The morning started here very gently, with us going down for breakfast in the stone dining hall. Afterwards I sat in one of the deck chairs that had been laid our and began reading “The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen” a perfect book for that setting and which added to my desire to write while I was there. Every once and a while I would look up to watch the fishermen throwing their nets in the water down the coast, or the small group of children playing in the surf.
If anyone is ever looking for a location to hide away from the world where they can simply paint or write or play music, I would highly recommend Corn Island. It is the perfect inspiration for creativity.
Once we finally decided to get going on our day, our plan was to rent bicycles and ride around the island. Alsandro saw us heading on our way and offered to give us a ride to the bike rental place. It was really amazing that such an old and rusted jeep could run as smoothly as that jeep did, heck if I had seen it on the side of the road I wouldn’t have thought it could run at all. It reminded me of the riddled SUV we had ridden on Ometeppe and made me think that a car in good condition had an entirely different meaning around here. Then again with a speed of 20 km/h and almost no one else on the road, the dangers were minimal.
We got to the bike rental place, and rented out bikes, I got given a mountain bike with a basket attached to the front, an odd image, but for once I was thankful, because it would be easier to keep my camera there than to carry it on my back.
The road we set out on can’t really be said to have potholes, I suppose, since it was a dirt road, but if was definitely more of the rocky wavy road, than anything that could resemble flat and straight.
It didn’t matter, the bikes had been a great idea, we all felt sort of free, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed biking, and resolved to get my biked fixed when I returned to Canada. It seems odd to think of it now, but it has been two years since I have really rode my bike. Such a shame how we let such things that we enjoy fall to the waste side of the rapid blinding whirlwind of everyday life. Hope I can keep that in mind when I return to Canada.
We passed other cyclists on the road, some who waved, others who looked at us strangely. There weren’t a lot of tourists on Big Corn Island this time of year, so we stood out pretty spectacularly. We passed houses with beautiful untamed gardens and also a cattle farm. By the time we passed what appeared to be a Canadian owned hostel (Go Canada!) we had been on a paved road for a while and I was enjoying showing off my slalom routine, when I heard a gasp come from Mari.
Ah Murphy’s Law. Old friend we meet again.
The chain on Mari’s bike had broken, and while it didn’t put her in any danger, it did mean that we were one bike down on our bike tour. Hiro, of course, tried to fix it, but there is not much to be done for a broken bike chain in the middle of a sunny road by the beach.
So we walked our biked around the corner and discovered that we were actually much closer to our lunch point on the other side of the island than we had thought. As I ran to stare at the waves, Mari and Hiro were stopped by a gentleman who thought Mari was a woman who lived on the island, as there apparently was one inhabitant of Corn Island who was of Japanese descent. He began a conversation in English of course with them and would not take their gentle nudging towards Spanish until I showed up. Then he spoke Spanish fluently.
He told us his family had lived on the island for generations and that if we wanted he could give us a complete history later. He also showed us the spot on the cliff to avoid on the island, because it was the local hangout for teen drug addicts.
After lunch we went to enjoy the beach for a while and I watched a persistent log repeatedly make a break for the sea, only to be pushed back onto the shore by the tide.
I was suddenly taken over by a childish urge to build a sand castle and set about my task using a stick as a shovel. Apparently, the Carribean did not approve of my design, however, because the tide increased and with one strong wave that went over the tree root sheltering my sandcastle, flooded the hallways and melted the sandy walls. I guess I wasn’t meant to take up residence on Big Corn Island just yet.
During lunch a man with a pick up had passed by and stopped at the restaurant. We had asked him if he would take the broken bike back to the rental place for us and he had agreed. So now down one bike, Hiro insisted that Mari take his bike and we ride back, while he would follow in a bit in a taxi. Eventually we agreed.
Half way through our ride home we passed a wooden sign nailed to a tree. It read, “Free at last, Sins forgiven.” I was then 100% positive that if one cared to look there would be hidden treasure to find on the island.
The ride back was pleasant, we got a discount because of the malfunctioning bikes, my basket had also given out on the end, remaining half attached and dragging on the wheel. Then we walked down the road to another hotel for some drinks before heading out. Good timing, because Jane had just discovered why she had been so deviously left behind.
I looked up occasionally to watch the progression of a drunk, and stoned male tourist with long hair, who was sitting near us. He was steadily working his way from mellow down to comatose. Part of me will never understand why one would come to such a magnificent island only to dull their senses and drop into a state of total unawareness. Really, why bother leaving home.
It was dark by the time we were ready to go home, but Hiro said he knew the way home from his walk in the morning. So we headed out. Turns out things look a lot different in the dark than they do during the day and we promptly got lost in a small neighbourhood of houses.
Thank god for nice locals, a family that was on their way into town and would be passing by our hotel offered to show us the way. And so we headed into the dark, with only the light form Mari’s cell phone, the stars when we hit a clearing and the occasional lamp to light our way. This didn’t seem to be problem for the locals, where as we were regularly tripping on various rocks and tree roots.
At some point, I am not sure exactly where on the island, we broke onto a stretch of beach, and came to realize that there were no clouds that night. The sky was filled with stars, enough that the area was slightly lit up with a dim blue light. The sea in contrast was pitch black, the waves keeping it form reflecting more than a few star. The sigh was incredible, and I would have been happy to camp in that spot, but we had to keep moving. For some odd reason, it reminded me a lot of the scene in the Lion King where Mufasa and Simba have their little chat. Beach, savannah….told you the island did odd things to your imagination.
We got to the hotel without problem, thanked our nice guides and tried to get to our room without setting off the dog alarms. Luckily they seemed to recognize our scent and only came up passively to walk beside us.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, Free at last!”
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