Roads, in the Haiti countryside, are dirt holes with a liberal sprinkling of stones. They have never seen a government road crew or been touched by a grader, rake or shovel.

After a strong rain,these roads, leading back into the countryside, become non- negotiable and new paths are made through underbrush to reach plywood shacks with tin roofs, homes with sheets for curtains, and outhouses.

This steer is stretched to the end of his rope and he drinks from his own private pool.

Placing distance between us,  I look across cultivated fields at distant mountains and hear goats tied to fences, complaining about their nooses.

Somehow, this bovine seems intimidating enough to hold his own.

I don’t see him taking off with a stranger without a brawl.

It would take a special kind of criminal to take this guy home.

 

 

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