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I'd met Marco and Elisa on the scary propeller airplane to Corn Island, and they told me the trip was a vacation from their real purpose in Nicaragua -- to provide health care outreach to street kids in León. The plane stopped once in the coastal outpost of Bluefields to drop off passengers and for the pilot to catch a smoke, and we continued on. When we landed, we were joined in the taxi by a Peace Corps volunteer from Los Angeles named Tim, who told us he'd been trying for months to establish an efficient lobster fishing cooperative on Corn Island. As we disembarked, we saw several boxes marked "Spanish Bibles" unloaded by a group of sincere-looking, English-speaking men.

"A donde va?" asked the black islander driving our rusty old jeep. His casual assumption was not unfounded: We'd all just arrived from Managua, were white and, therefore, must certainly speak Spanish. At Tim's suggestion, we headed for the Hotel Panorama.

Tim explained that the island would be crowded on this particular weekend because it was the annual La Fiesta de Cangrejo -- the Festival of Crabs. "Everybody here says the fiesta celebrates the emancipation of the slaves by the British in 1841," he said. "Legend has it that their ancestors cooked a huge pot of crab soup in celebration. That's where the name came from."

As Tim continued, he spoke about the island's lobster fishermen -- the ones whom the Peace Corps volunteers were trying to assist. "It's hard to get these people together for a meeting," he said. "I scheduled one last Sunday and it rained and nobody showed. Like they never got wet before." This was the first time in 20 years that the Peace Corps had been invited into Nicaragua.

Tim slightly bemoaned the fact that the Festival of Crabs was happening that weekend because another Sunday meeting with the fishermen would fall by the wayside. "These people have no concept of how to market their product."

Marco asked, "Do you have experience in lobster fishing?"

"No, I have a business degree," Tim said.

"Oh," Marco said, smiling broadly and winking at me.

Our driver honked and yelled to his friends, who were yanking a giant sea turtle out onto the white beach, and making short work of the animal with a machete. "Turtle soup, mon!" our driver shouted. The sun sparkled off puddles in the road as we approached the hotel, which was tucked away in overgrown brush.

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Night on Corn Island means a darkness so clear and thick it feels tangible. Although I still didn't have a place to sleep, Marco, Elisa and I decided to get something to eat. The girl at the Hotel Panorama pointed us toward a light atop a hill, which overlooked a cove. "That's the closest restaurant," she said. We had to carry flashlights to find our way up the path, and we could see the flickering blue glow of televisions in the little ramshackle homes as we passed.

When we reached the top of the hill, we realized the restaurant was basically someone's home -- about six tables set up in the living room. Two island women rushed back and forth down a hall toward the kitchen while a middle-aged American man ate at the front table. The man told us that the restaurant/home was his and that he'd come to Corn Island to catch lobsters.

"Been here four years," he grunted, adding that one of the women in the kitchen was his wife.

Merle Haggard's "Greatest Hits" played on a small boombox and we ate a tremendous dinner of shellfish. Later, when I tried to use the restroom, the door was locked and I heard the shower running. Soon enough, the American lobsterman walked out wrapped in a bath towel.

We drank more beers on the porch. Haggard changed to reggae and mixed with the soft lapping of the bay. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, a man wearing rubber surgical gloves and no shirt appeared at the porch. He carried a bag of shrimp and asked if we wanted to buy some. We said no, then he patted my stomach and disappeared once again into the darkness. We walked back down the hill by flashlight, and searched for the man with the rubber gloves.

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