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!