program.  

I practiced long and hard to say ante ojos de sol for sunglasses. Here on Isla, my local friends burst out laughing. They say: lens. 

The Rosetta Stone program taught us to say carro for an automobile. On Isla, the common word is camioneta for any vehicle: truck, car or van. But then, this shouldn’t surprise me. Like Mexico, Canada is a large country stretching 5000 kilometres from coast to coast.  Years ago when Lawrie and I visited the maritime province of Prince Edward Island, we discovered that whatever language the islanders were speaking, it sure as heck wasn’t English. At least not any form of English that we could understand. 

A few years ago - Puerto Vallarta

Every adventure in Mexico is interesting, fun, and a learning experience. 

We enjoy the diversity. 

Travel helps straighten out our skewed perspective.

Hasta pronto

Lynda & Lawrie

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