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When I’d heard about the island on a previous trip to study the Maya ruins of the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico, my imagination was captivated. I wondered what was in the women’s hearts when they made such a journey and why this particular island had been chosen for a sacred site. I’d learned from Mayanologists that temple areas were built where the diviners of their religion perceived sources of particular power.
My daughter, Heather and her best friend, Andrea, were soon to graduate from high school. Andrea’s mother, Gail and I were also friends. I proposed that the four of us make the pilgrimage ourselves to celebrate our daughters’ success and nurture our relationships as mothers with daughters.
Five miles long and half a mile wide, Isla Mujeras is shaped like a long finger pointing north. When the Spanish first came to the island, they discovered hundreds of female statues among the buildings of the temple. When they came to the town they found only women and children. The men were out fishing. For that reason they named the island, “Isla Mujeras” .
The village dates back to pre-Columbian times and still sustains itself by the same means: fishing and services to visitors. Though the visitors until 50 years ago came as pilgrims to Ixchel’s sanctuary, and today those who visit are called tourists, the service provided by the inhabitants is the same as it has always been: simple delicious food, comfortable resting places, and an easy going, warm welcome.
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Set at the base of the village, the landing — where several other boats of varying sizes and shapes were tied up — jutted out to meet us. Beside the beach in either direction, a myriad of small boats bobbed in the turquoise water beside palapa style buildings planted in the white sand.
A flock of taxi drivers descended on us as we made our way through the crowd on the pier to the street. The scent of fish, hot tortillas, beer, and suntan lotion mixed deliciously with the salt-sea breeze as we were wisked away the five blocks to our hotel.
Hotel Nabalam –meaning the jaguar’s house — was at the north end with nothing but a wide, white sand beach and shallow, lake-still water for as far as you can see. Attractive low buildings were covered in bougainvillea and the avenues were a sea of palms. Palapas dotted the gardens, and bright colored hammocks swung in the breeze.
Once in our room, Heather and I changed quickly into bathing suits and made for the water that had been singing it’s song of enchantment to us since we first boarded the ferry. It was shallow for a couple of hundred yards with not so much as one rock to hurt our tender feet. Heather threw herself in full length and turned to splash me, impatient for me to join her. It really was like going into the bath of the great mother goddess Herself. Though Her temple was at the other end of the island, all of the place seemed to be Hers.
That night we went to dinner at Zazil-Ha, the hotel’s restaurant on the beach that features Mayan cuisine. Purple and pink shimmered over the sky and reflected in the still water as the sun went down. Small black birds with sharp orange beaks flew busily from palm to palm crying in shrill voices.
If the day had been good, the night was even better. The hot sun gave way to a temperature that was ambrosial — warm and slightly wet. A hush of expectation was in the air; a slow building toward revelation of some as yet mysterious something. We ordered margaritas and sighed.
Judith, the hotel manager, a beautiful woman from Mexico City with stylishly short black hair streaked heavily with grey, walked toward us. She’d been here for five years and was responsible for developing the hotel as a destination for Yoga groups and people who sought the island for its history as a place of quiet meditation and retreat. She was also involved with local archaeologists and was somewhat of a Mayan expert.
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| “How are you settling in?” She dragged a chair through the sand to join us.
“Great,”we answered.
“Would you tell us about Ixchel and the history of the temple?” I asked.
“She was one of many females worshipped by the Maya. Her role was fertility, ease in childbirth, family harmony, and weaving of all kinds — very like the great goddesses of other cultures.
“Originally there were three buildings that made up the temple area. Fortunately, archaeologists in 1814 took dagoratypes of the structures and the records were taken to Seville and put in the Archive des Indeas where all information about the Maya are kept. In 1987 hurricane Gilbert destroyed what had remained of the buildings. Since then a project to rebuild has been underway. We hope that the park system that oversees the ruins will take over . . . but you know . . . things move slowly here.”
Later that night I walked out on the beach by myself under stars so thick, the blur of light from the Milky Way looked like a diamond paved road. Crickets were singing and –so far away it was a whisper — a radio played Mexican love songs. A Mayan legend of the moon goddess came to mind;
One day Ixchel, who was the most beautiful girl who ever lived, and who was the moon, was weaving in the afternoon in the yard of her father’s house. She dreamed of her lover, Kinich Ahau, the sun. Suddenly, as if in answer to her prayers, he appeared and grabbed her in his arms and flew up into the sky to make his escape with his beloved moon. Just then her father came out from inside the house, saw the two escaping, took out his blowgun and shot the sun The sun sank and the moon, his daughter, fell into the sea and shattered into a thousand pieces. When the fish saw this, they linked themselves together, mouth to tail to mouth to tail and so on, until they formed a net in which they could lift her shattered body to her lover the sun. This failed, and they could only leave her in the sky where she passes all her time chasing the sun across. The fish that tried to help her, turned into the Milky Way.
The next morning we decided to walk the 1/2 mile into town before the mid-day heat. North beach is removed from the busy village life by a short stretch of dirt road and open fields of thick green brush.
It was tourist time on the island. Boatloads were brought over from Cancun before noon and returned to the mainland by five o’clock when the island reverts to its native population — and those few of us fortunate enough to be staying here. There were 33 hotels in town but most had one to four rooms and were very rustic. Nabalam was one of half a dozen larger hotels with 31 rooms and most modern conveniences and services.
For this reason we were feeling rather full of ourselves, and somewhat protective of the place, as we came in to the full rush of people that crowd the few small streets of the village. Shops full of bright objects for sale in buildings of equal colorful appeal lined the avenues.
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| After lunch and browsing the shops, we gratefully escaped back to the serene sanctuary of northbeach. The list of things to do for those who want them was extensive; motorbikes for rent, long walks, boating in every conceivable type of boat, swimming, great snorkeling and diving on the world famous reef, fishing, (including deepsea), excursions to the nearby island of Contoy (a bird sanctuary), and a turtle and dolphin farm.
But me, I spent my days between hammock, and the bathtub water of northbeach, where I would float and just be.
By the fourth day watching the sunset on ‘our’ beach had become a tradition. Wherever we’d spent the day, we’d return to share our discoveries with one another and talk about our dreams and goals. Though we did talk about college plans for the girls, the subject that emerged from these sunset musings was love. Slowly each of us told our stories about the men we’d loved — like jewels we’d kept hidden and safe until just this moment. My daughter and I were getting to know each other in a new way. Though still her mother, I could tell that she was also seeing me as a woman — and I, her. The island was so sensuous and so feminine that we couldn’t help ourselves. We were blooming.
Saturday night after sunset we walked arm and arm to town for dinner. Crickets and beetles accompanied us down the dirt road. By now we knew that we could go anywhere any time and feel perfectly safe. The island had almost no crime and its inhabitants, who valued family and community, were caring and hospitable.
Every night the people changed from whatever their day attire had been to dress in their good clothes: women in dresses and high heels, children scrubbed with their hair brushed neatly, the girls in ruffled dresses with ribbons in their hair, the boys in long pants and white shirts like their fathers. Then they promenade down the 10 streets of town to the square where the community gathers; meeting friends and family to relax together in the warm evening.
There’s a large Catholic church, a basketball court, municipal buildings and the supermarket. Flamboyanes (royal poinciana) trees surround the square. Their wide-spreading branches covered in clusters of brilliant orange/red flowers that even in the lamplight set off a dazzling blaze of color. Long tables had been set up laden with huge platters of food. Tomorrow was Easter and tonight was the celebration. Smoke from cooking fires curled in the air. The scent of tortillas, beans, and chicken with chocolate molle sauce, beer and hot salsa blended with perfume, flowers, and soap.
The church doors were open, light streaming out onto the square. Children of all ages were running up and down its wide steps. A band played Andean music (drums and long piped flutes), and young lovers had already started to dance, though the night was young and the festivities would go on until the wee hours.A woman serving food beckoned us over. She pointed to another woman sitting at a table with tickets and told us in Spanish to please come and eat with them, that there was plenty for everyone. Heather and I smiled and nodded to each other in agreement. What better way to celebrate our visit to the Island of Women than to take part in their tradition at Easter, the time of renewal and rebirth around the world.
Easter, late in the day, we decided it was time to go to the south end, to the former site of Ixchel’s temple. The taxi driver dodged the village traffic deftly and soon we were in new territroy on a road that ran the length of the island on the west side. Where the pavement ended a dirt-rock road meandered drunkenly through low brush to the lighthouse where we got out of the taxi to walk. A trail led over rocky terrain above jagged high cliffs to a small structure built in the place of the temple to mark the spot.
We stood together in the place where women had been gathering for aeons. What life had been like for those who’d stood here before us I’d never know, but I did know that for us being here had been rare and special. I was inspired by how fully the people of the island lived the values of family, love, and beauty. It was in their daily life and in the air itself. |
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| Heather and I smiled at each other. What moved me most was the deepened intimacy between my daughter and myself. Was Ixchel responsible for this? As my daughter would say with a slightly embarrassed shrug when asked a question she had no answer to — whatever.
Looking back toward town the houses were far away. Accept for a few broken, half built structures, the land was still wild and free. I guessed the strong wind would discourage inhabitants and keep the place virgin territory. Which reminded me of the Greek definition of a virgin — woman unto herself. As this place felt ‘unto itself’, I, too, felt the wholeness offered on this jewel in the sea, where time and struggle fall away and one is returned to the essential.
Two days later as the ferry pulled away from the dock to take us back to the mainland, the four of us stood with our hands on each other’s shoulders, at the back of the boat to keep the island in view for as long as possible: the red, blue and yellow buildings, the white sand, the pelicans perched on the many boats, and, most of all, the people who’d been so warm to us. In such a short time it had come to feel like home.
We made a pact to return one day together. I thought of the Mayan diviners who’d chosen Isla Mueras as a sacred site and understood. One didn’t have to be a ‘seer’ to know that a place is good. |
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