CORN ISLANDS, Nicaragua (11 Mar 2009) — The waitress has a quizzical look on her face. Could we repeat the question, please? Not sure whether she speaks Spanish or Creole (and knowing neither ourselves) we try a tentative: "Water, please?" She shakes her head and replies in lugubrious Caribbean vowels. "We don't have water. We have rum." These are the Corn Islands, and it's not what I expected of Nicaragua. Big Corn and Little Corn sit in the Caribbean Sea 70km off the country's eastern coast. They have a combined landmass the size of the city of Bath, and are separated from the mainland not just by the sea, but also by their heritage - these islands were on the English, rather than Spanish, trading route. And if you want something to wash down your beer, it had better be rum. We order a pint-sized bottle of the Nicaraguan brand, Flor de Caña. It arrives with Coke and orange-fleshed limes, and turns out to be a very fine accompaniment to the mounds of fried shrimp on our plates. This is my first experience of a Caribbean island, and in some regards it already feels a typical one - seafood so fresh it almost wriggles, white sand beaches fringed with palms and, of course, clear azure water. My friend Alex and I have spent our three days on Big Corn alternately sunbathing, snorkelling coral reefs and knocking back margaritas. So far, so Caribbean. But the Corn Islands differ in one key regard: they are still barely known. They are what Antigua, Barbados and Jamaica were 30 years ago. Idyllic beaches lie empty - apart, improbably, from the horses that frolic in pairs before racing each other into the sea to cool down. When the sun has disappeared, there are no resort-style discos here. The nightlife is real and it's raw. Feeling adventurous we act on a tip-off that a bar called Nico's is tonight's hotspot, and we arrive around 9pm to discover four breeze-block walls enclosing an empty space lit only by ultraviolet light. From inside comes a brain-haemorrhaging mix of country & western and reggae, at extreme volume. A few islanders sit at a safe distance away; we join them and order beers. We've been warned that Nicaraguan nights out are raucous affairs and often end in brawls; by the time we leave a couple of hours later, there's a febrile atmosphere. So how have the Corn Islands managed to remain such a secret? You could ask the same about Nicaragua's rainforests, its volcanoes, its historic colonial towns. And the answer is always the same: its history. Nicaragua's place in the hierarchy of Central American travel destinations remains low because it sounds a lot riskier than it is. Shades of Nicaragua's Contra War of the 1980s cloud its public perception. "A lot of people still think there's guerrilla fighting going on here," says Juan Carlos, our guide. "It ended 20 years ago." More recent reports of rioting in the cities of León and Managua, over the re-election of the Sandinista government in November, haven't helped the country's image. The Corn Islands are also a known stopover on the drugs run from Colombia. And yet Nicaragua is statistically the safest country in Central America. It has the same environmental appeal as its more popular neighbour Costa Rica. It has all the poetry and political history of Cuba, its high-profile socialist ally. And, thanks to a combination of its comparative underdevelopment and its friendly inhabitants, travel in the country is a fairly laid-back and enjoyable affair. The fact that most flights land (and trips begin) in Managua, one of the least alluring capitals on the entire American continent, is a disheartening one. But if you drive 40 minutes to the south-east, you eventually shake off its trailing suburbs and reach Granada, a far more attractive prospect. An old Spanish trading port, it sits on the shore of Lake Nicaragua, Latin America's second largest inland water after Titicaca. The city's 18th-century colonial buildings now house several hotels and some decent restaurants, and the centre is small and easily navigable. From street level, it's the ice-cream colours of the thick adobe walls that catch the eye; from the bell tower of La Merced, it's the lattice of courtyards and interior gardens, reminding you of Tuscany. We take a trip around the lake's isletas in a local lad's boat; the next day we head up nearby Mombacho volcano for a guided walk around its (dormant) crater. The weather system creates a cloud forest at the peak, so views aren't guaranteed - and indeed for much of our walk we're in a damp, dense mist - but orchids and other flora are in vibrant supply. And in the afternoon, on the other side of the volcano, we take a more adrenalin-fuelled tour through its tree canopy, 40ft above the ground, on zipwires. My guidebook gripes that Granada is Nicaragua's chichi tourist hub, which is true but uncharitable. Tourism income and development are welcome in a country where 48% live below the poverty line. As Juan Carlos drives us south on the Pan-American Highway - with President Daniel Ortega looking down from billboards like a car salesman offering interest-free credit - he explains how educational reforms flourished under the Sandinistas in the early 1980s, but were undone by the war with the Contras. Employment opportunities beyond farming or textiles factories are rare. But the travel dollar is doing its bit. Granada and León - another colonial city, 50 miles north-west of Managua - have historically rivalled each other for precedence in Nicaragua; now they rival each other to be the friendliest. Beautiful Ometepe Island, which sits in Lake Nicaragua and boasts the twin volcanoes of Concepción and Maderas, is the country's other major attraction. | | Man diving into blue-green water Corn Islands, Nicaragua. Thanks, no doubt, to the country's left-wing leanings, there is a pervasive sense that Nicaragua wants to follow Costa Rica in embracing conservation and responsible tourism. Access to national parks is carefully controlled; hotels are being designed to blend in to their environments; and workers' collectives are coming together to offer homestays and to promote sustainable living. And nowhere is this attitude better showcased than at Morgan's Rock, in the south of the country near San Juan del Sur. Nicaragua's most exclusive destination is also its most sustainable. A "luxury eco-lodge" set on a nature reserve of 1,800 hectares, Morgan's Rock has been created by its (French) owners to preserve wildlife, invest in the local community, and offer a holiday stay like no other. And that's why I find myself standing in a barn with my arm outstretched, while a large and obliging chicken drops a hot, sticky egg into my palm. It's 7am, far earlier than I would normally deign to rise on holiday. But Alex and I have been awake for a while - the dawn will do that to you when you're sleeping in a bungalow that's open to the air on three sides, with only an insect screen to separate you from nature. Morgan's Rock has its own farm, which provides much of its fresh produce, and we've come to it to gather ingredients for breakfast. Our first call was to milk a rather patient cow, who made no complaint as we fumbled with her teats. We're more successful in the chicken coop. Farmer's wife Candida cooks up the eggs and some gallo pinto - the Nicaraguan staple of fried-rice-and-beans - and shows us how to make tortillas. The breakfast rouses my hunter-gatherer instincts and I head out on a boat with Felix, who is going to teach me to fish in the traditional style. I'm expecting spears and traps, but he hands me a piece of wood the size of a clapperboard, with what looks like a washing line wound round it. Dubious, I cast my line. A clumsy brown pelican crash-lands next to me on the water and bobs around the boat for a while, before deciding I have no chance and leaving me to it. I should point out that I was so confident of my success that I didn't eat before leaving, and after a couple of hours without a catch, my tummy is rumbling. Felix suggests we go snorkeling, and we head for some nearby rocks, where the clownfish and jellyfish glow like neon. Felix points to a fissure near the seabed and I follow him down, watching as his hand darts inside and reappears cradling a bemused lobster. It's all very Finding Nemo. Well, up to the moment when Felix whips out a skewer and pierces its thorax. The lobster ceviche is delicious. Still, there's plenty of wildlife left. There are howler monkeys that bark like dogs; raccoons, snakes, black-headed vultures and crabs so multi-coloured they look like they've been attacked by a five-year-old with felt-tips. Everything about the place has been designed to maximise your awareness of the natural habitat and to have minimum impact on the environment. The secluded bay isn't just a private beach: it's somewhere for the sea turtles to lay eggs at midnight. Vast tracts of the land are being systematically reforested; and the staff are all locals on trainee programmes, developing their hospitality and language skills. Its eco-credentials are matched only by its pure indulgence. Every stay is full board, and the meals and cocktails, taken by the swimming pool, are exquisite. The bungalows themselves - there are only 15 of them - are little pieces of dark-wood heaven. I love the dramatic suspension bridge that spans the treetops between the communal areas and the bungalows. Luxury with a conscience? I'm sold. And so are others - such as the nearby Piedras y Olas, another luxury resort as big on its 'social mission' as its spa facilities. With destinations such as these, Nicaragua won't stay quiet for long. Travel promotion by Emma John |
