As I walk up to the steps of my house, my host sister calls out cochino... vago, cochino! amongst smirking laughs. I must look strange covered in mud, drenched to the bone producing ear after ear of pinolo--a native corn which Nicaraguans proudly derive their auto-appellative, pinolero--highlighted by juicy purple kernals. My horse hair covered jeans were a task to remove being plastered to my thighs for the last several hours.

I left this morning with an adventure in mind, although not really sure what the adventure would entail. My guides were a couple of girls that work in the nearby Mini-Super, my favorite oximoronic store on the main--and only for that matter--square. We hiked off the roads I had walked up, and found our way through a valley. We passed by two familial houses, accumulating a cousin and a horse at the latter. We hiked up to a mountain ridge and hid under the generous boughs of trees during the first downpour.

We could already see our destination: a small laguna which had recently been cleaned out of detritous material by a local cooperative. The cousin was a very well informed and politically aware high school dropout. His questions were pointed. His interest in the US political and immigration system was inspiring even as I explained the difficulties of nationalization.

We walked on to the Laguna, behind which was a gorgeous field. Jack Nicklaus could not have designed a better golf course. Horses ran wild and bonsai-esque trees grew as though divinely planted. As one of the girls and the cousin explained that this field and all the fields around it had been their childhood playlot, and the laguna their kiddie-pool, I became lustingly envious. It began to absolutely poor as we talked about politics, and educational and professional obstacles typical to Nicaragua. The mountains seemed to open up a new, even more impressive view with every turn.

On our return, I deftly took the horse down the mountain. They all said I needed the practice with a younger, more bravo horse. Of course a mountainous hike with ocassional precipices is the only time to learn. We dropped the horse off at the second house and continued on foot. The dense rain lightened up just as we realized that the little streams we had hopped over hours before had become fjording nightmares. Once my shoes knew no return, the cousin took me to pick corn from his grandfathers plot. He taught me how to pick sweet corn, pinolero, and cubano. We shoved as much as we could into our bags and went to catch up with the girls. As we got into town it began to rain again, as though one encore was not enough. I said my good-byes and thank yous as the rain let up, and walked up to my porch. My host sister called me a little piggy, a little piggy who just bums around town, never content to stay in one place. Vago, cochino!

My counterpart and I rolled out of a coffee farm this Thursday just as the clouds started to settle in. We didn´t talk the whole way back. Two bunches of ripe coffee beans at the end of the farm flaunted their crimson jackets. Each hung low, proud, and bountiful, like a miniature Buddha. We rose out of the valley as the clouds slid down to meet us heavy and wet. Surrounded by green, two auburn trees blushed to reveal their deciduous tell. I could see the main road up ahead as a striking black bird with two robust red stripes landed and watched our departure.

I went to my first Yalí funeral. I ended up walking the half mile between the church and the cemetary with the sister of the deceased. She weeped, and I did my best to give her water when necessary. Her boyfriend and best friend hadn´t been able to come, so she was happy that I was there, even though I´ve only known her a month. She ran off, and one of her other friends and I found her crying against the hot, black hood of a flat-bed truck. As she cried onto both of our already sweaty shoulders I felt like I was actually supposed to be there. Today at the final Mass for her brother, that sentiment was reinforced. We sat with the Father and the closest family eating lunch afterwards.

In between those events I went diving off of a ledge called ¨El Salto¨ with my first visitor, a volunteer from the Japanese version of the Peace Corps, JICA. The dive was about four meters and at first made me nervous. I first encountered it the day before while hiking to a farm to learn how to horse back ride. Im getting used to it.

Although jealous of many of the summer photos I have seen of waterside fun, concerts at dusk, etc., my biggest regret is that the internet here is not strong enough for me to upload any more pictures to show you. At least I have internet access, though. My air conditioned class room right now is a comfortable place to type. There are pine trees around the Institute, and my new buddies are painting the walls outside right now. I call them my buddies because the local futbol team has taken me under their wing as a kind of social interest. I don´t think they know what I am yet. They may just be following the adage ¨Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.¨ Who knows, though.

Whatever it is, they have helped me feel slightly more normal in an abnormal environment. I´ve played soccer with them a few times and we throw the football around every couple of days. We had beers and listened to hip hop and reggaeton the other night on the corner in front of my house. They tend to be some of the more influential people in town, both socially and financially--one of the guys is a lawyer who lived in Arizona and Virginia for a few years--which might come in handy down the road. Yali having had previous peace corps presence has made my references a lot more stable.

After the most dilerious fever I´ve ever had burned off my stomach bug, Yali has been action packed. I´ve gotten my running and yoga routines down, supplemented by whatever activities the lads are up to. This is my second week of co-teaching classes, and one of my professors is already showing her own flare and interest. My youth group looks like its going to be focused on the environment and eco-thourism, and we´re going on a hike to view the town on Sunday. My training is done and my coffee counterpart and I will be hitting the dusty trail to help certify our micro-producers next week. I still seem to have time to read, play the guitar, play cards with the boys I live with, and help some of the kids from the Institute sing in English. That acutally reminds me I have a session with them in four minutes.

I hopped on the six am trip to the departmental head to arrive by about eight thirty this morning. Above the windshield one old sign read a list of ten commandments of behaviour in english--including ¨Don´t smoke¨ just to highlight the fact that these buses have been around since before indoor, or minor´s smoking was banned--while right next to it read Dios Salve. The dilapidated fleat of old school-buses the country relies on for transportation is in some ways charming, despite the obvious dangers of overcrowding coupled by a host of functional and aesthetic maladies. Between that and the rag tag old pick up that my counterpart and I will be driving around in three days a week, I´ve got my transporation needs set out.

I spent this week visiting coffee farms. They look no different from the normal woodland until you realize that every leaf under the sparse canopy has uniformly glossy, rippled leaves already budding the granos de café. Although it will certainly fade, I´m enamored with this beautiful process. I´m working with super-small time coffee farmers to certify them for Starbucks, which is very similar to FairTrade, but without the organic component. This week has been a bit of an eye opener as to what Nicaragua is like away from the touristy center where we trained.

The week beforehand was fun, and American, and airconditioned, and summery. Our swearing in ceremony was bookended by charlas to whom few paid attention and a few days in a hotel together. We went to expensive clubs and restaurants, strolled the malls of downtown Managua, and talked endlessly in English about who we were before arriving inNicaragua and to whom we espoused to be during and after our services. They were fruitless conversations that made us all feel a little bit better about letting go for a long time.

As a fellow Volunteer mentioned yesterday, Jinotega is the understated beauty of Nicaragua. Clouds being burned away from the valley by the early morning sun is striking, even for those of us who have a hard time remembering the extensive facets and potentials of beauty. That doesn´t mean that these two years won´t be a challenge. There will be no one asking me how I feel. There won´t be anyone telling me ¨It´s OK,¨ or reminding me that despite the daily ego hits, there are things I´m good at. I´ll miss those little crutches, but I´m as ready as I´ll ever be.

P.S. All the hippies claiming that Starbucks, the WTO, and any large corporations with their manufacturing or farming in developing countries are evil empires: try living in a developing country. I fully support those developments because they are feeding hard working families. Their are certain steps that every economy must go through to reach wealth. What are you doing to help? Don´t protest these processes and delay the betterment of workers rights. Instead protest trade barriers to get more money to the world´s poorest employees. Remember the economy is not an equal sum game.