ISLA DE MUJERES
A YOUNG TEXAN'S PARADISE
BY
PAUL JOHNSTON
Last time I told you about being involved in an archaeological expedition in June 1969 with the Field School of Mayan Archaeology at Akumal, Quintana Roo, Mexico. I was hired to help teach scuba diving to the students. Just before coming home, I had gotten a job at a dive shop on Isla de Mujeres and would work there a short while before coming back to Texas. Isla de Mujeres, the Island of Women, is a small island located a few miles north of Cozumel off the Yucatan Peninsula. Now, I am standing on the dock at Puerto Juarez waiting for the ferry to take me to my new job. My fellow companions had just driven off headed toward Texas and I was standing there alone and feeling anxious about what was to come.
Somehow on the dock, I had managed to attract the attention of Lado, a barefooted, drunken, one-eyed, sea captain who knew Pepe Maganya, the owner of the El Canon ( The Cannon) Dive Shop where I was scheduled to work. He said he would accompany me to my new job, hopefully , provided I had gotten my Spanish correct a few weeks previous. Eventually the small ferry arrived and workers, chickens, Lado and myself boarded for the short ride across. All the way over Lado was telling me sea tales in Spanish. My inability to speak Spanish well and his drunkenness, made for an interesting conversation.
Stepping off the small pier, we headed off to our right, down several blocks to the small one room dive shop. There I met Pepe again and said, " Here I am !" He welcomed me and to my relief, understood I would be working several weeks for him. I asked him where I could stay and he pointed to a small room off to the side of the shop. I put my diving gear in there and hung my hammock on the hooks in the walls. In the Yucatan, the hammock is the bed for common folks.
In short-order he showed me around the shop. There was nothing to sell, just rental equipment. He had a barrel of muddy water that he rinsed the equipment off in and sat the steel 70 tanks in to cool while filling them from his compressor. On a board behind the rental counter were the rental prices and boat excursion fees. He told me the ferry schedule so that I could go down and meet the tourist as they disembarked . I was to to persuade them to come down to Pepe's shop to rent gear and take a boat diving trip. I believe that there was only one other dive shop on the island and was owned by a man named Havier.
That evening I asked Pepe where I could get a shower. He directed me to some type of youth hostel hotel. When I arrived there, no one was around. In fact there were very few lights in the place; so, I decided to make myself at home. I toured the dark dormitory bunk bed wing and got spooked. I was not sure if something was going to jump out of one of those bunks or some type of Texas Chain Saw event was about to take place. Upon finding the showers, I lathered up to get a month's worth of salt off. After I got shampoo on my hair, the water shut off ! Fortunately there were enough drips in the faucet to get most of the goo off. Later I learned that the island's electric generators are shut off at a certain hour every night ; the water pumps would then shut down. After walking back to the dive shop and getting into my hammock, I lay there thinking how fortunate I was to have boldly lucked into this situation.
The summer's business was slow. We did have some business. Mujeres is a major attraction for Europeans. I was very impressed with these tourist as they generally could speak several languages. Here I was in Mexico speaking English to a German or Swede. Then there was this young full-speed-ahead American lawyer that came down every summer to spearfish for the big one. On our trips out, I prayed that he would not spear me or attract any sharks from his speared fish. Some tourist we would take to a beach to picnic and let them snorkel in a unique school of yellow stripped grunts. This enormous school of fish stayed in the same place all the time. As you would swim through it, they would circle you in a solid wall of fish. The fish were so thick that you could not see out , once inside. If you suddenly moved your hand in a waving motion, the invisible pressure wave that you created would part the fish.
On the way out to a dive site, we would pass the turtle corrals. These were pens made from wooden sticks stuck vertically into the sea floor. Sea turtles were caught and kept here until steaks were made from them. I also learned of a special shark island near-by called , Contoy, where at certain times of the year sharks would swim up in the shallow waters of a beach and lay there. One could, as the story went, go up and stand next to these sharks and not be in danger of being bitten.
Pepe was the ideal person to be staying with on the island. It seemed that Pepe was related to everyone in some manner. I became known as " Pablo " to these Islanders. Lado would come to the shop every day and sit on the front step and chat. In the late afternoon, I would sit on the front step and eat fresh pineapple. Sometimes I would walk down to the boat building area and talk with the ship builders. Here is where I first became aware the black islanders spoke Spanish and were of Caribbean background. Pepe once took me to visit his home and Lado's home.
Pepe came by the shop in a four-door car that had no doors on it or a muffler. He picked me up and we drove like the wind to his house. On the way, we came to the small airport and drove up onto the runway and used it as a highway for a short distance. As we were driving down the runway, I looked up into the control tower that had broken panes of glass and could see the control tower operator's clothes hanging in the ceiling of the tower. The operator was living in the tower. Only small private plans could land here. Most tourist came across by ferry.
While working in Mujeres, I met Ramon Bravo, a famous Mexican underwater photographer. He used Pepe's shop to work from in doing his photography. This time he was in Mujeres shooting swimsuits on his lady models for a swimsuit manufacturer. Yes, I got to talk to the models, some from Europe, and it was wonderful. In the evenings, I would sit at the restaurant table and listen to Ramon spin tales of underwater photography, sharks, Mayan ruins, and Jacques Cousteau with whom he had worked. I was in Diver's Heaven! What an adventure this had turned out to be !
My job, as it turned out, was really a nice place to hang out. Because I did not have a work permit, I could be paid no money. I ate in local restaurants. While working in Mujeres, the teacher couple ,who had given me a lift over to Mujeres a few weeks earlier while the archaeological team was in Puerto Juarez having some flat tires repaired, showed back up . I had a meal with them. Here I would learn of a large government project to turn some island called Cancun into some giant tourist project, complete with large hotels in the shape of pyramids. It now has become a fact.
I also met a group of American college students and their professor. One of the students was working on his Ph.D. in marine biology. On one small reef they set up a underwater grid , photographed, drew, and counted all the organisms in that area. At a later date, they would come back and do the same thing to see what changes had occurred. I believe the study was concerned with ocean pollution.
Eventually, my money was beginning to run low and I realized that I was not going to be able to get home unless I walked. So a letter was sent forth to my parents along the lines of : " If you ever want to see you son alive again, send money. Your son. " It worked. My parents sent a money order for my plane fare. I needed to get back so I could take my physical for the Army. Otherwise, I would become a criminal of the U. S. government.
While waiting for the money, in the late afternoons, I would go down to the western beach ; snorkel the shallow reefs and watch the magnificent red sunsets while sitting on the sugar-loaf sands. Jimmy Buffett could not have had it better. Eventually, the money came and I bought my plane fare home. My luggage was overweight from my diving equipment. I had just enough money to ship my bags to Mexico City.
Upon arriving at Mexico City airport, I made arrangements to ship my bags collect to Houston. Due to plane schedules, my flight left the next morning. Not having any money meant that I was going to have to sleep in the airport. Here, I struck up a conversation with a young man working at the Hertz rent-a-car stand. His name was Nestor Banos Pena. He asked me where I was staying and I told him my situation. He asked me if I wanted to come home to his parents when he got off work. What a delightful surprise! It turned out that his father was involved in the tourist business and Nestor was in college studying for a degree in tourism.
I met Nestor's nice family , had a nice meal and bath that evening. The next morning Nestor took me back to the airport and handed me some money and wished me luck. After I got back home, I sent him some additional money to pay him back and for his efforts. He sent back change. With friends like that, the world would be a better place!
Upon arriving in Houston, customs impounded my bags because I did not have the $50 in overweight charges. Embarrassed, I called Joe's mother and she came down and bailed me out. Luckily, Joe owed me some money and it all worked out nicely, thanks to her.
Coming back home from such a wonderful adventure to potentially face the Vietnam war was a strange feeling. For me, things worked out fine. After being discharged from the Army and coming back to the University of Texas at Austin, my diving adventures would continue. I would learn of my friend Pepe and how his relative, Carlos Garcia Castilla, would tell Ramon Bravo who would inform Cousteau of the Sleeping Sharks of Isla de Mujeres. Another adventure was brewing and I would be back to Mujeres to try to photograph the famous " sleeping " sharks.
If you would like to drop Paul a line, Click Below:
Remembering Ramon Bravo: Environmentalist, Oceanographer, and Olympic Athlete
University Scuba Club - The Early Years