Signs that you might be, or are becoming, an islander
- Tracy Sharlene Gunn
- Apr 22
- 9 min read
Updated: May 2
Living in Mexico: Time, Roads, and the Rhythm of Life
There’s something about living in Isla Mujeres in Mexico that changes the way you perceive the world. It’s not just about learning a new language or adapting to a different culture—it’s about immersing yourself in a way of life that follows its own rhythm, where time bends, roads have their own stories, and daily life is an intricate dance of awareness and adaptation.
The Streets as Your Compass
In many places, people navigate by street names and addresses. Here, it’s different. You don’t remember the names of the streets; you remember the landmarks—the bright pink house on the corner, the taco stand with the best al pastor, the convenience store with the friendly owner who always knows what you need before you ask. Your mental map isn’t drawn with lines and labels but with colours, flavours, and faces. I've lived here for 20 years, and I still don't know the names of the main streets. Tourists on Google Maps are more familiar with the names of the roads than locals are.
Knowing the roads
When you drive, you don’t just know the roads—you feel them. You know the sweet spots on the speed bumps, the exact angle and speed needed to avoid a spine-jarring bounce. You know that area beside the speed bump and the side of the road where you can just fit your motorbike wheel, and you know the speed to drive to navigate it perfectly, without a bump. You anticipate the potholes, the sudden stops, and the informal detours that appear overnight. The road is never just a road; it’s an ever-changing terrain that you learn like a favourite song. One that non-locals cannot sing, as you can see by the golf carts hitting those speed bumps and potholes at full force, bouncing vehicles and passengers alike.
Adapting to the Roads
Driving on Isla Mujeres isn’t just about getting from A to B—it’s a whole new way of existing. At first, it’s jarring. The rules you once knew don’t apply here. But over time, you learn to move with the rhythm of the island, not against it.
Golf carts might seem like fun holiday toys, but they’re very much real vehicles—and when tourists treat them like bumper cars, they become a genuine hazard. Meanwhile, golf carts, motorbikes, and scooters are essential for locals. Families rely on them for everything: school runs, work commutes, groceries—life.
You’ll see specially built child seats mounted at the front of the bike for the littlest passengers, used as soon as a child can sit up on their own. My daughter had one—we started using it the moment she could. We had to. Before that, she rode in a baby harness while we zipped around town, which, believe me, is not unusual here. It's common to see newborns held by their mother behind the father as they ride.
As kids grow, they move up: standing between the handlebars and the rider, then eventually sitting behind. Yes, sometimes entire families share a single motorbike—and while it might look wild to outsiders, it’s simply the most practical (and affordable) way to get around.
There’s often judgment from visitors about safety, but the truth is, most accidents come from tourists driving golf carts carelessly, not from local families on scooters who’ve been navigating these streets all their lives.
And one of the first things you learn? Don’t trust turn signals. Blinkers are frequently broken, left blinking for blocks, or just never used at all. Instead, you learn to read the road—not just the signs, but the people. You watch body language, eye movement, posture. You anticipate rather than assume.
On Isla, driving is less about following rules and more about feeling your way through the flow—tuning into the quiet, unspoken language of the road.
Curious about how to avoid rookie mistakes behind the wheel? Read more in [Golf Cart Etiquette in Isla Mujeres (and How to Not Piss Off the Locals)].
The Rhythm of the Rains
If you’ve lived here long enough, you don’t just check the weather—you remember it. You know the spots where rain collects, where passing is impossible when the tropical storms roll in. You anticipate the moment when the dry streets will become impassable rivers. And when that happens, you don’t panic. You adjust, you find another way, or you wait. You take the roads that are on the high side (Caribbean side, as the locals know it) of the island and detour that way. You avoid specific routes completely because previous experience has taught you that your vehicle will be submerged in water. Schools often open late or stay closed, staff are late to work, and vehicles won't start. Because here, the rain doesn’t just fall; it shapes the way life moves.
Time, Memory, and the Faces That Never Change
Time in Isla Mujeres moves differently. You might leave for six months, but when you return, it feels like you were gone just a week. The greetings are the same, the faces haven’t changed, and the conversations pick up where they left off. There is an agelessness to these connections, a continuity that makes the passage of time feel almost irrelevant.
The only way to truly measure time is by watching the children. The kids you once saw running barefoot down the beach are now taking over their family businesses. The toddlers who once clung to their mothers’ skirts are now confidently weaving through the market stalls, negotiating prices like seasoned vendors. In them, you see the passing of time, the quiet but undeniable shift of years.
The Helmet Stays On
If you live on Isla, your motorbike helmet isn’t just for riding — it’s practically part of your outfit. You wear it into the supermarket, into the bank, to grab a coffee, or to pop by a friend’s place. Taking it off feels unnecessary when you’re just going to be a minute, and honestly, it’s more convenient to leave it on—no one’s judging — because we all do it.
You get used to recognising people with just a glimpse of their face under the helmet or sometimes just from their voice or the way they move. There’s something oddly comforting about bumping into a neighbour in the tortilla shop, both of you helmet-headed, chatting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because here, it is.
The Little Differences That Make You Smile
And then there are those tiny cultural quirks that remind you where you are. Like knowing which floor you’re on—because in Australia, the ground floor is ground, and the next is first. In Mexico, the first floor is the ground, and the second is what you’d expect to be the first. It’s a small thing, but it reminds you that perspective is everything.
The Island Soundtrack
Each vendor has a different sound, and, like Pavlov’s dog, you learn to recognise each one. The recognisable tune of the gas truck, the song of the water deliverer, the jingle of the knife sharpener, the flute of the bread seller, the high-pitched whistle of the sweet potato vendor, and the melodic call of the tamale seller—all become part of the soundtrack of your days. “Queso Oaxaca” is a familiar operatic call that those who have lived here for years fondly recall. The first song my daughter sang was "Zeta Zeta Zeta Gas." For those who know, that tune will now be stuck in your head.
You Can’t Just Start
You don’t just jump into a taxi and shout your destination in Mexico. You say hello. Buenos días, buenas tardes, cómo está. If you skip that part, it’s like skipping the opening credits of a movie—everyone notices, and you’ve already missed something important. And trust me, the taxi drivers don't like it. They see it as being rude.
The same goes for business. You don’t walk into a meeting and dive straight into the numbers. First, there’s small talk. ¿Cómo va la familia? Todo bien por aquí. You might chat about the weather, the weekend, or what’s for lunch. It’s not wasted time—it’s how you build trust. It’s how you say, I see you as a person, not just a transaction.
It may initially feel slow, especially if you're accustomed to a fast-paced, direct culture. But once you adjust, it feels… right. Human, even. Business still gets done. Taxis still get where they need to go. But everything feels a little more connected along the way.
The Art of Waiting
On Isla, waiting is part of the rhythm. You wait for the rain to pass, for the ferry to arrive, for the guy with the part you need who said “mañana” three days ago (or three weeks ago). But in that waiting, something softens. You learn patience, presence, and how to enjoy the in-between moments—the breeze, the birds, the banter with the abuela next to you in line. You learn to live by Caribbean time.
What used to drive you mad with frustration becomes an accepted way of life. You adapt. When you need to do something at the bank, give yourself some hours. When a party says it starts at 7, you show up at 8. I mistakenly arrived on time once—the hosts were completely unprepared for guests and were shocked that one would arrive at the stated time. Then came a long, awkward wait before the party even started.
The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.
Life on Isla Mujeres doesn’t end at the shoreline—it just changes colour. Out here, the Caribbean wraps around everything. Step off the sand and into the water, and suddenly the world gets quiet, weightless, and wild. The moment your face hits the water, everything changes. The noise fades. The current speaks. Whether you’re diving the vibrant coral of Manchones Reef, floating above the sunken dreams of MUSA, or freediving silently through a school of fish, the island begins to blur into sea and soul.
Even Jacques Cousteau felt it. When he visited the nearby Sleeping Shark Cave, where sharks rested still and serene, he realised something the rest of the world hadn’t yet seen—that the sea held mysteries far deeper than we imagined. He said, “The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.” If you’ve been underwater here, you know exactly what he meant.
Whether it’s your first time snorkelling a reef, your first or your hundredth scuba dive, or you’re floating weightless in a mermaid tail, this place stays with you. We’ve spent years learning the language of the water, and we love helping others find harmony with it.
And then come the whale sharks—those spotted giants that glide by so slowly, they somehow reset your entire sense of time. You don’t forget that moment. You just come back for more.
This ocean doesn't rush. It waits for you. And when you’re ready, it welcomes you like you never left.
Where is Isla Mujeres?
Want to know how to get here? We have a little video to help you.
Or, if you need some help figuring out the easiest way to get here with the many ferry services offered, you can read more on this blog, How to Get to Isla Mujeres.
In Conclusion
Living in Isla Mujeres isn’t about following a strict set of rules. It’s about flowing with the place's energy, knowing when to rush and when to slow down, when to adapt and when to stand firm. It’s about seeing the world not just through maps and schedules but through instinct and experience.
And once you learn that rhythm, it never really leaves you. Even if you do leave for a while, the moment you return, it’s as if you never left at all.
Tracy Gunn is the founder and owner of Pocna Dive Center on Isla Mujeres, Mexico. A former banker turned adventurer, Tracy left a decade-long corporate career to pursue her passion for diving and island life. With over 35 years of diving experience and 24 years of living on Isla Mujeres, she now serves as a PADI Course Director, training the next generation of divers at her dive school. When she’s not underwater, Tracy shares her love for the island and the ocean through engaging blogs about diving, marine life, and Isla Mujeres culture.
Interested in reading more from this author?
Blogs about Isla Mujeres, Mexico, and Recreational Scuba Diving: click here
Blogs about Instructor Development Courses and Professional Scuba Diving: click here
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