Mule on the mountain, above San LucasWhatever Tim had, I caught.

In me, it’s a low level pain-in-the-ass, just enough sick to keep me from the things I’d rather be doing. Not enough to merit genuine sympathy. Not enough to send me to the doctor, which is a relief, as I’ve had enough excitement for one week.

There was my triumphant return to reporting, a road trip on a highway with swimming pool-sized potholes and a run-in with an ant, which left my foot swollen to roughly the size, shape and rosy color of baby’s butt.

All during my interview with Paul Rice, the founder of TransFair USA and the man who brought the fair trade movement to the United States, my foot was swelling. By the time IPaul Rice, of TransFair USA made it back to Hotel Miraflor, it had grown too big for my right shoe. It hurt and itched at the same time. My sandal straps strangled my toes, turning them bright red and numb. Sitting on the bed, looking at my overstuffed sausage feet, it seemed possible that my skin would stretch beyond it’s capacity and split open.

Earlier in the day, I’d seen a dog laying still on the sidewalk. It had tumors bulging everywhere from its body. One had grown so large that it had burst open, exposing the white, fatty mass beneath. Since then, I can’t keep the image away. So gruesome, so sad. But also fascinating, the way all gruesome, sad things are.

Nicaragua has the same ability to throw me into tailspins: emotional, political, psychological, physical. We arrived just over two weeks ago, The valley below: San Lucas, Nicaragua rented a place to live, month-to-month, and have begun to settle in. I love it, but it also scares me. Nicaragua is not Mexico, a place that feels familiar, and therefore comfortable, in comparison.

Nicaragua is safe. Much safer than Mexico, especially for journalists. But the poverty here -- the roughness of the infrastructure (the only functional highway is the international Panamericana), the way water is always running out, the way Nicaraguans are still waiting, hopeful, for the promise of the revolution to arrive -- frightens me. Not for more, but for them. Seeing the Sandinista’s red flags flying from street lamps and their red swaths painted on city streets, Nicaragua feels sad, like a couple that was once in love, but now just trying.

But then, I’ve only just arrived.