Our Little Town’s Festivities

Our Little Town’s Festivities. Why does a yachtsman need weather forecasters when you can tell there’s a cyclone by the awnings being ripped skyward? How to pay proper tribute to statues of holy Virgins. Mexican cultural enlightenment and a greenhouse aboard our yacht. Our masts will probably be sticking up into the Mexican sky for one final week. For two months we have been waiting—not especially diligently—for a fair wind to the Cayman Islands. Such a phenomenon here is akin to a miracle, because the Caymans lie east of Mexico, while the trade wind, as everyone knows, blows incessantly from the east. A miraculous wind shift was promised for Tuesday, and we dutifully prepared to weigh anchor, once again without having waited for the Russian yacht from Honduras (the guys didn’t make it to us on Mujeres on Saturday because of the nasty weather, as Fyodor put it). Today that nastiness came Hondurasing over to us exactly an hour after the forecast had told us we could sleep soundly. Instead of a fair wind, a headwind from Honduras materialised. And they had promised 10 knots and clear, dry weather. So when we heard thunder on the horizon, we lazily prepared, if necessary, to chuck the bedding and mattresses off the coachroof and down through the hatches, then got on with other things. Within an hour, gusts of up to 40 knots nearly left us without an awning. While taking off the bungees and little lines, the first mate remembered how, once in childhood, her grandmother had thrashed her with a skipping rope—the sensation was very much the same.... Rubbing the flogged spots, we finished taking down the awnings, dogged the hatches shut, and now we’re sitting in a steamer, going out on deck now and then to cool down and check the rain catchers. With luck, we won’t have to go and fill up with water. Last time they told us: “Maybe don’t come back here again—you lot drink far too much; people have to wait in line for two hours because of you.” In the sealed-up saloon it’s +31 at 7 p.m. The windows have steamed up like a proper greenhouse, it’s raining, and the barometer is falling. Never mind: the forecast still promises almost a dead calm, so that’s what we’re pinning our hopes on. Meanwhile, as we sit here waiting for the weather to change, life on this little Mexican island carries on as usual. The Festivities of Isla Mujeres Isla Mujeres is tiny, about 8 kilometres long and no more than 2 wide. But life here is extremely lively, positively resort-capital lively, though the resorts themselves are by no means what make most of the noise. We’ve long since got used to the musical tourist catamarans darting to and fro from noon until sunset. Merry tourists swivel their hips on deck, drink beer, and fill the bay with furious cries of “Hurrah!” They’re taken out to swim among fish, turtles, and dolphins, or simply to have a great time under sail. One cool amusement involves a spinnaker: the colourful sail is hoisted two-thirds of the way up on the halyard, with a rope stretched between the clews and a seat in the middle. A tourist is planted on the seat, hangs on to the rope with both hands, and soars above the waves. If something goes wrong, they unhook themselves from the swing and drop into the water. From the outside, it looks inspiring ). Unfortunately, we haven’t managed to photograph the actual process yet. And this catamaran is heading home ahead of the storm. . Culture-Shmulture But these aren’t the island’s main events. In the centre, as befits any municipality, there’s a square with a cathedral, a Palace of Culture, a shop, and a tourist quarter adjoining the whole ensemble. Along the street, bodies are painted with pictures and all manner of delicacies are fried—from fragrant shashlik to some foul-smelling local swill. There’s a stage outside the Palace of Culture. At weekends it invariably hosts an amateur talent showcase or a festival. The first time, we stumbled upon something straight out of a Young Pioneers’ Palace. A jury in white shirts, curious scorecards handwritten in felt-tip pen, heaps of stalls with bowling games and candy floss. Smartly dressed children (they start school here at five) languish in anticipation, while a lip-synced version of “The Three Little Pigs” comes right at the beginning, as a little appetiser, so to speak. We dutifully sat through three acts and could take no more. It seems the cultural enlightenment workers had expended ALL their energy on the costumes and makeup, under which the five-year-old little Maya girls looked like dolls brought to life from a horror film. The cultural enlightenment workers had no energy left for rehearsals or staging. With a sigh, we took the dinghy home. The culture crew had a good think and set to work on the next concerts with enviable zeal. A Festival in Honour of the Holy Relic Sometimes the song-and-dance showcase is timed to coincide with some important church event. You can tell it’s happening without even leaving the yacht: a naval vessel appears decked in signal flags all the way to the mastheads, as does a yacht from the same waters bearing the proud name “Marina.” That’s the sign—if the naval vessels dress overall for the weekend, expect an Icon of the Holy Virgin, or even Her Statue. A crowd gathers on the quay to honour the icon’s arrival. Cannons are fired (!). But by the time we’d loaded ourselves into the dinghy and made our landing ashore, the ceremony had taken cover inside the cathedral. The following Sunday, however, during a pre-storm shopping raid, our luck finally turned: we stumbled upon a festival in honour of the Statue of the Holy Virgin. Spotting the signal flags on the naval vessel, the crew came in from the rear (of course, we didn’t yet know it was the rear, but in we came) and hit the jackpot. The festive procession, looking like the Ku Klux Klan in the darkness, conveyed the Statue of the Holy Virgin to the church with full honours. Speeches and modern arrangements of psalms set to pop music sounded cheerful and uplifting. The firing of fireworks was the signal for everyone to throw their bonnets into the air (or, more precisely, finely shredded paper and foil. The children later gathered it from the steps). We flowed into the cathedral with the crowd. The hall was decorated with bouquets arranged by a skilled designer. An orderly queue formed before a beautiful porcelain doll dressed in blue silk and lace. A shorter queue headed towards the padre for a chat and a blessing. A band was playing right inside the church (though four musicians probably makes it a quartet). Everything was somehow done with gusto, almost suspiciously so.... Even the Holy Virgin’s robes were kissed without the sombre piety we’re used to, but rather as though she were a member of the family—albeit a special, miracle-working one. Ladunka started dancing right there in the church to the wind instruments. After paying tribute to the Virgin and the priest, everyone poured out to the chairs arranged across the square. Welcome to the concert. Dancing, songs, an energetic compère—everything as it should be. The merriment usually dies down before midnight, unless a thunderstorm breaks, though that’s rare on Isla Mujeres. But on that evening in honour of the Holy Virgin, a thunderstorm did break. The spectators were washed off the square in eight minutes, along with all the pies, and the next day a cyclone arrived. Senya! Game! Until the day before yesterday, every festival—whether religious or secular—followed the scenario described above. But nothing, as we know, lasts forever, and the other day our little island went completely off the rails. After waving its naval flags from the quay, yet another celebration moved to the square. Hark! Concert time. By midnight everyone was in full swing. Perhaps it was an end-of-season concert, or perhaps the holy relic was especially revered, but fireworks, songs, speeches, and music poured forth as if from a bottomless vat— a horn of plenty. At first, even the stars and the Moon seemed to stop and listen. Given the island’s size and the position of the anchorage, our boat could have passed for a seat in the auditorium, with one proviso: you couldn’t see anything from it except wandering beams of light. But you could hear everything perfectly, all night long. At first, we too were spellbound.... The festival ended at five on Saturday morning (hurrah, sleeeep). And resumed that evening. At half past two in the morning, the sudden silence offered some hope of getting at least a little sleep. Tossing and turning on the coachroof with her ears plugged, the first mate breathed: “Excellent, now we can get some slee—” You can! the music thundered from shore. “We’ve just come back from the interval.” And on it went again until 5 a.m. It must have been a serious festival. They’d been preparing for a long time; now there’d be no peace at night until they had sung their entire repertoire. :). Well, of course nobody was singing by Monday. Instead, an unscheduled cyclone arrived and nearly stripped off all our awnings. Never a dull moment in this particular garden. Festive cheer to everyone! More photos of the Virgin and the festival