Next Stop: Off Nicaragua, a Quieter Caribbean

Written By Unknown on Kamis, 08 November 2012 | 17.35

Freda Moon for The New York Times

The Corn Islands lie off the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua. Here, a casita at Derek's Place.

THE darkness was as deep and pure as squid ink. I swiped my foot across the ground, feeling for rocks, roots and voids. Around me there was rustling, scurrying and crashing — the sounds of creatures meeting branches and leaves. Startled by some unseen threat, I stopped abruptly, colliding with my travel companion, Ashley, who followed close behind. Each time we slammed into each other, hapless as slapstick Stooges, we were reduced to fits of hysterical laughter — laughter masking fear and frustration.

It was our first night on Little Corn Island, 45 or so miles off the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua. We had just checked Ashley into her hotel on the north end of the mile-long Cocal beach, and now, as dusk turned to darkness, we were hiking to my more humble cabana, at Casa Iguana, perched on a cliff at the beach's south end. But with no lights to guide us, we had overshot the hotel and ended up on a former pineapple plantation, overgrown with mango, banana and hibiscus.

The fact that we could get so badly lost on what we had been told would be a 10-minute walk is typical of Little Corn, where electricity is scarce and most nights are reserved for board games, books and the occasional bonfire. Though only a puddle jump from the Nicaraguan coast, the Corn Islands — Big Corn and Little Corn, a half-hour boat ride apart — are among the few Caribbean destinations that are relatively unknown to international tourists.

But over the last two decades, a slowly growing number of intrepid American, European and Israeli travelers have found their way to these Creole-speaking islands, which are free from the designer boutiques and sprawling resorts that are ubiquitous in the Caribbean. Instead, there are stilted purple and yellow thatch-roofed cabanas, and hammocks strung between sagging palms. The islands' charm lies in how little there is to do, in days spent walking the narrow beaches of tan sand and driftwood, drinking $1 cervezas on a shaded balcony, and snorkeling in waters flush with neon fish, sea turtles, barracudas and even hammerhead sharks.

Our journey to the islands wasn't without challenges. Having failed to secure tickets on the only airline that serves Big Corn, the domestic La CosteƱa, Ashley and I paid $100 each to travel four hours by hired car from Managua to the river town of El Rama, then two hours by river boat to Bluefields, a gritty port town, where we stayed overnight in a bare-bones posada. The following day, after hours of waiting in a three-room airport, we flew by 12-seat prop plane to Big Corn, where we took a quick taxi ride to the island's boat launch and traveled by open ocean panga, a small outboard-powered motorboat, to Little Corn, a two-mile-long drumstick of a tropical island.

Our plan was to split five days between the two islands. But, having lost a day and a half to travel, we decided to focus on Little Corn — swimming in the smooth, tepid sea, sampling rum drinks and hiking the hill to the island's highest point, where Ashley would later horrify me by climbing a rusty lookout tower. By the time our small boat arrived at Little Corn's concrete pier, we were exhausted. An hour later, lost in the dark, we were also famished. Then, at last, there was a porch light. It was the lodge-like main building at Casa Iguana, where the bar was serving weak Nicaraguan cerveza and potent Nicaraguan rum. We were relieved to learn we had not yet missed the nightly communal meal. The hotel kitchen was clanking with the preparation of that night's dinner, a monstrously large lobster, which would soon be served on a covered deck perched two stories above the languid Caribbean.

While Big Corn (population about 6,000) has just one road, which loops the periphery of the 2.3-square-mile island, Little Corn, where the year-round population is less than 1,000, is completely free of cars. The only "road" is a well-trodden foot path through a jungle that's home to chicken-eating boa constrictors, raccoon-size iguanas and sand-colored crabs that bolt underfoot. The island's only town has no name.

For Carl Archibold, whose family traces its roots on the island to the 1800s, the thin stream of visitors who find their way to Little Corn is enough. Mr. Archibald, who has a shaved head and wears thick gold chains, owns some rustic cabanas called Carlito's Place (one of 16 or so accommodations on the island). Like many locals, he left home for work, spending 30 years as a commercial fisherman before returning a decade or so ago. There aren't many jobs on the islands, but those that exist are mostly in the still-modest tourist trade or the fishing industry.


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