Farewell, Fred Voodoo A letter from Haiti

Review by New York Times Review

WHAT if conventional wisdom has it exactly wrong? What if Haiti, instead of being mired in retrograde customs and superstitions the developed world cast off centuries ago, is in fact, ahead of the curve? What if, as Amy Wilentz posits in her excellent "Farewell, Fred Voodoo," Haiti has always been the most modern of nations, at the forefront of every major historical trend since Columbus dropped anchor off the Hispaniolan coast? Wilentz, the author of "The Rainy Season: Haiti Since Duvalier," makes a good case with her catalog of Haitian "firsts." The first genocide of indigenous people (the Arawaks); the first truly globalized economy (ships from Europe, slaves from Africa, and products - chiefly sugar - from Haiti back to Europe); the earliest Third World liberation movement, resulting in the first (and so far only) successful slave revolution, and the world's first black republic; the prototype for American invasion and "nation building," with the attendant insurgency and guerrilla warfare (1915-34); and now, in our own time, a window into what may well be the future for all of us, a "postapocalyptic dystopia" of environmental desolation, government dysfunction, broken cities, dwindling resources and raging epidemics. Wilentz is good at these twists that turn received ideas inside out. Her relationship with Haiti dates to 1986 and the fall of the Duvalier regime, tumultuous days she spent traversing Port-au-Prince and interviewing, by her own account, "anyone who had anything to say: . . . this priest and that general, . . . this guy I met in the street, and a market lady, and some man who said he was a tailor." In other words, she was interviewing "Fred Voodoo," the politically incorrect label by which an older generation of journalists referred to the Haitian man on the street. Fred Voodoo is, of course, a stereotype, the generic Haitian "other" into which outsiders conveniently pour their agendas, misconceptions and prejudices by way of explaining a place that seems so maddeningly inexplicable. Watching the earthquake coverage from her home in Los Angeles, Wilentz saw all of the old Fred Voodoo tropes being breathlessly recycled by khaki-clad reporters standing atop the rubble. Within two weeks of the quake, Wilentz was back in Haiti, trying, as she says, "to put Haiti back together again for myself, . . . to stack the pieces flung apart by the earthquake back up into some semblance of the real country." This book, then, is Wilentz's attempt to be done with Fred Voodoo - to see, as clearly as possible, Haitians and Haiti for who and what they are. Not just Haitians. "I had added white men to my list of things to think about in Haiti. I was continuing my study of us: What did we think we were doing here?" These outsiders - blans in Haitian Creole - are variously described by Wilentz as the crisis caravan, the innocent army, mobile sovereigns, disaster junkies, aid groupies or simply "stupid white people." Thanks to her long experience with Haiti, Wilentz describes herself as only "fairly stupid," and at all times she's very much part of the narrative, her own confusions, feelings and memories restlessly informing the larger story. It's a tricky approach, and a natural for narcissists; Wilentz addresses one such instance in a chapter entitled "The Violent-Sex Cure," in which she dissects a young American journalist's self-publicized "fake-rape" therapy. But in the right hands - in Wilentz's hands, or Joan Didion's, say, a writer whom Wilentz matches for note-perfect prose and unflinching inquiry - it becomes almost an act of humility, this open acknowledgment of the self who's telling the story, with all her flaws and shifting moods, her own set of agendas. Wilentz takes nothing for granted, not even the luxury of presuming her presence in Haiti is useful and worthy. Especially not that. Given the history of outsiders in Haiti, from the foundational dynamic of genocide and slavery to the economic and political manipulations - the "soft imperialism" - of our own time, Wilentz's self-do¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿ ¿¿ ¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿¿¿¿¿¿¿ ¿ ¿¿¿ bt might be the only sane position from which to operate. She's distrustful of all outsiders, a stance that her accounts of blundering, well-meaning blans (herself included) support. What does basic human decency require us to do? There's so much need and suffering in Haiti that we think the answer should be simple, yet the particulars of the place make it anything but. There is, for starters, Haiti's bloody history, and how the "habits of masquerade" that were survival methods during slavery play out today in complex and obscure ways. Wilentz finds patterns of masquerade in voodoo ritual, in politics ("la politique de doublure"), even in the slippery grammar of Haitian Creole. Outsiders must negotiate a culture where paranoia has historically been a healthy state of mind, due in no small part to Haiti's long tradition of kleptocratic government, perpetually aided and abetted, if not directly imposed, by outsiders. Factor in the self-interest of even genuinely altruistic organizations, and the growing body of research that shows "development" often exacerbates the very conditions it's intended to relieve, and you get, well, a world-class mess. Wilentz is an artful guide through this morass. She can be waspish, sometimes overly so - her takedown of a foreign-sponsored Haitian sitcom for its irrelevance and insipidity comes across as heavy-handed (it's a sitcom, for God's sake) - but wading into the swamp of N.G.O.'s, politics and financial machinations, she finds material fit for all the venom she can muster. American households donated $1.4 billion for earthquake relief, with almost $11 billion more pledged by countries and institutions for reconstruction. Add to that the significant private investment currently flowing into the country, and the result is a modern-day gold rush, complete with a global rogues' gallery of hustlers, pois, con artists, capitalists big and small (and there is, incidentally, a literal gold rush under way in the northeast part of the country). Résumés - mostly foreign - are being enhanced, and pockets - ditto - filled, whereas for most Haitians the trickle-down effect seems to be their best hope, though there's scant evidence that even this will happen anytime soon. As much as she eviscerates governments and the development industry, Wilentz is alert to competent, dedicated individuals working within the established system. And then there are the miracles, the outsiders who actually manage to do good. The American physician Paul Farmer is one such miracle, his Partners in Health a venerable institution by now, but Wilentz is more interested in the relative newcomers. Why do these people succeed where so many others fail? Wilentz is especially perceptive here, piecing together that rare alchemy of practical skills, stubbornness, flexibility and long-term commitment that enables outsiders to do useful work. As Wilentz says of the American doctor Megan Coffee, "She lets Haiti teach her how to deal with Haiti." The Dr. Coffees of the world never stop learning; it's this "continuous engagement" that makes decency possible, the commitment demonstrated by Dr. Coffee's spaghetti rounds, Sabina Carlson's long residence in the Cité Soleil shantytown and Sean Penn's fundraising travels through Latin America on behalf of the Haitian government. "There's always hope, whatever that means," Wilentz sarcastically comments as she deconstructs a coffee-table book of earthquake photos. Hope's not a given, not in a place as hard as Haiti. Hope is a grind. Hope is a work in progress, emphasis on work. For hope to be real, for it to be more than a feel-good cliché, it has to be earned. That is just one of the many valuable lessons to be found in this intimate, honest, bracingly unsentimental book. Ben Fountain's novel "Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk" was a finalist for the 2012 National Book Award. 'I had added white men to my list of things to think about in Haiti. . . . What did we think we were doing here?'

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [January 20, 2013]

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Review by Booklist Review

Zestfully candid, award-winning journalist Wilentz began her love affair with Haiti in 1986, and she has been exploring the country and its unique culture, history, and torrid relationship with the U.S. ever since. The catalyst for this ripping inquiry is what Wilentz observed during her sojourns in the wake of the horrific 2010 earthquake. Attuned to all the irony of her white outsider status even as she draws on her deep knowledge of Haiti's strength and struggles, she picks her way through the heartbreaking ruins and wretchedly inadequate camps, listening to post-quake hip-hop in the midst of chaos, blood, and misery and taking stern measure of international do-gooders. Wilentz is fierce in her criticism of missions of self-aggrandizement rather than aid and the pornographic aspects of media coverage. Writing with brandishing intensity, wit, skepticism, and indignation, Wilentz exposes systemic corruption, attends a voodoo ceremony, considers zombies and dictators, and marvels over everyday survival. She profiles two seriously committed and effective American heroes, physician Megan Coffee and Sean Penn, while her portraits of Haitians instruct and humble us.--Seaman, Donna Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In this bracing memoir, Wilentz (The Rainy Season: Haiti Since Duvalier) revisits Haiti, as she describes a complex nation, following the cataclysmic 2010 earthquake. The world's first black republic is neither French nor completely Caribbean nor a protectorate of the United States, but rather, Wilentz writes, something akin to French West Africa. Readers get a stimulating immersion course in Haiti's culture, history, and political machinations. She introduces a fantastical cast of characters who inhabit the many layers of Haitian society and those individuals who flocked to the island following the earthquake, burdened with motives ranging from the base self-promotion or redemption of sundry celebrities such as Kim Kardashian or Charlie Sheen to those who came to help such as Doctor Coffee, whom Wilentz calls "an all-purpose medical phenomenon." Though many pontificate on the country's unrelenting despair, poverty, and corruption, Wilentz's remarkable narrative strives to alter these perceptions. She writes, "But in fact, this depression and hopelessness come from experts who don't understand Haiti, don't acknowledge its strengths (and don't know them), don't get its culture or are philosophically opposed to what they assume its culture is, and don't know its history in any meaningful way." An unsentimental yet heartfelt journey to a country possessing the power to baffle some, yet beguile others. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Haiti has been marked by colonial oppression, revolution, dictators, and foreign occupation by American imperialism-to say nothing of widespread poverty, social and political turmoil, disease, and the crippling earthquake in 2010. Caught in the remarkable prose of Wilentz (The Rainy Season) the tragedy is told through the eyes of Fred Voodoo, Haiti's fictional everyman, a figure who fits invisibly in Haitian society but whose insight is unmatched. The author's fluid and engaging narrative delves into Haiti's history and focuses on the current plight of a nation of ten million living in stark poverty. Sean Penn, "Papa Doc" Duvalier, Jimmy Carter, and dozens of other personages appear across her pages, as do the voodoo priests and the Tonton Macoutes, Duvalier's personal police force. VERDICT Tragic, ironic, humorous, scary, and fascinating, the book is a remarkable achievement and a must read for those interested in Caribbean affairs. An overwhelming positive recommendation.-Boyd Childress, formerly with Auburn University Libs., AL (c) Copyright 2012. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A veteran journalist captures the functioning chaos of Haiti. New Yorker writer Wilentz has been covering shattering events in Haiti since the Duvalier dynasty fell in 1986, culminating in her book The Rainy Season. Now based in Los Angeles, the author again felt the fatal pull of the country after the recent natural-disaster devastation and returned repeatedly in order to record the uneven progress in reconstruction and humanitarian aid as well as interview many of the so-called (in politically incorrect parlance) Fred Voodoos, or Everymen on the street, for a reality check. Describing herself as "a nave person, and a romantic," she has grown enormously wary of the good intentions heaped on the country from one crisis to another and is frequently cynical after many years of her "Haitian education." Since its very inception as the first (and last) slave revolution in history, Haiti has been victimized, plunged into poverty, denuded of resources and patronized by rich white neighbors bent on a "salvation fantasy" that has never lifted the country out of poverty. After the hurricane, suddenly whites appeared everywhere to help out. While Wilentz does chronicle some extremely good work being done--by the indefatigable infectious-disease specialist Dr. Megan Coffee and by actor Sean Penn in setting up a workable refugee camp--much of what the journalist witnessed remained a familiar profound malaise and dysfunction. Seeking out her old acquaintances and former protgs of President Aristide, the author found drugged-out zombies, many living in permanent refugee camps without proper sanitation and little or no literacy. She learned that nothing is as it seems in Haiti. Like voodoo ceremonies, society runs on "artifice and duplicity," and its government (a kleptocracy) has been organized "to be porous and incompetent, to allow for corruption." An extraordinarily frank cultural study/memoir that eschews platitudes of both tragedy and hope.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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From Chapter 14 I'm stirred and moved by things I see here, but I'm not sure why, and I wonder: Would you be moved? Here are the things that touch me, but a warning: they are not entirely normal. ... [One is a] bone in a burned foot. The man sits in a broken wheelchair--he's young, maybe twenty-two. He's a friend of Jerry and Samuel's. He was riding on his motorbike in the middle of a post-quake, pre-election demonstration when a government thug, so he says, took a potshot at him. The bullet went through his abdomen, and he was in such shock that his foot got caught in the bike's muffler and burned. They took him to the general hospital, where doctors repaired the bullet's damage and left a big scar along his abdomen, which he matter-of-factly shows to anyone who asks, but the foot was left to heal on its own with no skin graft, and now, three months after the injury, you can still see the entirely exposed three inches of metatarsal bone through a blood-red hole in the top of his foot, like a peek at the guy's skeleton, as he sits there in his unwheeled wheelchair in a stony fury over his situation. Another item in my list of what moves me here: the death of the woman who hated me. Just after the earthquake, I had a spaghetti dinner--this was the one made by the New York Times 's Haiti reporting team--in the kitchen of the half-destroyed Park Hotel. You had to walk under hanging cement and over broken floors to get to the lobby, and then tiptoe through the perilous lobby to the kitchen. One of the Hai­tians staying there, behind the rubble of the front rooms, was a Madame Coupet, an older, very light-skinned Haitian lady, wouj, actually, who was wearing a housedress. Her son was in America. She had heard of the book I had published on Haiti many years earlier. How she had hated me then, she told me now--well, I had sup­ported Aristide, she had gathered, and he was the man she held respon­sible for everything bad that had happened in the past twenty-five years. For this earthquake, even, it seemed. I bowed my head. What could I tell her? She wouldn't have wanted to hear what I wanted to say. But we talked about other things--her children, her family, Haiti--and in the end, we got along. She decided that I was not a demon, and that we both loved Haiti. She was surprised that I seemed nice. Polite. Well-brought­up, is how the Haitians say it. After I left the country, I thought of Madame Coupet often, and longed to see her again. I wanted to talk to her, because I needed to hear more about old Haiti, the lost country, the country she said she loved. I thought of her mottled skin, its fairness ruined by age and the Haitian sun, of her gracious diction, and of her generosity in forgiving me for Aristide--and of mine in forgiving her for forgiving me for Aristide. When I came back to Port-au-Prince, five months after the earthquake, the middle-aged men sitting in metal chairs on the still rubble-strewn terrace of the Park Hotel, smoking cigarettes and gossiping with one another, told me the old lady had died. They wanted to tell me gently but didn't know how. So they told me bluntly: she died. Therefore, no interview. But I can still tell you what she might have said, or at any rate, what someone like her might have said. Here it is: When I was a girl, there were lace curtains. The wind was sweet. I had a pet cat and she would chase the guinea fowl in the courtyard. I had a blue dress with a sash that only my mother knew how to tie properly. The frangipani tree in the corner of the garden smelled like my mother's perfume. There was Duvalier, sure: Papa Doc. But we children, me and my brothers, we paid very little attention. My parents tried to keep out of his way, I suppose. My father was a professor at the university, an engi­neer. My brothers and I, we read poetry, Durand, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Morisseau-Leroy, Roumer, and meanwhile the bougainvillea tumbled over the front wall and there were plants in pots in the gardens and two servants, and one poor distant girl cousin who helped with chores. She was from the deep country, and did marry, finally. In summers we went to my aunt's house in the mountains and picked flowers and rode donkeys and helped make the morning coffee. I went to school in a checkered uniform that I loved. I read French literature until I met my husband, who was in the import-export business. I was beautiful, and he loved me until I grew old. We had two children, and a third who died in childbirth. Now one is dead and the other lives in New Jersey. I prefer to be here where I understand things. Here's something that got to me: the last time I saw Filibert Waldeck. The last time I saw Filibert, I was standing in front of the ruined cathe­dral downtown. It was January 12, 2011, the first anniversary of the earthquake. People were praying under the statue of Jesus that still stands outside the rubble. A man rushed up and exhibited his little daughter to me. She had, to put it nicely, failure to thrive. She must have been five but she looked two, with huge eyes, reddish hair, bone-thin limbs. The man told me they'd been homeless since the earthquake. A person nearby told me, while the man was standing there in front of me with his silent child balanced in his arms, that that fellow came to the cathedral ruins with the kid every day looking for some visitor to beg from. Did that make his story less true? I asked myself. The crowd pressed on us and the man and his daughter were shoved away. There was a band playing, and there were priests and nuns seated, waiting for the service to begin. I was standing off to the side near a white man I'd never seen before, an older man with thinning hair. As usual with any big Haitian event, huge numbers of people were all shoved together in a giant bubbling human mass. The white man near me was at least five people away. Although we were outside, there was barely room to inhale where we stood, but uncannily, up in front of my face popped someone I recognized. At first I wasn't sure who he was, exactly. Then he spoke in his familiar growl of a voice, the same rasp he'd had as a child, only deeper. It was Filibert, wearing some kind of satanic red and silver T-shirt and old dirty jeans. He was too thin. I said, "Filibert, what's wrong with you?" He wasn't making sense. The white man standing near me was watching. He pushed his way for­ward and took Filibert by the arm and rattled him, shook him up a bit. I was astonished. Filibert looked astonished, too, if you can look aston­ished while looking sullen. The white man, whose self-assured demeanor I now recognized as that of a lay Christian brother of some kind, was interrogating Filibert. He called him by his full name: "Filibert Waldeck, what's wrong with you?" Filibert just shook his head, looked down at the ground. The man looked at me and back at Filibert. "You're on crack or something, aren't you?" he asked him. "I know it. I know it." The man shook his head and tried to peer into Filibert's eyes, but Filibert looked away. "You stop that stuff, do you hear me?" The man was speaking fluent Creole. I took Filibert aside and he began that same long rant I'd already heard about his sons and their mother and about how he had to keep them inside so she wouldn't get them, and how his motorbike had broken down and he didn't have money to get it fixed. Throughout the whole long saga, which was much more detailed and a lot less com­prehensible than what I am putting down here, he would look at me sideways, slantwise, assessing my potential. Half the time he had the demeanor of a person on drugs or in the throes of mental illness of some kind, which I've always suspected with him. And the rest of the time, he looked like a smart old market lady sizing up her client. Finally, I asked him if I could help him in any way, and he just looked at me. "Amy, you ahr my mozzer," he said to me, in English. So I gave him some money. And then he disappeared into the crowd. I saw a splotch of red fading away down toward Grande Rue. My child, I thought. I tried to imagine it. I wondered if there had really ever been any connection between us, other than monetary. Because of where I was from, I had always had the power in our relationship. Because of where he was from, Filibert was always the weak one, poor, needy, desperate. Of course we each bore some responsibility for who we were and how we had ended up, but we were also prisoners of our fates, each of us locked in our individual history and geography. I was from the U.S. and he was from Haiti. That was it. I always had and gave money; he always did not have it and needed it. It was always my choice: would I give him something? How much, this time? It was easy, even pleasurable, for me to give it to him; but it was all cruel for him. The crowd around me was singing a spindly soprano hymn as the memorial service began. But where was Filibert going now? Why didn't he have a cell phone? Why didn't he have my number? And now that speck of red had vanished. I squinted into the sun, trying to find him again, but he had slipped back away into the heat and darkness, and was lost to me. As I am writing this, at around five in the morning, I hear gunfire and screaming outside my window. Two shots. Ridiculous, it cannot be, but it is. Freelance fire, I figure--meaningless gang shit. In the old days violence had political meaning in Haiti, but, as elsewhere in the world, now it's often pretty pointless. More gunfire now. Definitely gunfire. And screaming and a rumble of low shouting, as if a whole crowd is yelling far away. Carnival is coming, I remember; that can be a violent time. And elections are coming: that also means violence. First I get up to go to the window to look: when I peek out from a sharp sideways angle, I see a crowd down on the street below, pushing and shoving, and screaming. It's violent, and that's definitely where the shooting has been coming from. Maybe it is some kind of political protest, I think now. I retract my head as another round of shooting begins, and return to my desk. Later, when I interviewed some acquaintances in the neighborhood, I discovered that the reason for the shooting and screaming and the angry nub of a crowd in the street was that the pharmacy down below my window had announced the previous day that it would be offering to fill children's prescriptions for free today, in a one-day trial program. The crowd was composed of mothers, all fighting to get in before the place stopped serving. The shooter was the pharmacy owner, trying to protect his place from the poverty-maddened consumers. I'd mistaken the moth­ers for a politically motivated riot. And, in a way, they were. Excerpted from Farewell, Fred Voodoo: A Letter from Haiti by Amy Wilentz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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