Although being a PCV is a string of stereotypes, every one has their own experience. Today nicely represented my general modus operandi. I spent just enough time shaving before an icy shower to remember how much nicer hot showers are on such cold mornings. My hot breakfast and coffee waiting for me more than made up for the previous temperature offense. I co-taugh my three monday classes without incident, the first being at 7:15am.

My coffee counterpart called me on my return at 11 am and informed me I was needed. I led our new technician on an unexpected adventure to the misty mountain of El Volcán, where I introduced him to one of my favorite farmers in our group. His wife happily fed my avacados, cuajada, and tortillas, and of course coffee. Post return I relaxed and finished a Michael Pollen book on American eating habits. I rearranged my clothes drying inside and practiced yoga for an hour or so as the rain picked up. I briefly picked up another book before eating my gallo-pinto, tortilla, cuajada, and coffee dinner. Of course, I did none of the cooking or cleaning, but rather ran accross the street to the cyber where I waited 14 minutes to upload this very page due to the ever heavy rains.

As it turns out, members of the superfamily Hymenoptera vespoidea can pack a punch for their size. This superfamily includes all wasps, between which I can´t decide the culprit. About two and a half hours into a four hour hike to a nearby lagoon, I trapsed into the wrong side of the tracks. A pure black wasp stung the upper inside of my right calf, and it swelled almost instantaneously. I slept through it last night, but today walking to and from the institute was a serious problem as I can´t quite command my right calf muscle to flex. By the end of my classes, my calf was red, hot, and swollen to the point that my sock was cutting circulation off. I talked to my doctor/host sister and called the PC medical office. Making a compromise of the two advices, I´m now on an anithistamine, pain-killer, antibotic slurry. Yumm...

Don´t worry, the rest of the hike was beautiful. I didn´t let a swollen calf get in my way of enjoying the all powerful Mother Nature.

The evangelical priest that started the prayer service didn´t know the family name, much less that of the little girl. At seven years old she at least deserved someone remembering her name. Not the priest, the following eulogizer, nor I remembered her name. After an hour and a half of claiming that this already forgotten girl was never really of our world anyway, but rather--like all of us--a possession of god, the torch was passed.

The diminuitive white box, which had oddly been the focus of the sermon, was angled and prepared to be filled. Cal and salts were tucked between liners, although their combined aroma sacked the room. The angelic body was picked up by a slight woman and put into the freshly painted box. The woman then picked up the blood soaked pillow as though uncertain what to do with it. It was soon removed with the bed she had been imbedded in pre-box.

My four friends and I sat awkwardly in near-silence downing coffee and rosquillas. As we left, we stopped in front of the box. Nothing but a piece of clear plastic seperated the living world from her. I was expecting a manicured face, like the open caskets at home. Instead, her nose and mouth were stuffed with cotton gauze to keep the fluids in place. Her forehead still bore the three marks that most undoubtedly left her unconcious long enough to drown in the rocky rapids near town. Rain spit at us on our way home nailing home a reminder.

* * * *

After my pleasantly soaking Thursday morning run, I ran into a couple of friends on their way to work. It was the birthday of two twins, and I balked a sweaty hug to the one present. We talked about the potential of going out that night to celebrate, despite the terrential downpour. Hours later, my counterpart called to tell me that we would not be leaving town nor would the coffee producers be coming in for our usual work. There had been a man and a young girl washed down stream from the nearby fiord, truck and all. I walked to my friends store, whose older sisters were having the birthday. They all told me they would be going to the vela, (a late night observance of the recently dead including unending eulogies, rosquillas and coffee) instead of celebrating the birthday duet.

It was their second cousin who had been washed downstream. Her uncle had been driving at around the same time I was running. The girl had been found on that very friends´--her second cousins´--family farm. The Uncles´ jeans were found with C$11,100 from their recent frijoles crop. Not knowing that the Uncle was to be found at the end of the weekend, bloated, and with his eyes eaten out, we all went to the depressingly unattached service. They tried to cross a swollen river I´ve crossed time and time before, and in worse-off trucks. The rain had been beautiful and ceaseless for weeks. Tragedy was now tacked on as Mother Nature´s reminder that ravishing beauty can be deceptive.

Thinking ¨finding oneself¨ applied only to wanderlust beatnicks, I ignored its implications. However one phrases it, one of the biggest parts of growing up--exacerbated by living abroad--is finding a way to anchor oneself. Without family or friends, there is no discernable point of reference. One is left with a matrix of previous perceptions and pretentions on which to build, but there is certainly no architect but myself.

After my recent vacation to the fabulous colonial house my friend is sitting in Granada, there were things that I had missed. I put off one meeting and completely blew off another. With the excuse of the fiestas patronales further complicating lengthy bus travel, I was easily let off the hook. After a week of no classes, and having forgotten to mention to anyone that I was judging a competition an hour South of me instead of giving class the following day, I had come back to a mess of my own making.

This tension was compiled by senseless jealousy that all of the guys in my group had found a girlfriend or at least a playmate. By yesterday morning I was sour and an hour outside of town at a coffee farm. The whole day became consumed by a beautiful rainstorm. With no chance of escape or making it to our second appointment, my counterpart, the producer and I buckled down to work. We got all the paperwork immaginable out of the way by the afternoon.

The rain begrudingly halted as though it had run out of water but not the energy with which to dispell it. Conversation had turned to native plants. Our host took us out to his modest plantation while fog and clouds silently unzipped themselves from one another. I stood on the flatbed of the truck smiling as we passed under trees spewing Spanish Moss-like barba del viejo. I smiled so hard I found myself laughing at how miraculous the spectacle was: thousands of glossy coffee plants dwarfed by monstrous trees bedragled by barba del viejo. This is my Nicaragua.

Being unanchored as I am and thus subject to every emotional squall, I find it hard to remain politically neutral. Peace Corps policy is officially neutral, and we volunteers are obliged to follow suite. The Danielista* party headquarters are directly across the street from my humble abode. Sandanista songs about ¨Killing the Yanqui¨ and ¨Kill the Gringos¨ play day and night. Those don´t bother me because they are often coupled with Michael Jackson or Stairway to Heaven. What does bother me is that my host mother lost her job as a high school teacher last year because of being Liberal. My host sister and counterpart will be losing the same job this November because she will vote Liberal.

*US backed Somoza dictatorship overtaken by socialist Sandanista party in1979. By mid 1980´s, the Sandanista party--headed by Daniel Ortega indefinately--had increased public welfare and infrastructure, though was no less oppressive than Somoza. The Contra army began in the town two hours North of Yalí, La Rica. With US support and unneccesary ruthlessness, it overtook the Sandanistas. Free and fair elections have been held since 1991. Because of a party split in the last elections, Daniel Ortega won the presidential seat for the old Sandinista party, FSLN (mockingly called the Danielista Party). The FSLN has since disabled the participation of various political parties. They have also rigged the upcoming municipal elections through dislocated polling and obvious gifts to party members. Weekly, the FSLN blatently delivers livestock or construction material to party members.

On a more regional note, Latin America is becoming an even more interesting place to live than usual. Bolivia and Venezuela have recently asked their respective United States embassadors to leave. The American government stands accused of encouraging the Bolivian seperatist movement. Venezuela has followed suit to show solidarity. Nicaragua, being economically reliant on Cesar Chavez, often takes political hints from Venezuela.

Venezuela does not have Peace Corps Volunteers, and Bolivia is not accepting new ones after a recent political misunderstanding. So we will see how the remaining volunteers are dealt with as a lithmus test for any potential embassadorial changes. Honduras is also pending the expulsion of their US embassador, which puts even more regional pressure on Nicaragua to tow the line.

With no current gubernatorial changes in motion here, life will continue as normal. Even in the worst case scenario--if the US embassador to Nicaragua were to be removed--we volunteers won't necessarily leave. It will just leave us a little less political cushion.

In the meanwhile, I will continue to eat my gallo-pinto and cuajada. As a matter of fact I am currently on a little vacation in Granada, a tourist destination where a volunteer in my group lives. The former Captaincy-General of Guatemala, which included Nicaragua at the time, gained independence from Spain on September 14th. Hence, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica celebrate Independence Day at the same time. We are about to grill and have a guys night out to celebrate like we celebrate our independence: cultural exchange?

A week of scorching days can so easily be sedated and forgotten by one good afternoon of rain. The rising and re-rising dust is replaced by low lying clouds. Everyone sits on their porch, dances to otherwise loud music rendered inoffensive by the rain, and enjoy whatever solitude is gained by incliment weather. Good rainstorms are the Nicaraguan equivelant to a foot and a half of snow: too much to voluntarily leave the house, but not legally enough to close school. Nearly falling victim to the utility of a good excuse I forgot about tomorrow´s class until after dinner.

Before the rain I had a great melding of both my worlds. My institute is funded by the coffee exporter I work for. Today the exporter invited all of their local growers, recognized students, and school officials for a thank you and a presentation. I got a little thank you, the type given to a relative for warm wool socks on christmas. Although I think I´ll be fine without wool socks for the duration of my service, my fleece pants and long sleeve shirt feel just right. Even goldilocks would be jealous.

I noticed it first as I would ride between farms. The long lines of foliage drying in the countryside. Beans hung up on barbed wire--which is used for everything including clothes lines. In town trucks filled with bean sacks rumble through. The once quiet cooperatives and otherwise vacant storefronts are bustling with sack after sack of beans. Each bag is emptied out, dried, sifted, and bagged for sale. The cosecha primaria, or first harvest is in full swing. This is the biggest harvest of the year and I´ve got court-side tickets.

Today I went out to the family farm with my host brother. It is a hundred or so meters above Yalí, and only three kilometers down the road. We hiked along a beautiful creek upstream from Yalí and up to the plantaciones. As we approached I heard repeated dull thuds. The workers pull the lightly dried bean pods onto a tarp and beat them mercellously until every bean has been freed from its husk. They discard the empty husks into a second pile. They stand on the beans, a slowly but surely growing hill of dark red kidney beans. I hiked around the farm for a few hours, and when I returned, the beans were bagged. My host brother was putting away all his paperwork and protecting his meticullous calculations. The pile of dried, beaten, sorry husks are set to an immediately roaring blaze.

We drove back to town just as it began to drizzle. I realized that almost every field with the tell tale burned look of beans in cosecha had an equally large blaze going. The air was filled with smoke. There were smoke lines coming from every farm and hillside in view. It became apparent that this was becoming an all encompassing experience: the town is alive, the hills become burned, and all of this is viewed between whispes of smoke and dilapidated trucks.

Its a whole lot of work to get one plate of beans. Fortunately the farmers minimum wage--usually supporting an entire family--of $2.50 a day keeps the prices down.