by Marie Mendel
A slice of Caribbean paradise, Little Corn Island’s charming locals spice up a traveler’s visit with mysterious stories of their island.
Pedro likes to crank them up! That is the two 200 horse power V6 Yamaha outboard motors on the panga taking tourists and locals to Little Corn Island. Nothing like Columbus felt when he sailed by Big and Litte Corn Islands in 1502; he found no people and sailed on.
Upon arriving on Little Corn, the island looks like the centerfold of a travel magazine, palm trees wave at us and crystal clear blue water invites us. For exiting the boat, the deckhand brings Pepsi cases strung tightly together to use as steps. Women are sitting under a tree waiting for goods, newspapers, and gossip from the mainland.
We check in to a hotel on the beach, choosing it because of the generator providing power 24 hours a day. The rest of the island has power from 5:00 pm until midnight. From the terrace of a restaurant, I watch a lobster boat coming in. The fishermen cut off the heads and throw them in the sea. Hundreds of fish appear to feed. A frigate bird shows off, tips his white belly in the water, sails slowly, steals a fish out of a seagull’s beak. A tourist jumps into the water with fins and snorkel.
I meet Oscar, a local fisherman, small but pure muscle. He enjoys telling a shark story. A huge, long shark of at least 10 meters was having turtle for lunch when Oscar and his deckhand Toni took the turtle out of the feared creature’s mouth and sold it for 700 córdobas to the local fish dealer.
Exploring the island, my first stop is the dive shop where the Australian dive master fills me in on all the possible fish that one can see on their trips - dolphins, Black Durgon, Hogspill, Squirelfish, Loggerhead turtles, Spotted Eagle Rays, Rock Beauty, Fairy Basslet, Foureyed Butterflyfish, Blue tang, Trunkfish, Goliath Giant Grouper, and gray angelfish.
I discover the only supermarket on the island doesn’t sell cigarettes or alcohol because the owner is catholic. Next to the store lives Rodrigo who fixes motors and has one disassembled lying on lobster traps. He smiles when I take a photo of him. Everybody seems to smile on the island.
I pass the school and the basketball court and make my way up the hill to the lighthouse. Crawling up takes courage as it is steep but the view from the top is breath taking. Tree covered hills, white beaches, and the endless sea. I see the area known as ‘gun point’ where it is said an old gun was left by pirates.
Passing by pineapple plants with ripening fruit, I meet a man cutting yucca roots who shows me a green bottle sitting in the sun. He explains that the mango vinegar inside has medicinal value. “I put it on everything, not only the food, also on my sore knees and ankles, works better than any medicine” he explains, “but only if I don’t have banana vinegar, which I also make. But only in glass bottles, never in aluminum pots, give the vinegar bad taste.”
At night, we learn that the only entertainment in the evenings is the friend or book you came with or the Happy Hut, a reggae bar where the music is loud and rasta colors adorn the walls.
The next morning is clear, not one cloud spoils the horizon, the sea is calm. I wonder out to relax on the beach but a strange smell catches my nose. Curious, I follow it. A fruit broken in half lies on the paved walkway. It stinks like rotten cheese. I can’t help but pick it up. A woman calls to me and says, “This is noni or hogfruit.” Her name is Rosemarie. She invites me to sit with her on the porch.
After some Spanish sputtering we agree on English. Her English. Pidgin English. “If you drink white rum with yellow noni fruit juice, your liver will not be damaged,” she explains. “But it cures scratches, pain, and if you drink every day some noni juice you stay younger.” She thinks she is about 68 years old, but can’t really remember. I look at her face, she has almost no wrinkles, beautiful hair. I believe her right away.
Rosemarie tells me that when she came here only six other families lived here all year round. Most of the other ones came from Big Corn Island and planted yucca, coconut, khole, and cassova. “There was one store, but if we didn’t have any money, we didn’t need anything from the store,” she says.
“But still the island is small and that makes it easy to visit friends, and the gossip to spread,” she explains. “Gossip?” I ask, wondering what amazing things could happen here. “The dreams about the locations where the pirates hid their treasures,” she says and nods her head.
“One woman dreamed that in the early morning she needs to get up, find her husband and go dig at the big tree where the boats arrive. When she sees a black chicken eating a snake, she will know the exact place. So she woke up her lazy husband and made him walk with her. He didn’t want to dig so she did it. She didn’t find anything,” she tells me. “I dreamed too that a strange, tall man would come to my door and I should go with him to a certain place. On the next morning a stranger knocked on my door, I didn’t go, was too scared. But many years ago I saw women wearing old jewelry with big stones and ducats. They are all sold now.”
The only person ever to find treasure on Little Corn Island was Cromwell Downs. But nobody knows where he went.
