Little Corn Island - "Terrifying boat rides, heavenly snorkeling, awesome storm, fishy fishy*"

When I was considering writing a post about my vacation to Little Corn Island I hesitated because I didn't think that it was a particularly interesting or outlandish trip. This just shows you that I've spent too much time in Latin America.

As my last week in Nicaragua snuck up on me I realized that I had three big trips that I wanted to go on: Somoto Canyon, Corn Island, and Rio San Juan. At first, I settled on Rio San Juan but the logistics were a little daunting, especially given my travel buddy's (L's) limited time frame. So L, who you may remember from our Matagalpa adventures, just went ahead and bought plane tickets to Corn Island. These are the types of friends you need: the kind that call and say, "Hey I just bought us tickets to a tropical island. Will you handle hotel reservations?"

Corn Island is actually two islands (Big and Little Corn) off the Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua. The Atlantic Coast of Nicaragua, and in fact of much of Central America, was under British rule until the very late 1800s. Home to many indigenous groups and a haven for shipwrecked sailors and escaped Caribbean slaves, the area has evolved into an interesting amalgam of cultures and languages, a mixture that caused L and I a teensy bit of politically correct angst. Do we say "Buenas"? Or "Hello"? Or do we try to learn some Garifuna or Miskito? Should we racially profile or let someone else say "Hey there" first?**


But I get ahead of myself. Not only are the islands politically isolated but they are geographically remote. Arriving over land requires a 12 hour bus ride and an 8 hour boat ride, that was described to me as "only worth it so that you can say you've done it." So L and I found ourselves in the La Costena airport terminal. We had been told by the check-in guy that we couldn't go through security for another twenty minutes so we were leaning up against a wall near the check-in desk where it was sort-of air conditioned (instead of outside in the scorching heat with the other tourists) when a woman came up and asked why we didn't go through security. She said, with an unspoken "you idiots"  that there were seats and beer on the other side. So we went through to find seats and beer and some surprisingly thick-legged young tourists. (I am not trying to be mean. I have never seen such a concentration of cankles. It was fascinating!) An hour flight later we found ourselves sitting in a seaside restaurant on big Corn Island eating conch and waiting for our panga (motor boat) to Little Corn.

See the boat with all the people? That's the kind we took

I had read somewhere that the seats in the back of the boat were ideal for those who are prone to seasickness so L and I snagged seats in the way back row behind the driver. I'm not sure if you've ever been on a Latin American bus where they pack thousands of people on and just when you think someone will fall out of a window they add a few more people but evidently panga travel relies on the same basic principle. In the back row with us were two women with children, two men sitting on the edge of the boat, two huge barrels of gas, several packages,the driver and his two assistants. Just when I thought we were ready to go a 50 year old woman got on and stood behind the driver, hugging him for balance. And while the back wasn't too seasicky, my source failed to mention an important caveat: the wetness factor.

Every single wave that hit the boat doused us in salty wet goodness. And there were some big ass waves slapping us down. At one point there was a fish in the boat. The guys sitting on the side of the boat (and pretty much sitting on us) didn't seem too concerned and broke open a six pack. Later, L confessed that it was their nonchalance that convinced her that maybe this was normal and we would in fact survive. We arrived and dragged our sopping wet selves onto the dock where I noticed that no one who sat in front of the driver was wet at all. Lesson learned.

The view from the dock

On the dock several of the hotel proprietors were meeting their customers. While I am a spectacular person and a spiffy dresser I had sort of failed at holding up my end of the making hotel reservations bargain. So I latched onto this man who said that he could guide us to the other side of the island. He pointed out all of his relatives' hotels and restaurants and left us at a grouping of rasta-painted huts where he implored us to remember him if we wanted to go snorkeling. "My name is Rizdale. My mom is right next door. You want to snorkel you ask for Rizdale***."

And so began a rainy few days of stuffing ourselves on seafood, swimming, napping, and wandering around the tiny island. I'll get to it in a separate post...don't want to tax your brains with all the reading

*A direct quote from L
**If you want a prettier description read the damn Washington Post
***Not this guy