Saturday, February 18, 2006

We were chilling on the porch again today when some new people arrived. Hippie-looking older folks. Somehow they had managed to get a panga to take them right to Derek's beach, avoiding the sweaty walk along the mud trail. Michael guessed they were from California and I guessed Oregon. Anna fetched a wheelbarrow to help them get their stuff to their huts and we amused ourselves watching them settle in.

We dragged our butts into town again today. The road is much easier now that we know what we're doing and it's only about a twenty minute walk. Still, laziness is a powerful force, as is the view of the Carribean through the palm trees and the soft sea breeze wafting over the porch. But it's Saturday and Derek and Anna don't cook on the weekends, so we had to provide our own food, and that's why we went to town.

We heard of a woman who bakes bread out of her house and sells it starting at 3:00 p.m. With very little trouble, we found the house. It's completely unmarked, but a shocking pink with bright white painted window grates. We asked the kids there if bread was sold there and they said no. Thinking we had the wrong house we turned to leave, but some guy called out, "yes, yes!" and we went back. They were just pulling trays of fresh, hot coco bread and cinnamon rolls out of the oven. Most of Little Corn speaks English, and everyone in that house did, so I really don't know what was wrong with those children.

The bread was amazing. We went to one of Little Corn's low-selection shops to get some stuff to eat with it, both for tonight and tomorrow's lunch. The shop was the type where you tell the person behind the counter what you want and they get you packages of crackers or toothpaste or whatever and put it on the counter for you. The woman working didn't feel like all that (probably heard about what a pain we were when comparison shopping for cans of tuna the other day), so she said we could come in and choose what we wanted, which is much more our style.

We got some Pringles, some Maruchan, etc. and then wanted cheese to go with the coco bread.

"What kind of cheese do you have?" Michael asked, in English, because the woman spoke English.

"No kind," she said. She looked a little confused that we'd asked.

"Oh. Well do you know if there's another place where we could buy some?"

"Did you try that way?" (Pointing in the direction of the path to Derek's.)

"We've been that way, but we haven't tried to buy cheese." I said this hoping to convey that we knew that area and the shops there if she wanted to mention one, but that we didn't yet know if they also did not have cheese.

"How much cheese do you want?"

"Well, we're not sure. Just a bit."

The woman sighed heavily and walked away to the back of the store, which might have been her home. She returned with a nice, reasonable sized block of white cheese in a clear plastic bag. "You want this?"

"Yes, that's great. How much is it?"

"Seven cordobas." Around $1 USD.

"Great, we'll take it. What kind of cheese is it?"

"White cheese."

So we had some white cheese which tasted wonderful with the coco bread and some sardines which we regretted buying and wasted most of and we made ourselves a great little dinner with cinnamon bread for dessert. That was our day, buying cheese and hurrying back home to lounge some more.

What we want to know is, is "white cheese" an inexact but functional and widely-understood designation for a particular type of cheese, the way "Swiss cheese" in the States refers only to the type with holes? Or was the lady just simple? Well, white cheese is better than no kind of cheese, I guess.

We also tried to make reservations for dinner tomorrow night at Farm Peace and Love, which is right next door to Derek's. (Next door meaning two hundred yards away, but the closest building.) The woman there, an Italian married to a local, cooks Italian meals out of her home nightly. The procedure is to go to the Dive Shop in the middle of town and make reservations there. Whomever is working will radio Farm Peace and Love and notify them of the number of people and any allergies they might have.

But Farm Peace and Love was not answering, so the woman at the Dive Shop advised we just stop on by the house, since we're right next door. We didn't mind doing this at all, and would have just done it in the first place except we were afraid of bothering her at home. So after the shopping trip we stopped by the house and talked to a girl there. The girl spoke Spanish only. We managed to convey that we would like reservations, and she told us we had to make them at the Dive Shop. Great. So we don't know if we'll be able to eat there tomorrow or not.

We found out the hippies are from Northern California, so we were kind of both right, though Michael wins.

 

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Hammocks in the morning, Little Corn Island.

Palm trees in the rising sun, Little Corn Island.

Another photo of our hut, because I love it so much.

No shoes allowed in the Dive Shop either.