Breakfast can be many things: fried spaghetti, boiled plantains, an egg and bread—today I find it is bread, coffee, and mamba, Haitian peanut butter with a few peppers in it to put some kick in my stride. I take my time eating, browsing through journals, and listening to the upbeat music of the radio news program. Today will be a big day. I have a meeting scheduled for 9:00 dealing with a goat-breeding program we have initiated. However, I know it will most likely start at 10:30, as meetings occur after the daily routines such as caring for animals, fetching water, cooking breakfast, and sending the kids to school. Long ago, I disregarded the hands of my watch and instead wait for my neighbors to leave their house as they pass me to go to the center.

The skies are clear; no rain to cancel this one and the trails are dry—all things are go. I grab my materials and bid Madame Jean Daniel farewell for a few hours, as she has begun to cook the beans for the lunchtime meal. A few people have congregated, and I greet them and we chat over a stalk of kan, or sugarcane. They are in no rush, as the meeting must also fulfill the social aspect of a little gossip. Estal, my friend and fellow presenter today, sees we have 15 people and urges all to take their seats. Flipcharts, markers, a smile for everybody, and a fun icebreaker and we are definitely ready. The session goes well, people have taken notes, asked good questions, and I feel confident in the responses I gave them in my Minnesotan Kreyol. We talked a lot about the benefits of this breeding program, we now have a Nubian goat buck and they are excited with the increased meat productions and market price its offspring will allow. Estal and I take time to cover the basics—parasites, the need for water (a Haitian disbelief), and diagnosing illnesses. We adjourn with some great grapefruit juice and bread just as the kids are beginning recreation, playing marbles, soccer, and jacks in the courtyard. Francois, my neighbor, invites me over to play dominoes. A lady asks about English class tomorrow, and a man asks my opinion on his rickety bike. I am dreaming of lunch really, a nice plate of rice and beans with avocado and a little sauce. Lunch was grand and I again take some time to return to a novel and beat the heat of the early afternoon. Of course little Jean Andres, my three-year-old brother, insists he can score a goal against me in soccer, so we take to the terrace and play.

As the day is waning, I remember I need to visit Madame Rosval in Simone, about a 20-minute walk away, to pick up some of her great fresh coffee, which I will send home. On the way I pass by the farmers preparing the fields to plant corn and sweet potatoes. They start to razz me and ask me where my machete is. I tell them it is being sharpened. Well, my task is completed and the sun is getting low and I begin my walk home through a countryside draped with tropical trees and fruits that were once so foreign to me but now seem a part of me. I look forward to our nightly ritual at Jean Dan's house of sitting in the gallery and joking and talking. There may even be a little moonlight tonight.