I Was Held Hostage In Haiti.

Dispatches from The Land God Forgot.

Haiti, 1987

Looking at the Macoutes that day, they hardly seemed like the same death squads Papa Doc François Duvalier created back in 1959.

The whole time I was in the capital, I never saw a uniform, despite people telling me Tonton Macoutes were everywhere.

“It can’t be dead long,” he explained. “They start to smell.”

“They throw tomatoes from the back of the crowd,” Pierre said. “Watch the people in front. If they’re smiling it means they don’t agree with the men.”

She’d been threatened twice by Haitians for taking pictures. In one instance, her camera was grabbed out of her hands.

Like the voodoo ceremonies, where the priest asks for a glass of champagne, and the people are supposed to resist, evil is always present and lurking.

The years that followed would be years of tyranny and madness under Christophe, the only monarch of the Kingdom of Haiti.

Colombian narcotics traffickers favor Haiti. It’s now one of their favourite “launch points.”

He was telling me a story about the day Baby Doc and his wife fled the country, and how squatters broke into their house afterwards.

I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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