The little mountain hamlet housed some 200 families, descendants of indigenous Indian tribes. They welcomed us into their homes, fields, and friendly conversations. I was awe-struck by how utterly normal - albeit difficult - life there seemed. With minimal electricity, no running water -- except in the community center -- few books, no organized children's activities, and no stores for daily necessities, the villagers accepted their challenges not with resignation, but with determination. I enjoyed the easy spirit that guided village life.

There was also something distinctly celebrative about the village. I noticed the colors first: From the brilliantly flowering bushes and trees in every yard, to the gleaming pastel clay-brick houses with doors and windows outlined in vibrant reds, greens and blue designs.

In the streets, black-haired women and girls wore intricately-patterned woven skirts and shawls and carried brightly decorated pots and water pitchers. Men and boys guided livestock harnessed with ropes dyed red and yellow. I was mesmerized by the natural beauty around me.

As I grew more accustomed to my temporary "home," the local residents became more familiar. I was grateful for their acceptance --me, a gringo woman.  The children were especially engaging.  Frisky as pups, and immune to their humble surroundings, they swarmed around us, ever-ready for a game of "toss."

Soon, it was on to our work assignments. Bud, with his background in human and economic development, was asked to help write a grant proposal, and I, with my journalism background, began work on a brochure explaining the community's needs to potential benefactors.

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