The Ferry To Big Corn Island

There are two small islands off the Carribean coast of Nicaragua called Big Corn Island and Little Corn Island. Neither are shaped like corn, and corn is not noticably abundant whilst there, but one is definitely bigger than the other, so at least in one aspect the name works.

They are located 70 kilometers from the coastal town of Bluefields, which sits virtually alone in eastern Nicaragua, away from the heavily populated west side of the country. This makes the Corn Islands difficult to get to if you are too stingy to fly, which I absolutely was.

Three days after leaving Managua I was waiting to board the boat from The Bluff, the departure point for the islands across the bay from Bluefields. There had been a bus from Managua that more resembled a carnival freak show, then a boat ride down Rio Escondido because Bluefields has no road access. This went smoothly enough, but the speed hump came after being told the boat only left for the islands on Sundays. It was Thursday morning.

Bluefields wasn't a town you needed to spend three days in. Maybe an hour would be too long. The sleepiest of sleepy fishing ports but devoid of any beaches or attractions, Bluefields is rich in lame dogs, garbage littered roads and extreme, dusty heat. My days there were spent squashing cockroaches and unsuccesfully trying to arrange alternative transport to the islands. It was mind-numbing, but miraculously Sunday came and the ferry would soon arrive. I thought surely the worst was now behind me and I would cruise comfortably to the Caribbean paradise, but assumptions can be hazardous in Central America.

The ferry did arrive, but calling it a ferry was a little generous. It was nothing more than a boat. About 20 meters long it was an acceptable size, but the alarming feature was the lack of seats or any obvious passenger space.

'Where do we go?' I asked one of the crew, who listlessly pointed towards the bow, already filled with cargo. Other passengers - local and clearly experienced in this form of travel - were already finding spots amongst the crates so I hurried on to find my own quarters, my very own concrete slab, bang in the middle, for ten hours of rocking atop the waves with no shade under the intense equatorial sun.

Two hours in I was in trouble. Passengers had begun vomiting over the side of the vessel. The rocking was relentless and inconsistent. Some waves were bigger than others, one even joined us in the boat, saturating luggage and belongings. Trying to ignore the conditions I lay flat, hugging my concrete bed with eyes shut trying to forget where I was. A brief glimpse of our surroundings showed blue water, no land in site in any direction, just hours more of rocking and nervously relying on the navigational system that I wasn't really sure existed.

There was some excitement on board when dolphins joined us for a while but standing up was at that moment beyond my skill set so I didn't get to see them. Head down and try to sleep was my only tactic to combat the approaching seasickness. The sun was roasting me so I covered myself with a towel, but under the towel was too hot so a rotation policy kept me busy for a while. Towel on, towel off. I couldn't believe they called it a 'ferry'.

After an eternity I poked my head over the bow and saw a dot of green standing out among the waves. Big Corn Island. Four days after leaving Managua it was there, still a long way off but at least it was there. My illness left me and I felt great again. I was burnt to a crisp, but felt great. I really hoped the islands were worth it.