Don’t go to Little Corn.

Why you shouldn't go to Little Corn Island in Nicaragua.

Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because years ago the locals didn’t even need money. Because years ago the men catching lobsters would hand them off for free.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because it’s the kind of place where you need a flashlight to see your way back to your bungalow after 6pm.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because there are no streets, there are no cars, there are no motorcycles, there are no golf carts.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because there is only power for half of the day. Less when it storms.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because the bars there are almost entirely filled with locals.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because, maybe, a local rasta boy might repeatedly tell you that he could give you babies. And when you tell him you don’t want kids will tell you that you could use protection. And when you still tell him, “no,” he’ll still keep asking. And asking. And asking.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because everything you eat will be served with coconut bread. And that coconut bread will be way too delicious.
Don’t go to Little Corn.
Because it’s still beautiful.

Please, don’t go.

 

 

The Corn Islands are situated about 50 miles east of mainland Nicaragua. Little Corn, the smaller of the sister islands (the other, not surprisingly, called Big Corn), is a breathtaking, untouched, Caribbean island that spans only about one and a half square miles. You can get there (you know, if you really wanted to) via a twice-a-day flight from Managua followed by a short, but nauseatingly bumpy, panga ride.

And what can you do once you’re there? Relax, mostly. Relax. At least, that’s what I did. Take in some sun on a pristine white beach. Do some yoga in the sand. Spend a day lounging in a hammock. Unplug for a while.

The island only has power for half of the day, after all.

You can go diving (I said you, not I, we all know how I feel about diving) with one of the two dive outfits in town. You can go snorkeling. You can go swimming. You can go wading.

You can eat. You can eat all the fresh seafood you desire. All of it. You can eat coconut bread for every meal. And, really, you should eat coconut bread for every meal.

You can drink. You can drink happy hour specials at Tranquilo Cafe (and practice your non-existent Spanish while “borracho”). You can sip some Toñas with some new friends at your hostel bar. You can drink at the raggae bar, Happy Hut, while dancing all night and dodging the (non-threatening) advances of the local boys.

You can get your hair wrapped in multicolored strings by a new friend outside of your bungalow. You can watch the Chicago Blackhawks play in the Stanley Cup despite the Island only getting three television channels (because, luckily, a Canadian girl is deciding those channels). You can take long walks on the beach. You can take short walks on the beach. You can meet your next best friend. You can lose track of time. You can lose track of place. You can waste away the days or revel in the days.

If you do go to Little Corn, that is.

But you probably shouldn’t.