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a kindred surge of hope. Here, too, people are waiting for their miracle to happen.

To Moustique, Charlie’s house, a big-hearted welcome
    I t’s close to dark and we still have a ways to go. “The roads are very bad,” Piti says, apologetically, as if he were responsible.
    How bad can a bad road get to best the worst we have already traveled? We soon find out. So far, we have at least been on discernible roads, and the rivers we’ve forded have been dry. But now we must cross Trois Rivières. From my long forgotten but suddenly resuscitating high school French I recall that trois means three. We will have to ford a river that’s a confluence of three?
    Deftly, Piti navigates us over the shallow spots. (Over to the left! Straight ahead! No, no, no, over to the right some more!) The rest of us in the cab echo his instructions, as if our beleaguered driver, Bill, can’t comprehend Piti’s injunctions but needs a Greek chorus to enlighten him.
    Once on the other side, we drive along a path the pickup helps widen. We are headed for Moustique, Piti explains, the name of the countryside where his family and his bride live. “Moustique, moustique.” Homero keeps repeating the word. He is almost sure moustique is the Kreyòl word for mosquito. Bill and I glance at each other, recalling a discussion in Vermont about whether to bring mosquito nets on our trip. Thank goodness we agreed it was a sensible measure given the widespread occurrence of malaria in rural Haiti.
    Forty minutes later, we arrive at the house where we will be staying. To think that Piti and his brothers actually walked this distance earlier this afternoon! No wonder we waited over an hour for them to come. Now I know why they were mopping their foreheads and necks with facecloths as they entered Bassin-Bleu.
    The house where we will spend the night belongs to Charlie, whose sister is married to Piti’s brother Jimmy, whom we just met. Piti’s own house is farther in, not accessible by road, so this is a more convenient spot for us to spend the night. It’s unclear if these arrangements were made beforehand or on the spot, as Piti disembarks first and pulls Charlie to one side. No matter. Charlie welcomes us as if his whole extended family has been preparing for days for our arrival.
    Perhaps Charlie’s sense of hospitality comes from having worked several years in a resort in the Bahamas. That’s where he picked up a little English, heavily accented and disconcertingly British. The family seems relatively well-off. Though the house is small, four rooms, it is made of concrete with a zinc roof, in contrast to the mud-and-wattle constructions with thatched roofs we’ve seen along the way, which I actually find more beautiful.
    Each room has a bed, the front room also accommodating a table with a paisley tablecloth, several chairs, and two cabinets with glasses and dishes. But where will they all sleep if we take the three beds they are offering us? I’ve counted four grown sisters, two with husbands (one of these being Piti’s brother Jimmy); two little girls and a toddler; as well as an old man with startling blue eyes whom Charlie introduces sweetly as “my daddy.”
    “There is plenty of room,” Charlie assures us. I don’t inquire further, assuming the family will redistribute itself in surrounding houses. But when we wake up the next morning and go outside, we find everyone has slept on mats spread out under the trees. It’s not lost on any of us: the generosity of those who are willing to share the little they have. It goes through my mind again, the scene with the girl and the young man in Bassin-Bleu.
    Before we settle in, Leonardo needs a ride home. Bill, cranky after a twelve-hour drive, shakes his head, no. It’s not far, Leonardo argues, which argument is used against him. If it’s not far, he can walk.
    “Come on, honey,” I intervene.
    Come on, honey, nothing. Leonardo has been totally useless as a guide. What’s more, he’s