Published by Pinay.com
I once met a Spanish dreamer who said that “travel is a love story.”
My husband and I had just arrived at her
little rustic inn hidden by trees from the rest of Little Corn Island,
and she had asked me what I did for a living. I told her I was a travel
writer which started her waxing poetic. Watching her looking out at the
sea, her eyes reflecting the quiet ebbing of the waves, she got me
thinking of what we had to go through to get there.
Sitting on the edge of the Caribbean,
Little Corn Island is one of Nicaragua’s best kept secrets. To get
there, my husband and I had to get on a 10-seater plane from the city of
Managua. After lurching and wobbling through the clouds for one and a
half hours, it got us to Big Corn Island in one piece.
At Big Corn, a cheerful Creole drove us
to the dock where we waited for our boat at a restaurant by the water,
observing dark-skinned fishermen clean their catch on the shoreline. We
watched the fish being gutted and its blood streaming like a dream into
the water. Our ceviche was as fresh as could be.
The boat was larger than our plane, but
we were packed like excited sardines baking under the sun. It rocked
uncertainly under our weight. When we finally arrived at Little Corn,
the journey was far from over. We walked for 30 minutes, dragging our
heavy bags along a roughly cleared path through the jungle. Coconut
trees nodded overhead as if to say, “welcome,” but I hardly noticed. I
was thirsty, tired, and my shoes were digging blisters on my heels. I
wanted to blame my husband for choosing a place so difficult to get to.
Instead I bit my lip, because I could hear him cursing under his breath,
having to carry my extra load.
Read the rest of the story here.
