Narcotics are big business in Haiti.
The 'bad guys' want Jude Celestin to be the winner in the November 2010 presidential elections in Haiti.
The results aren't expected until at least 7 December.
The "corrupt electoral comission, with U.S., Canadian and French financial backing, banned the most popular political party Lavalas from the elections." (Lavalas is the party of former president Aristide.)
There was massive vote fraud, in favour of Celestin.
Jude Celestin, who was caught lying about his academic background.
Jude Celestin And His Mistress Have Big Financial Problems In Florida.
Celestin "has amassed a long list of liens and foreclosure problems on his South Florida homes, public records show.
"Celestin mistress Tania Chihimie, who has long-time connections throughout the cocaine community in Haiti, purchased a home in Weston in 2006 - the height of the South Florida real estate boom - for $1.1 million, the records show.
"Earlier this year, the house was placed in foreclosure and the lender is seeking $1.06 million."
Celestin is very close to the outgoing president, Rene Preval, who is linked to Reynald Bonefil who "was arrested, during the Aristide presidency, with 53 kilos of cocaine in his car, along with $156,000 US in cash..."
President Rene Garcia Preval "has given the cocaine trafficker Bonefil control of hundreds of millions - perhaps billions of US dollars being channeled into Haiti for reconstruction projects.
"As partners in the crime Preval has embedded his wife, the avaricious courtesan Elisabeth Delatour-Preval, and Jude Celestin in the Bonefil team.
"During the earlier Preval Presidency, people expecting a shipment of drugs went to the palace. From here, Preval’s vehicle transported them to and from the docks, returning the traffickers to the Palace where they paid their fee to Preval and then left with their cocaine." (21 FEB 2010-COCAINE KING.)
Port au Prince
On 29 November 2010, Axis of Logic reports on the Haiti Elections: "Yet More Kaka from MINUSTAH"
"MINUSTAH (the UN) displayed Jude Celestin’s banners even while supposedly monitoring the election.
"Then again, the UN is monitoring the cholera epidemic that it started.
"So why shouldn’t we expect more kaka?"
"Over 90% of the potential voters failed to show up at the polls."
"What we are seeing is an organized nationwide response in the form of a powerful and rapidly developing resistance against Washington's puppet government and the UN occupation."
The Presidential Palace
The Grand Hotel Oloffson, the model for Hotel Trianon in Graham Greene's novel 'The Comedians', is to be found at Rue Cadet Jeremie in Port au Prince in Haiti.
In the restaurant, which is on a very long verandah, I dined on fresh fish.
My guest was Jean, a middle aged Haitian.
"Tell me the history of Haiti," I said to Jean.
"The Spanish removed the Indians," said Jean. "The French removed the Spanish. A slave revolt removed the French. Then there was a series of Black dictatorships. And in the 20th Century came the Americans."
"La meme chose. But in 1957 Dr Francis Papa Doc Duvalier won an election and turned himself into a very wealthy dictator."
"Kept in power by the Tonton Macoutes with their dark glasses."
"Yes. These were Papa Doc's private army of thugs. Opponents were imprisoned or murdered. Voodoo was used to frighten people."
"His son ruled until being thrown out in 1986."
"Why did the Americans, who control most of this area, not get rid of the Duvaliers in the early days?"
"Come to the bar and I will tell you more."
We strolled past peacock chairs, wicker sofas, tin lamps and intricate scroll work, to reach the bar.
"The Americans," said Jean, "supported dictatorships and mafias all around the world, so long as they were good for the narco-military-industrial complex. People like Batista were good for business. They did not want another communist Cuba in their back yard."
"Have the Americans got economic interests here?"
"Who ran the brothels in Cuba? Who brought AIDS to Haitian children. Babylon! Uncle Sam. The Great Satan. Where do the Americans get their baseballs from?"
"Most baseballs are made in Haiti by American companies. The factory girls get about $1.40 a day. They get injured arms and eyes."
"Is it only baseballs?"
"The Americans control the bauxite, sugar and sisal. It's like Cuba before Castro."
"Is it always slave wages?"
"You know Walt Disney?"
"They have contractors here who make Micky Mouse clothes. The factory girls get 8 pence an hour. You can't live on that. Then Wal-mart sells the Pocahontas pyjamas for $11-97."
"The Americans supported Baby Doc? But didn't he get thrown out?"
"And replaced by military dictatorship," said Jean, smiling.
"What about the radical priest Aristide? Didn't he win an election?"
"Very popular man among the poor! But 9 months after he came to power he was toppled."
"The army chief, Cedras, took over. These generals had been trained in the USA and were in the pay of the CIA."
"Then later Aristide was allowed back into Haiti."
"Yes. But FRAPH, a group financed by the CIA, started a lot of violence to destabilise Aristide."
"They were mainly made up of Tonton Macoutes. The Macoutes have always given Aristide a hard time. In 1988 Macoutes hacked to death scores of people in a church, while trying to kill Aristide."
"And the Macoutes have ensured that there is chaos in Haiti. What are the Americans up to?"
"A socialist priest might try to make Walt Disney's people pay higher wages."
"Don't the Americans care about poverty?"
"The Haitian death squads in 1991, after Aristide had been kicked out, were led by Toto Constant. Now Constant, who lives in New York, claims he worked for the CIA."
"Do you hear music?"
The pool and gardens are lit at night and there is an outside bar. That night there was also a voodoo band. We sipped our expensive imported American drinks; and I rubbed on the mosquito cream.
"Why is Haiti so poor," I asked.
"It's like parts of Africa," said mulatto Jean, "Too many trees cut down for fuel. You need heat to cook your rice. Too much soil erosion. Too many bully-boys. The people are just not as disciplined as the Swiss."
Aristide’s overthrow 'was the outcome of a bloody coup orchestrated by the Bush administration and aided by the Chirac government in Paris. It was executed by a band of killers drawn from the disbanded and discredited Haitian army and the CIA-backed death squads that terrorized the population under the former military dictatorship that ruled the country in the early 1990s.'
Port au Prince, at first glance, was a tropical paradise: neon-pink bougainvillea, burning-white sands, sharp green-brown mountains, dancing palms, and multi-coloured wooden gingerbread houses.
In the palatial little Hotel Prince I sat beside the swimming pool and talked to John, a UN nutritionist, from West End Lane in London's West Hampstead.
"Haiti is some sort of paradise," said John. "But there is hunger and malnutrition. There's not enough water. Some people have to walk many miles to get water."
"It's no worse than in Europe," said John.
"Law and order?"
"London is rougher than Port au Prince."
"80% of the population are unemployed."
Port au Prince
I strolled to the area of docks and markets.
Black,sweating, muscular bodies were carrying enormous loads from ship to shore. Water was being transported on the heads of small ragged girls to home-made slum houses. Plump women dressed in jazzy browns and reds were selling scrawny chickens. The streets smelt of Africa at its most raw, squalid and impoverished.
Near the park in front of the sparkling white palace of President-for-Life, Jean Claud Duvalier, I became aware that I was being followed. The Tonton Macoute?
My pursuer was 14-year-old Franz Pierre.
His lips were covered in sores; he had a bubbly nose; his sandals were falling apart; he looked shriveled and worn out by life's cares; and he smelt of pavements.
Franz took me on a tour by tap-tap, a mini-bus like the Manilla ones.
We saw primitive settlements where people kept a few cattle or pigs or chickens. We saw semi-naked women bathing or washing clothes in filthy pools and streams.
"Tomorrow, I give you another tour," said Franz in Haitian French.
"OK. I'll have finished breakfast by 11am."
Next morning I woke early and happened to look out the bedroom window. Franz was waiting beneath a palm tree. It was 6am.
We travelled several miles to a section of beach with palm trees. Anchored out in the bay was a giant American warship.
"Babylon is coming!" said Franz.
Petionville had many beautiful gardens and a restful park where Franz and I had a picnic lunch.
Franz asked me if there was sea all over the world.
He showed me that he could write his name, but only just. He could not read, but he was desperately keen that I should write to him from England. He couldn't read the words on simple food labels or the words on currency notes, something which embarrased him greatly.
Next day Franz had bought himself new plimsoles. They were too big for him but at least he was better off than most of the ragged waifs and strays around the city.
Franz gave his old battered plimsoles, which were split on both sides, to a tiny barefoot beggar boy with a badly swollen eye.
The plimsoles were many sizes too big for the tiny beggar, but, the boy was overjoyed to have them and thanked us many times.
His name was Minoir.
Minoir shuffled away, going round to the back of a restaurant to search for food.
A fat lady came running out of the restaurant and started chasing Minoir while brandishing a piece of rope.
Minoir ran down the street screaming.
His plimsoles came off.
The fat lady picked up the plimsoles and threw them in a rubbish bin.
Sitting in the park in front of the president's palace eating lunch, Franz and I were stared at by a boy with legs as thin as pokers.
I offered him a roll.
He thanked us so very politely and ran off to eat it hurriedly behind a tree.
(Ex-president Jean-Claude Baby Doc Duvalier now lives in very greatluxury in France; his regime is accused of thousands of political killings)
An older youth approached and offered his services as a guide.
"Non-merci," I explained.
"I shoot you," he said, and then walked away smiling and swearing.
Franz and I explored the home made houses on the hill behind the hotel. Small girls seemed to spend their entire day carrying water, none of it pure, to their houses.
At night the voodoo drums could be heard beating out in the shanty town settlement.
One evening Franz decided to take me to see some nightlife, and we travelled by taxi to an area of rougher than rough shanties.
We ended up in a dimly-lit night-time bar in the middle of nowhere.
Franz Pierre wanted extra money. I refused.
Suddenly abandoned by my guide I found myself surrounded by people who would not have been out of place in a Rio jail, people who spoke a language that was difficult to comprehend.
In a basement room I spotted another tourist, a large white man with a smart suit.
The gentleman was positioned on a couch, very close to a young male friend who was black.
The white man looked like a certain European Community commisssioner; his presence made me feel less scared.
But it was time to leave before I was turned into a zombie or attacked by werewolves or loupgarous.
Haiti is a Graham Greene sort of place...a bit spooky.
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