Caribbean magic


Getting there: From Managua, La Costena ( flies to Big Corn Island, stopping briefly in Bluefields. Reserve well in advance. The only transportation to Little Corn, about 30 minutes away, is via public panga boat, weather permitting. About $4.50 one way.

Diving: Dive Little Corn, 011-505-8856-5888; A dive shop directly on Little Corn’s main footpath, offering the full range of rental gear for snorkelers and divers alike. Trips arranged daily, and night dives are also possible, conditions permitting. Snorkeling $15-$20 per person; diving $35; fishing $100.


Casa Iguana, 011-505-8361-3762; Simple but charming cabanas, plus a dining room and lounge, all facing the beach on Little Corn Island. Rooms from $35.

Yemaya Island Hideaway, 1-303-800-1943; www.littlecornhote The first upscale hotel on Little Corn Island, described as “eco-chic,” offering 16 cabanas on the waterfront. Rooms from $300.

Lobster Inn, 011-505-8927-0710. A seafood restaurant run by a charming local family, right off Little Corn’s main footpath. Place your lobster order early in the day. $8 to $15.

G&G (Hotel), Brig Bay South, Big Corn Island; 011-505- 575-5262. The best place to sample rondon, the Corn Island specialty. $12 to $15.

Washington Post Service

The lobster trawlers bob like toys in a bathtub, tipping to and fro with every swell of gray sea. I watch from a crowd of Nicaraguans about to board the day’s last panga, or public ferryboat, wondering whether the storm is as bad as it looks.

The word I keep overhearing is “angry.” In Spanish, English and a Creole that sounds like English flipped inside out and set to a beat, everyone’s calling the sea — our only highway — angry.

Such is the medley of languages 40-some miles off the coast of Nicaragua, on the Corn Islands. For centuries, these two landmasses — faint crumbs on the Caribbean map — had little to do with mainland Nicaragua. They were pirate territory, coconut-tree-lined refuges for the likes of the ruthless privateer Captain Morgan.

It wasn’t until 1894 that Nicaragua claimed these fringe islands, but with no roadways linking the capital to the marshy eastern coastline, the Corns remained a world apart. To this day, islanders still bear surnames such as Quinn and Campbell, play more reggae than salsa, and every August, around the 27th, the day the slaves were emancipated, they crown another local beauty island queen at a festival featuring crab soup.

There’s a Big Corn and a Little Corn, and the traveler’s first quandary is to pick her Corn. I say quandary, because these islands are different in both style and scale (“big” means 6,000 people; “little” fewer than 1,000) and what separates them is about 10 miles of often turbulent sea. My plan was to depart for Little Corn as soon as my puddle jumper landed on the bigger island. The reason was simple: In every story I’d read about Little Corn, the writer sounded a little shocked by how totally the place calmed him. Clearly, Little Corn cast a particular spell.

But watching palm trees bend back in the rainy wind, I wonder: Do I really need to sleep in Eden tonight? Do I even believe in one? A place so calm it could chill even me out? I’m good at motion; I get off on reaching the map’s outer edge. Hunkering down under a pretty tree once I get there, however, is a lot, lot harder.

“Hurry!” Our captain cuts off my doubts and sends us all running with fire-drill panic toward our thrashing panga boat. I’m seasick before it leaves the dock.

My seat puts me between a jumpy man and the open sea. I try not to look at the great girth and rolling height of each gray wave.

At last, the captain takes aim at a skinny band of beach, and we’re told to leap off the back of the panga, toward the kelp-strewn sand. Someone points out the sunset, but heads are down, nausea pervasive. I take a quick look: The sun is a gold blotch, bleeding pink into the wooly wreath of clouds. It could hardly look more distant, well on its way to the west of Nicaragua.

There are no cars on Little Corn. No buzz of motorcycles, no throttle or honk of any sort disturbs the air. You hear just two things as you wind around the cement footpath that is this island’s only thoroughfare: the crash and withdrawal of waves.

Waves awoke me early, in a cerulean blue shack perched above the southern shore of Little Corn. Casa Iguana is tucked back in a carefully manicured jungle, where hibiscus vines dome over damp dirt pathways. My shack-for-one, rustic and yet so ready for me (flashlight, mosquito net, three novels in a pile), invited the delusion that I could just stay here and live, overlooking an empty beach.

So did the mood at the communal dinner. A ringleted blonde on the staff handed me a basil mojito, then plantain chips (on the house!). The catch of the day was cooking somewhere, as guests pattered in, barefoot. How soon I could feel the complete dissolve of home’s priorities. Was it ludicrous to ask about a wireless signal here, where fireflies beaded the darkness and pirates once strung up hammocks?

I did, only to wish that I hadn’t. The last thing one should gaze into from Little Corn Island is a full inbox. I shut the hotel laptop and drifted back toward the dinner table, where everyone was talking scuba. A non-diver, I couldn’t get into it, so I wandered off into the inky dark toward my abode, intent on exploring Little Corn first thing in the morning.

It’s early — profanely early — when I step outside. The crack of dawn. Harris is the first alert person I meet. An older man with the muscles of a sailor, Harris is scraping the scales off a yellowtail snapper. A native of the island, Harris assures me that I’ve come to the better Corn. Why? “Children can run around without the scare of cars.”

The foot traffic is gentle as I step back onto the path, and without meaning or trying, I merge with Ronald and Richard.

They are both 21, both wearing baggy jeans to their shins, and both members of an Afro-Caribbean group called Garifuna. Their native language, a mix of Arawak, Carib, English, French and Spanish, speaks to how many cultures fused along the Atlantic coast of Central America. It’s dizzying to keep up with these polylingual young men. Ronald and Richard salute passersby in Creole (“Yow bigs!”), echo back a few holas, and flip between singing American rap, Latino pop and Bob Marley like a radio on scan.

There’s something familiar about my dynamic with these two, and I put my finger on it only after we’ve wedged through barbed wire fences, crossed a cattle pasture, lobbed bruised mangoes up at a tree until it gave us the fresh ones, and are standing below a lighthouse that Ronald and Richard gently dare me to climb. Childhood: It all reminds me an awful lot of life at age 11. Maybe that’s the sort of paradise I’m in the mood for, more than the Eden of escape, the one that loops you back to a simpler, playful time.

The Little Corn lighthouse is no innocent dare, though. You climb it the way you would a ladder — straight up. And if you happen to have just peeled a sticky mango, it feels more like three grip-resistant ladders, back to back.

“Take your time, take your time,” coos Ronald, ahead of me. I’m doing okay until the brightness strikes. A wash of light means that we’ve cleared the tree line. We are higher than the tallest coconut trees on Little Corn Island.

Take your time, take your time.

My breathing gets loud, my pauses long. At last, my sticky hand finds the platform. It’s round and towering, like a crow’s nest.

The lighthouse is a prime place to take stock of the island: no hotel pools, no tennis courts, nothing taller than two stories. Little Corn is little more than one square mile.

My gaze drifts offshore, to the marbled waters that distinguish Corn Island beaches in photographs. It’s a curious patchwork of navy and aqua, like two different oceans, about to mix hues. But the contrast only intensifies as the sun does; by midday it’s a stunning patchwork, some mirage of the sea, or in my case, a summons to slip underwater.

Walk down the beach; look for a boat; find the guy who takes out snorkelers; bring $20.

The snorkeling guy isn’t around, but I do find men drinking 11 a.m. beer in the shade. One of them is my old friend Harris. I beam at him and he responds in kind, offering to take me snorkeling.

What makes hospitality in the Corns so disarming is how uncalled for, in context, it feels. In a place this idyllic, no one has to be nice. And Harris certainly doesn’t need (nor will he accept) my $20 bill. He owns both a hotel and the lobster trawler on the horizon. Is it possible? Could Harris just care that I snorkel?

The men in the shade set down their beers, rise to their feet, and push Harris and me off the beach in a motorboat called the Sea Prince.

The water glints with so much light that I have to visor my eyes with one hand, and it’s clear enough to count the mustard-colored patches of corals, to see every ripple in the white sand below. Hours from now, I will feel like a cooked lobster — the skin on my back the most alarming shade of pink in the palette — but right now, barefoot and bikinied and leaning forward on the tipped-up bow of a speeding boat, I feel like the Sea Queen.

I don’t tell Harris about my phobia of ocean swimming — a fear of fish (and worse) nibbling at my feet. I don’t have to, it turns out, because snorkeling in water this clear is the perfect cure. Head submerged, I can see it all, the swerving and darting and breezy wafting of every size of fish. How silly: to think that my plain white toes could garner any attention down here. A school of jet-black fish with long whiskers and shimmery blue stripes turns past me with the clean synchronicity of ballerinas.

Harris spots a barracuda, and that’s enough to get me wriggling back into the Sea Prince. Besides, my time is short — I’m catching the afternoon panga boat back to Big Corn.

Perhaps the perfect time to leave is just before the sunburn shows, before the waves dull into white noise, before I run into Harris a third time. Maybe it’s best to get on your way, right when you’re tempted to call a place perfect?

I’m encased in red heat by the time I reach Big Corn. New freckles are menacingly dark. Quick movements hurt. I give up all ambitions of meeting the island beauty queen and finding the descendants of pirates, and let the end of my journey be about one thing: lobster.

There’s a dish called rondon that brings the flesh of fresh lobster together with the milk of local coconuts, simmers the pairing in garlic and herbs, adding a full medley of Central American starches and sometimes, another whole fish. It sounds to me like a dinner that I’ll one day tell my grandchildren about.

I pick a hotel on the basis of the owner’s culinary reputation, overlooking its position beside a fish-processing plant. The plant’s constant thrumming reminds me that I’m now on the “working island,” as people call Big Corn when differentiating between the two isles. I’m willing to forgo both scenery and serenity for a taste of the best lobster stew.

The kitchen door swings open, and my rondon floats toward me. I see no pink legs, no pincers, no shell whatsoever in my coconut broth. That’s my first praise for how Corn Islanders cook lobster. They understand that the cracking and peeling, all the labor of flavoring, should be done behind the scenes. Nobody wears a bib here, or finishes with a moist towelette. I just slice each lobster morsel into four more, to savor as slowly as possible this expertly slow-cooked stew.

I patter back to my hotel room, lobster-hued, lobster-full. Without bothering to hit the lights, I fall right into the local pose, napping with my bare feet dangling off the bed, finally under some kind of spell.

Read more Latin American & Caribbean Travel stories from the Miami Herald

Some of the best food in Puerto Rico can be bought from roadside vendors like this one selling pinchos (grilled meat kabobs) and empanadillas (fried meat turnovers) beneath a Flamboyan tree.

    Quick trips: Puerto Rico

    Surfing beckons visitors to Rincon

    When the World Surfing competition came to Puerto Rico in 1968, Rincon wasn’t even a dot on most maps of the island. But that November, competitive surfers from around the world descended on the tiny west coast town, along with film crews for ABC-TV’s Wide World of Sports, which was covering the sport for the first time.

Passengers on the Bimini SuperFast will be able to disembark directly onto North Bimini Island with the completion of a new pier by Resorts World Bimini.

    Genting steps up its ferry service to Bimini

    Resorts World Bimini has completed construction of a pier near its resort where guests on the ferry from Miami will be able to disembark directly onto North Bimini Island and spend more time there, the company announced Thursday. The ferry will start using the new pier Sept. 18.

A detail of the carving on one of the ancient temples at Palenque.


    At last, a soaring look at Palenque’s Mayan ruins

    From seat 7A, I look down to see miles of dense rain forest blanketing the ground below me. I’m 10,000 feet above the Mexican state of Chiapas, coming in for a landing at Palenque, where an ancient Mesoamerican city flourished for five centuries, until its Mayan inhabitants mysteriously abandoned it, leaving their temples, homes and palaces to be reclaimed by the encroaching forest, not to be rediscovered for nearly 900 years.

Miami Herald

Join the

The Miami Herald is pleased to provide this opportunity to share information, experiences and observations about what's in the news. Some of the comments may be reprinted elsewhere on the site or in the newspaper. We encourage lively, open debate on the issues of the day, and ask that you refrain from profanity, hate speech, personal comments and remarks that are off point. Thank you for taking the time to offer your thoughts.

The Miami Herald uses Facebook's commenting system. You need to log in with a Facebook account in order to comment. If you have questions about commenting with your Facebook account, click here.

Have a news tip? You can send it anonymously. Click here to send us your tip - or - consider joining the Public Insight Network and become a source for The Miami Herald and el Nuevo Herald.

Hide Comments

This affects comments on all stories.

Cancel OK

  • Marketplace

Today's Circulars

  • Quick Job Search

Enter Keyword(s) Enter City Select a State Select a Category