Friday, 24 September 2004 | Bath water

It's raining for the first time since I arrived. I hadn't noticed the dearth of sewer drains until now, now that the water has turned the narrow streets into a bathtub, water that's currently knee-high. (They say it recedes within an hour.)

I'm at a table in a bustling restaurant, with a notebook, a mug of Dos Equis, and a wine glass full of limes in front of me. People are rubbernecking at the falling rain and the collecting water, noting the weather between their bites of pasta, and watching others wade past. A minute ago a pack of kids ran by, laughing and splashing each other with beige rain.

For now I'm on Isla Mujeres, the Island of Women, named for hundreds of small female statuettes once found here. We came directly from the Cancun airport (careful to avoid the resorts) via bus, taxi, and a windy ferry ride through bright blue water.

The people are friendly, but it's clear that there are two divisions of them -- the locals and the tourists. Originally I'd wondered if my urge not to stand out as a tourist would eclipse my urge to take pictures, but of course in Mexico I stand out no matter what, and here on the island at least, it's expected that I act like a tourist. It's made me less shy about carrying my camera around my neck, but regardless, I prefer the genuine Mexican culture I occasionally glimpse, even if it makes me feel a little more like an intruder. (These glimpses are certain to be more frequent as we move further inland.)

It's unclear how much of the decor is designed to appeal to tourists and how much of it would look as it does without the island's main industry. In any case, the place is lovely. The buildings are brightly painted in blues and pinks and yellows, and the palm trees, whose trunks have been painted white to protect them from the elements, resemble Clydesdales. Instead of cars, people drive bikes, mopeds, and golf carts.

One store after another sells locally made goods (traditional blankets, jewelry, toys, ashtrays), and each vendor desperately tries to convince you to try his store, rather than his neighbor's. Amigos! Come inside! They ask you various questions to engage you and hold you there for as long as they can. Where are you from? How old are you? They refuse to give up, calling after you even when you're several stores away.

There are stray cats and dogs everywhere; dogs sleep on sidewalks and abandoned couches, and cats pick through open trash bags. They're all skinny, abnormally small, quiet, and, for the most part, skittish. Last night Martin and I bought them a single turkey sandwich, throwing small chunks in their direction, which caught them by surprise, accidentally making them dodge and cower.

This afternoon he and I rented a moped and sped around the island (past the dogs, the shops, and the electric-looking water), amidst weather that was light blue and perfect. Since I was riding on the back (rather than driving), I could pay less attention to mechanics and directions and instead focus on the scenery and the soundtrack playing in my headphones. It seemed a little ridiculous, it was so stereotypically pleasant. It briefly made me think of my cubicle, where I'd normally be at that hour.

...

The water in the streets is cool and brown. I walked through it slowly, wearing a skirt and flip-flops, past a father and son tossing a volleyball, and past other tourists and locals, seemingly enjoying the break from normalcy. Since it's meteorology and not money or language, it seemed to bring the two groups a little closer, at least momentarily.

***

I'm beginning to disconnect. Even the internet feels far away, despite that it's right here.