The beauty of nature buoyed McKee's hope in the face of rampant poverty in Nicaragua, "the land of lakes and volcanoes."

Nicaragua, the land of lakes and volcanoes, was soon to show me its history of disaster -- earthquakes, hurricanes (Mitch being most recent), droughts and decades of political unrest. Daniel Ortega's name wafts through the countryside. "Sandinista," or "Liberal," is a label that destroys friendships. It was a war of which I had known nothing. Ironic, considering Nicaragua is so close to home and so accessible to U.S. involvement, like the Iran/Contra affair in the 1980s.

Nicaraguan faces stare at me from the doors and windows of adobe houses. Many without electricity, most without water, the people rise each day in a world without security. Beneath the banana tree canopy, pigs squeal and chickens cluck; huge army ants march to devour. I soon realize that the dirt floor beneath these people is the least of their worries.

I had planned on Peace Corps for most of my JMU life, when I had volunteered at the Little Grill soup kitchen in downtown Harrisonburg and participated in other programs like pet therapy at the local animal shelter. I was on a quest to relieve the world's unrelenting underdog.

Despite the condition of my Spanish, I quickly connect with the women in my community and soon form a group that names itself "Progress and Hope." They want aid to build chicken pens, and we later receive nearly $2,000 for it from the US Agency of International Development.

I soon realize, however, that the small events of each day are to change me in ways that saving the world cannot. I set out to plant gardens, make organic compost, reforest, cook with soybeans, build chicken pens, raise chickens for egg laying. Instead I learn from the people -- by carrying water from the well, washing clothes on rocks, cooking with fire and remudding my floor. I experience their frustration at the lack of rain and at the overabundance of insects, which means success or failure for their crops. The meaning of one bean, one kernel of corn, one grain of sorghum becomes huge. It becomes hope.

My relationship with my host-sister, Xiomara Obando, who is three years younger, affects me deeply. When I arrive at her house in December 1999, she has just returned home after studying two years away at agricultural school, an unusual experience for a country girl. We instantly fill spots for each other. Working together gives me a partner and gives her more experience. It gives us both a friendship that shall continue beyond my service.

Aside from the women I meet, Mother Nature makes one of the greatest impacts on my experience. As much as we curse her for no rain and too much sun, recognizing the immenseness of her power keeps my sense of the world's beauty alive in the face of rampant poverty.

One December day I ride horseback for three hours up the mountains with my friend Chunga and her two sons to pick oranges in Chicicauste. We pass through forests where impatiens grow like weeds and foliage grows on tree bark. All the while, we look down into the lowlands, dried by years of drought, where now hardly a bean can sprout. Indeed the riches lie high in the mountaintops like carvings in a dark hidden cave. It is no wonder that past civilizations scaled cliffs to bury their dead in high places. Chunga wants 200 oranges and sends her sons to the treetops to pick them while we sit with the señora who lives among these high orange "orchards." "Eat another," the old one says as the boys rustle overhead. "It's not everyday you are here."

As my work with the women progresses, I also start working with their husbands.
The chicken-pen project involves construction in the beginning. Here, where history has ingrained separate roles for the sexes, people call me man-woman because I feel I can do it all.

Now there are 176 chickens loose at my house, and my sister and I run around grabbing for fluffs of feathers. I am quite exhausted at day's end, with 16 pens ready. To think that I had never touched a chicken before I came here is quite funny.

I am becoming close to Xiomara. I wash clothes with her in the mountain stream, among the rocks and roots strewn by Mitch. We talk and talk, and I feel as though I have washed clothes there all my life. Randomly, we save a minnow and a tadpole from death after they hoist themselves upon different rocks. Which leads me to tell her of my science fair project about tadpoles in third grade. As we walk home, she dares me to release my hands from the bucket of clothes I carry on my head. I laugh and tell her while I have learned the art of head carrying, I have yet to acquire the no-handed skill. She smiles, and we continue, my bucket secured by my hands and hers secured by her experience.

As months turn to years, my foreign life becomes less foreign. Faces and facades slowly let down, and harsh realities surface. While we collect tree seeds to reforest the farms, we look up to see the hills in flames. "We reforest," a woman says, "as others burn it down." These days are hot and sweaty; the horizon of water only a mirage. Another woman offers, "Jesus suffered upon the cross, and we suppose that we shall not suffer like him. But we shall suffer as well," she claims.

In addition to religion, Nicaraguans have many beliefs and tales to keep their spirits high. Because so many things go unexplained -- a missing chicken or prolonged drought -- I often see the truths in their legends. So finally, one day, despite the summer's worst heat, fellow volunteer John Rethans talks me into venturing to the elf cave that locals say is nestled hours away in the mountains. We have no true direction, but only the promised word of the people to guide us.

On the way, we come upon a cow giving birth. After some strain, her calf slides out onto the ground as though over a grand waterfall. He lies on the ground a few seconds, still covered in a wet film, leaving me to presume he is dead. But then there is a flinch. The eyes burst open and the head swings around. Life has been born. We leave the pasture and pass a bony horse lying on its side, dying from a stomach illness. People here let nature do its job, even if it is slow as hell. Poor horse, I think. Its colt stands
confused, peering down on its dying mother. We continue our walk and soon discover a roadside crowd. Another cow has been trying to give birth, but the calf won't come out, leaving both to die. Why is life and death hitting us so hard today? All we want to do is hike to the elf cave.

John and I walk on and continue alone for hours. An older man finds us and quickly confirms that elves dress in red and wear a little hat. The elf we seek went away during the war, the man says, but it is nice to have him back, the old man says. We arrive at the cave, and he leaves us to our peace, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared. I had only one quick glance at his eyes, and there was something about them that I cannot forget. It leaves me to wonder. Later, on the way home, John and I find a shady tree and rest beneath it as we eat a little to restore our walking energy: "Why did you join the Peace Corps?" "Well, I wanted to save the world. Didn't you know?" But does the world really want to be saved?

Elf magic and other tales lift up my heart as they do the people's hearts. But no sooner does my hike end, than I learn that one of the poorest families in my area has been left to the dusty country road. A mother, long ago deserted by her husband, has now been turned out with her three children by her brother who has sold his little parcel of land for money for drinking. Now she has nothing but what the woods will share.

In June, the city buses in Managua are on strike because they want to raise the fare one cordoba to make it three cords for a ride but no one wants to pay that. It is a sad situation, because gas costs nearly $3 now, but the people are poor. Another biting reality. It makes me more eager to see the project chickens lay eggs. They are just now reaching the proper age.

A month later, I am deeply distressed when Brenda, owner of the first egg-layer, comes over and, holding back tears, explains how, overnight, all of her chickens have become deathly sick. One has already died. We raid the medicine box, and double the prescribed dose. The next day I go over to check. Brenda is beaming and says they are much better. The chickens have been saved. Here, she says, take these -- your first project eggs. As my first two "golden eggs" lay funnily warm in my hand, I smile.

In the end, beyond the struggle of human nature and Mother Nature, I remind myself that every day begins and ends. Tomorrow there is new hope. I learn that life is painful and life is beautiful, often within a few moments of each other. Just down the path, around the corner, or over the hill there is another world all different from our own but yet really all the same.

When I came here almost two years ago, I felt an extreme guilt for being a "have" among the "have-nots." But I have let that guilt go. I realize that we are all human. We desire, feel, want, need, create, separate. We conflict. Human nature is something I cannot change. In spite of that or because of that, the underdog still calls me and anyone who will listen.

As my friend Luis says, "We might be poor, but yet we still have fun, don't we? We still have chicken soup every now and then, and corn pudding. We can certainly dance and sing all night. We poor continue to live and sometimes we even laugh," Luis says with a smile. It is the greatest lesson. And so here I stop.

PERHAPS THE POOREST OF US ALL IS THE ONE WHO LOSES HOPE & FAITH IN THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD. I SHALL HOPE IT IS NOT I.