Epiphany on the Island of Women, My Honeymoon story

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m being beckoned to consciousness by the sound of the phone. It’s the front desk calling with our wake up call. Much different tone than the one a few hours previous involving the “private” outdoor hot tub and the maintenance crew on the roof. Dragging myself and my new bride from the bed, we trudge our way around the room with all of the daftness of Jerry Lewis, trying to make our way to the lobby. Our ride is out front, waiting impatiently to take us to the airport for our honeymoon in Cancun, Mexico.

Our chariot awaits.

My father and my brother in their rented Chrystler mini-van are out front of the Hotel Vintage Plaza grumbling about the hack directions I cobbled together the night before on a cocktail napkin. Off we go to PDX. Step one of operation honeymoon complete

After being violated by the TSA for about 45 minutes, our party, which has grown by two more of the wedding guests all destined for various flights out of DFW, go in search of caffeine and solace from my brother’s absence-of-nicotine induced rage.

An inedible airline breakfast and four hours later we arrive in Dallas, TX home of the Cowboys, Sandra Bullock, and the birthplace of the guy who shot JFK. With the exception of my brother, who shot out the first gate he could looking for a place to smoke mumbling some incoherent profanities about anti-smoking laws and Muslims, we were all greeted by a high school friend and his wife, who were here to take us to lunch since we had a “brief” five hour layover before our connecting flight to Mexico.

The ride to lunch would have made the Duke boys proud. During the high-speed commute to lunch Paul, our driver, misses the exit and proceeds to stop, turn in the direction of traffic, and off-roads across the grass along the side of the interstate until he reaches our intended exit. Without missing a beat Paul explains that this is normal and appropriate driving in Dallas and exemplifies this by pointing out various other tire marks shooting through the grass along the exits normally reserved for trusties and drifters. I don’t really remember much after that, being in a sleep deprived funk lunch was basically me eating a salad, which is about the only vegetarian meal you can get in Dallas, and listening to Paul talk about vitamins or something along those lines. Next thing I remember is being patted-down again by TSA because the screws in my shoulder set off the scanner. We finally make our connecting flight and are well on our way to Mexico.

As I’m trying to sleep in an inquisition device know as seat 22E, I’m a little frightened about what lies ahead. With the exception of a trip up to Vancouver, B.C., which might as well be Seattle with the metric system, I’ve never been out of the country. I don’t know what to expect. To hear my stepfather put it, you’d think that it was a country of tequila inebriated banditos seeking debauchery with my new wife. Rational thought creeps in and I figure that a hot American tourist destination like Cancun must closely mimic America and mean big bucks to the local economy so they have a vested interest in keeping a good image. And did I mention that between the two of us we perhaps know enough Spanish to order a beer?

We land. We are then promptly herded into the bowels of the sweltering terminal to fill out all kinds of shit for immigration and customs. Now immigration is about what you’d expect to find in a third world country, long lines, high heat, foreign tongues, and not the most chipper of employees. But customs shocked the hell out of me. It’s kind of like a game show. You have the lights, which by the way were probably stolen traffic lights with the word “PASS” on the green lens and I’m assuming “FAIL” on the red lens, of which one of them will randomly illuminate when the big button at the base is depressed. I could almost hear the bells ringing and see the confetti falling when I festively pressed the button and the green light read “PASS”. Yippie! We don’t have to have our luggage publicly riffled though by customs!

Our luggage was pretty much pulled from our hands and loaded onto a makeshift hand-truck by someone working for tips and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. What the hell was going on? We had to fight off people left and right trying to sell us something and I was pretty sure some of them were making fun of us. We headed out to find our shuttle.

We’re not in Kansas anymore…

You know all of those stories people always tell you about foreign drivers being absolutely insane behind the wheel? Well they aren’t exaggerating. These guys make Dallas drivers look like pussies. And to make matters worse I can’t find a seatbelt anywhere near me. I hold on for my life. Panic gives way to fascination when I notice the red octagonal signs that just six hours ago said “STOP” now display “ALTO.” For the first time it really dawns on me that I’m in a different country.

Eve-Maridy and I are one of two couples in the shuttle. The other couple I recognize. They were sitting across the isle from us on the plane. The only reason I remembered them was because I handed him my napkin after the flight attendant clumsily dumped a Coke in his lap. I strike up a conversation with them and discover that they too are newlyweds on their honeymoon. They are from L.A. and he has been to Cancun two times prior. He seems to know the ropes pretty well and tells us the do’s and don’ts of the area. They are pretty young, early twenties I’d guess, and were looking for an “alcoholiday,” so most of their advice was geared as such. He said not to miss the “Booze-Cruise,” Chichen Itza, and always take the bus, as it was cheaper than the cabs. Their hotel was our first stop. They departed and congratulated us on our marriage. I asked our driver what he thought about Chichen Itza and his only response was that it was a very important place to the Mayan people. He sounded a little perturbed. I think lumping a spiritual place of a once sprawling civilization and the “Booze-Cruise” together as if part a vacation package was a little too much for him. He loathes us for shitting on his culture, but he’s working for tips so he keeps quite. We arrive. It’s 9:00 P.M. Once to our room I collapse on the bed where I remain until 1:00 P.M. the next day.

Eve-Maridy and I meet with Jair, our resort rep. He gives us all the pertinent info about the resort, such as where the restaurants and clubs are and which pools are “adult.” He is also responsible for booking any tours we want to take. He gives us the entire pitch. We decide on the trip to the Island of the Women two days from now. I can’t help but notice that the prices he’s quoting are 100 pesos higher than the in resort travel agent’s sign just around the corner, but I’m too jelly-headed to mention it. What the hell, it’s only a few US dollars, but it does reinforce some of the “warnings” that I received back in the states about everyone being on the take.

Time for a drink.

We head to the closest place to our room to get a drink, LaGarta. It sports a restaurant, a pool with swim-up bar, and a bartender that literally would throw your drink at you. We figure that we’ll get a drink with lunch and wind up drinking lunch and talking with the other sun-baked patrons. This batch of tourists is a friendly bunch of Canadians from Vancouver who all work at the same radio station with the exception of a red-headed fellow, Dan. When asked about what he did for a living one of the other Canadians, Bernie, interjects that Dan has a charter business offering people a ticket into the “Mile High Club.” Good niche I think to myself and get one of his business cards. The conversation continues into the evening and covers just about everything a gaggle of drunken tourists could possibly think of including the politics of our two countries, the latest Canadian serial killer who had an affinity for feeding his victims to his hogs, and how bad the 80’s porn was on the hotel’s channel six. WooHoo! Head-bands and coke-whores via some shitty video outfit like Bob’s Porn Co. During our drunken antics we all buy tickets for the following evening’s “Booze-Cruise,” a tour that I still can’t believe we even imagined would be a good idea. By this time my stomach feels as if I’d swallowed a hot coal or two so we retire to our quarters for some stomach meds and the latest showing of Pat Benatar on the receiving end of some guy with so many piercing that it looked like he fell down a flight of stairs with a tackle box.

We wake late and I wonder to myself just how many drinks it took me to get the headache that I was now regretfully experiencing. I vow not to drink anymore and we head in the direction of lunch. As we gleelessly consume our diet of deep-fried items from the buffet, the bain of resort cuisine, I can’t help but think that we’re supposed to be somewhere. Oh yea, now I remember, the “Booze-Cruise.” We bought tickets on the freaking “Booze-Cruise” which shoves off in a few hours. I’m a idiot. I happen to glance over and see Dan and fiancée Mandy looking much as Eve-Maridy and I look, disheveled, hung-over, and wondering how in hell we were going to make it on the boat tonight.

Evening comes and we’re feeling better but lethargic. We board. I notice that this “cruise,” on a vessel named the “Samba,” is on a two level glorified pontoon boat that I’m pretty sure doesn’t have a bathroom, which spells trouble for me and my grape-sized bladder. I think that the boat’s captain senses the crowd’s anxiety about the lack of facilities and assures us over the loudspeaker that it’s no problem pissing over the railing. We make a beeline for the top level. Not quite the Love Boat. We head out to sea, Sex on the Beach in hand, ready for a night of drinking, dancing to 90’s top 40, and recklessly urinating into the night. We have to cross under the road which means going under a twenty foot high bridge. Not usually a problem except when you’re on the Samba which when fully loaded with drunken tourist stands a bold nineteen feet ten inches. The captain advises us to lie on the floor. In a maneuver that would give Ralph Nader a stroke, we scrape along the underside of the bridge. Party on. The dancing and drinking continues like a floating frat party and I secretly wonder if the top level is going to collapse under the line dancing. We meet two more Canadians from Toronto that I’m pretty sure were swingers and I try to bore them away with talk of cryptography algorithms and the like. My almost perfect plan seemed to be working as the wife lunged away and into the dancing line, but was soon foiled when husband reveals that he too worked in IT. I considered telling him some made-up theory on how Canadians should leave the hockey playing to Americans or that Curling wasn’t really a sport as to piss him off so he’d leave us alone, but opted not to after evaluating that the shore was probably further away than I could swim.

The crew of the Samba, a captain and a bartender, dump us off at Carlos and Charlie’s, which was essentially a glorified cafeteria littered with witty signs, stage equipped with cover band, bathroom attendant fencing Viagra, and of course, a buffet. The band kicks in with their rendition of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” and mayhem ensues. Eve-Maridy and I feel like Jane Goodall watching in awe at chimpanzees using bamboo to eat termites. We are not of this world. Dan and Mandy are to our left and we have strangers to our right. As the night unfolds and the Proles to our right get completely inebriated, we can’t keep our eyes off of them. Like out of a bad Seinfeild episode, some yahoo from Denver keeps “high-five’ing” everyone around him while his wife drones on and on to us that we should go dance. We escape their clutches and go dance for a while until we’re overtaken by the humidity and return to our seats. By this time Denver has acquired a sombrero and is demonstrating his prowess on a variety of air instruments including the air clarinet. Across from Denver was a couple that seemed somewhat normal until they got progressively drunker and the whale of a wife started exposing herself. It’s officially time to go.

Exit, stage left…

We all pile into a double-decker bus full of drunken idiots shouting “CANADA” and “USA,” grossly exceed the weight limitations and head toward La Boom for more liquor consumption. Like a gift from God the bus’s strained engine explodes and we all have to exit. We’ve had enough and decide to hump it back to the hotel.

The next day we spent dodging the “Welcome Wagon” folks who are responsible for ensuring your return visit by giving you a beach towel or T-shirts or some other 10 peso item while trapping you at a champagne brunch begging you to come back. We decide the best hiding spot from the leeches would be the swim-up bar of LaGarta. Nestled up along side our favorite Canadians, we consume mass quantities of Dos Equis and are taught the meaning of the phrase, “Nice Shoes.” It is demonstrated by a couple of tourists who come strolling down to the pool. The woman, an obvious bodybuilder that resembles Hulk Hogan without the facial hair, sports nothing but a bikini bottom and a blatant set of fake breasts (bolt on’s as the Canadians referred to them, who coincidently were taking bets on whether or not you could hang your beach towel from them.) The most entertaining though, is the boyfriend of Lightning Jack, who is equipped with a Speedo that must have shrunk in the dryer. Upon seeing Speedo, Lulu the drink pitching bartender, nudges us, points, and exclaims in a thick Spanish accent, “Nice Shoes!”

We wake early Thursday morning in preparation of our trip to the Island of Women, eat our bounty of deepfried buffet items, and find our travel agent. The travel agent at the hotel tells us to hop a city bus down to someplace, that because of his accent I can’t understand, to rendezvous with the tour boat. Getting frustrated with the language barrier that stands before us like Hoover Dam, I decide to just go for broke and look for it from the bus. After having most of our cash liberated from us for sunscreen, we head out front to catch the bus. Two US dollars later we are on the bus on our way to look for the boat. After running around the strip for a while in a rage, Eve-Maridy spots the boat in question. The only thing that stands between us and the boat is four lanes of Mexican traffic.

Frogger anyone?

As we board the boat we are stopped by a photographer and our picture is taken with the crew holding a sign of the tour company and a midget, kneeling in front of us holding a life preserver. We are then ushered in to our table for yet another buffet (tourist troughs as I started referring to them.) The exceptionally friendly crew, outfitted in ill-fitting sailor outfits from the 70’s, explained to us all details of our tour and gave us an itinerary, snorkels, towels, and most importantly, alcohol. Got to keep the tourists drunk you know. After all, they’re only setting us lose with golf carts when we arrive on land and snorkeling after that. Does Mexico not allow lawyers or what? Its like I’m living in the movie “Cannon Ball Run.” After trying not to vomit for an hour from the waves, we hit land. It’s the Island of Women at last. We exit the boat and after a brief dialog from the events coordinator, Eve-Maridy and I head to the beach for some relaxation where they literally filmed the Corona beer commercial. Simply beautiful. So beautiful in fact, I forget all about how pissed off I am that we had already spent all of our money on sunscreen and bus fair, keeping me from buying the picture of us with the midget. This island was great, just how I had imagined Mexico, the real Mexico, not the American sprawl of hotels and fast-food restaurants that was Cancun. It looked just like a photo essay about Cuba I once read in “Life Magazine,” poor, old, but proud. I was riddled with regret because I opted not to bring my camera to this wonderfully photogenic place. The architecture, the beaches, the boats, the people, the palm trees, and the children trying to sell us jewelry and brightly colored sarongs, were all around us in this wonderful place. There was a grandfather playing chess with his grandson sitting atop a wall that looked like it was out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Like I said before, simply beautiful. And for the first time since we arrived, I felt safe in my surroundings.

We roasted in the sun, taking in the scenery for a couple of hours, sipping on bottled water that one of the boat’s altruistic crew members had brought us knowing that we had run out of money and couldn’t afford to buy drinks at the beach’s bar. It was now time for us to leave the beach for snorkeling at the “Little Lighthouse.” The Little Lighthouse was a small reef in which we arrived via catamaran, that much to my surprise wasn’t a bogus tourist name, but really did have a small lighthouse that once protected ships from this small outcropping of rock and reef. In a county without fear of lawsuits, a five minute primer is all that is needed to inform a handful of drunken tourists about water safety and snorkeling gear.

Take a deep breath and jump.

The current pulls along side the coral reef in almost a parallel fashion, at a steady three miles an hour, perfect for snorkeling without much effort. The water, fifteen to twenty feet deep, is crystal clear, exposing a wide variety of wildlife, coral, and a sunken statue of the Virgin Mary. I’m in awe, having a great time despite new wife’s attempts to drown me. Now the situation with Eve-Maridy warrants an explanation. She has a phobia of natural bodies of water. She fears “dead things” that may be lurking beneath the surface seeking to touch her. You can’t imagine the corhorsion that took place to get her to do this. Since the second we hit the water she’s had a vice grip on my life vest, and several times, when a fish drifted too close to her, she produced porpoise like sounds that were caused by her shrieking through her snorkel. Several times in an attempt to flee from a near by fish, Eve-Maridy would screech and franticly kick her fins causing us to race forward and shove my face into the kicking fins of the people in front of us. At one point we had to grab onto a rope as we drifted by to keep from being swept out to sea. Sounds simple enough in theory, but what I didn’t think about is that the rope was covered with seaweed and “dead things.” So instead of clinging to the rope for dear life like the rest of us, Eve-Maridy clamps onto my extremely loose fitting life vest, causing it to slip up, almost over my head, leaving me underwater gasping for air. I lunge up long enough to refill my lungs and scream at Eve-Maridy to let go and grab the rope. My request is met with what sounded like “NO FUCKING WAY!” screamed through a snorkel. Knowing that she would not ever touch the rope, even if it meant drowning her new husband, I tore her hand free of my life vest and reattached it to the unwitting guy’s life vest next to us. He didn’t seem to mind and it gave me time to get my gear put on properly. It kind of made me feel bad that I had relieved myself upstream of him earlier.

How surreal.

To be continued…