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| Isla Mujeres. Photo Tony Garcia |
Waking at Maria's on Isla Mujeres was paradise personified. Nestled in a comfortable bed in a rustic stucco room I stretched and smelled the ocean breeze. Fuchsia colored bougainvillea spilled across the window leaving a clear view of the Caribbean.
A few hours later Paul and I were hopping out of a taxi onto the dock. We weren’t far from where a scene from "Against All Odds” had been filmed. The movie starring Jeff Bridges had been a factor in coming to Isla. Wowed by the island’s beauty we wanted to experience it first hand. It didn’t disappoint.
We queued for the next Cancun ferry. Hours later after lunching at an outdoor cafe, strolling through town and shopping at Mercado 23, we ventured to the hotel zone for dinner. The restaurant had all the amenities—beach, low lights, candles. But where was dinner? We began to panic after a second request about our food. Would this be another near miss for the last ferry to Isla? At 9:30, after gulping down a mouth-watering meal, we bolted from the restaurant into the arms of a waiting taxi driver.
“Puerto Jurarez dock!” Paul said.
The drive was slow going. We pulled up at the dock, throwing pesos at the taxista. Paul jumped out and spotted what I feared: Our ferry chugging away in the distance.
I stomped around the parking lot in a huff. “The restaurant, so slow! What are we going to do? This place is a total dive.”
“We have to look for a hotel.”
That brought me to my senses. Forget the warm breeze, the lapping water, the backside of the Sultana del Mar ferry. We needed a hotel. These were the early days before tourist gentrification. Puerto Juarez’s most outstanding feature was the steely facade of a military base on the outskirts of town.
We dragged ourselves to the pot-holed street and spotted a nearby hotel. As we approached I could tell it was definitely not the Ritz.
“A room,” I choked, looking a the clerk. “How much a night?”
“Thirty pesos.”
My heart sank. Three dollars? "Can we see it?”
He led us down a dilapidated, unlit walkway to a concrete building with a dented door. As the key turned into an ancient lock, the door creaked open. The undeniable odor of bug spray wafted over the threshold.
“We’ll take it,” Paul said, gagging.
Like dead men walking we followed the clerk to the office and paid. I asked where we could find a cold drink.
He pointed across the street. “The cantina.”
“How late are they open?”
“Midnight. We close at 11. If you stay out later, ring the bell. Here’s your key. I’ll close the gate after you.”
We pushed open an iron gate and I heard the lock click behind us. Impressive two meter walls ringed the property. To warn away trespassers a broken bottle finish topped the smoothed concrete veneer. Spiffy.
We walked down the dusty street into the town’s lone cantina. Pacificos on order, we chugged them, not wanting to miss another deadline. Even though we weren’t on Mexican time, we were in no hurry to get back to a grungy room with smells of eau de DDT.
At the hotel, the clerk was good as his word. Gate still shut, sign off. With Paul behind me I turned the latch—it wasn’t yet 11—and nothing. What? I turned the latch again and pushed. Nada!
“No! We’re locked out!”
“He said to ring him,” Paul, ever in control, responded. Now he turned and pushed the latch.
“Where’s the bell? Is that it?" I asked. "Toca? With the arrow pointing to it? What a weird way to say ring. Toca means take. Take the bell?”
“Just ring it already.” Language class was over.
“Toca, toca, toca,” I was pushing a button to nowhere. “Have we been gone that long?”
“Try again.”
I pushed till my index finger went numb. “A three dollar hotel room and no way to get in. What are we going to do?”
“Let me think,” Paul said, looking around. “Over there, the end of the wall. See where there’s no broken bottles?”
“Yeah, what about it?” I asked, thinking bad thoughts.
“It’s time for a reverse jail break.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You could never climb over that wall.” Who did he think he was? Spider Man?
He shook his head. “Not me, Juanita.” Paul always used my pet name when things got rocky. He gave an unconvincing smile. “Tu.”
“Me?” I choked. “I’m wearing a skirt.” Granted it was long, but still.
“I promise I won’t look.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said, realizing he was right. All hands on deck. “Okay.”
Under the dim light of a lone street lamp we made our attack. Good thing it’s dark, I thought. I wouldn’t want to be caught dead climbing into this dive.
Paul laced his fingers together providing me a step up so I could reach the chosen spot. I was very close to heaving myself over the crucial section when I heard him gasp. What the heck?
“Buenos noches.”
Buenos noches? Who was he talking to? In his conversation he’d backed away from his hefting-me-over-the-wall stance. Meanwhile I dangled six feet above ground with my skirt rapidly moving up my backside. Not a fashion choice.
I twisted around, no easy feat, and looked down on a Mexican policia. Police?
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Paul tried the nonchalant approach. “Helping her over the wall. We’re locked out but we have a key. ” He held up what would open our door inside the compound that we were presently locked out of—where we could sleep—if we didn’t spend the night in jail.
“Why not ring the bell?” the Voice of Reason asked.
“Toca el timbre?” I said. He gazed at me hanging there. Could he see up my skirt?
“Si,” he said, stretching out the vowel. “Toca el timbre. I’ll try.” He was indeed a willing servant of the people.
Toca, toca, toca. We waited, the three of us. Two by land, one by air.
He shrugged. “They are asleep. It is late.”
That it was. “But,” he paused, and with what I am sure must have been a smile on his face he said, “I’ll help you.”
“Call them? Do you have the number for…” Paul gazed at the unlit sign searching for a name. “Hotel Fizal?”
How in the world did they come up with that?
“No,” the policia shook his head. “We both push.”
This is insane! Paul looked at me and shrugged. Apparently I had no say in the matter. So with my bottom now being gently pushed by Paul and a gendarme, my skirt slowly hiking up in a less than ladylike manner, I made my way over Hotel Fizal’s two meter wall.
As I touched dirt on the other side I started to laugh. “I’m in!” I yelled, feeling like one of the Dirty Dozen.
As I walked to the gate to let Paul in, I heard him say. “Mil gracias and buenos noches to you, señor.”
Lesson learned: In Mexico, expect the unexpected.
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| Sunset on Isla Mujeres. Photo Tony Garcia |
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