Dans ce vidéo sur le site web de VSD Antoine Dreyfus et Tomas van Houtryve

expliquent comment infiltrer le pays le plus fermé au monde.

[related photo reportage]

VIENTIANE PROVINCE, LAOS - We set out at nightfall. Four thin Hmong men dressed in faded khaki uniforms and clutching AK-47’s, those ubiquitous hallmarks of the world’s most troubled regions.

There was no moon when we crawled out of our hiding spot between thickets of bamboo and onto the lightly graveled road through the jungle. After sizing us up, the Hmong whispered to us that our trek to their hidden camp could take up to 24 hours. Wearing flip-flop sandals and carrying only their rifles and small bags of rice, they claimed they could make the journey alone in only 12 hours.

We moved along the road without any lights. Two of the Hmong advanced far ahead, and their silhouettes merged into the inky darkness. One man fell into position behind us, and the fourth one walked close to myself and my colleague, Bangkok based journalist Thomas Fuller. I reached into my pocket to take a GPS reading and mark the start of our journey.

As the night advanced, my mind drifted widely between states of heightened alertness and a drowsy acceptance of our interminable footfalls. Moments of anxious uncertainty roused me: the appearance of a mysterious torch flickering across the patty fields, the sudden sound of an approaching vehicle. Midway through the night, the moon rose and revealed we were walking through a section of forest stripped by recent logging activity. A massive and oddly shaped tree, denuded of leaves, was all that remained of the jungle near the trail. Three times during the night, we removed our shoes and waded across rivers. The cool water and textured rocks underfoot helped shake off the accumulation of fatigue.

Toward the early hours of the morning, one of our guides, Fathi Ja, began to fall further and further behind. He pointed to his thighs and indicated that they were in tremendous pain. Since we had first encountered them, Fathi seemed the most sullen and fragile of the group. Eventually one of the other Hmong men explained that Fathi’s wife and child had been shot dead by Laotian army soldiers two months earlier. The decision was made that we would find a place to sleep for a few hours. We trekked far deeper into the jungle and then cut off the trail into a dense deadfall of bamboo. We strung up hammocks and dozed until daybreak.

===

My mind retraced the steps that had brought me here. I first read about the plight of the Hmongs in a French magazine in 2003. Renowned for their guerrilla warfare skills, the Hmong were hired first by the French colonials in Indochina, and later by the US government to battle communists on the margins of the Vietnam War. During the 1960’s and 70’s the CIA ran a massive covert operation in Laos, known as the Secret War. Over 18,000 Hmong men were trained as Special Guerrilla Units and charged with rescuing shot-down American pilots. Later they were commanded to attack the North Vietnamese along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The main component of the war in Laos was arial bombardment, and the US spared no expense. By the time the US military was defeated in 1975, they had flown an estimated 600,000 sorties, and the tonnage of bombs dropped on Laos exceeded the entire quantity of bombs dropped over Europe by all sides during the Second World War.

When the time came to evacuate the Hmong after the communist takeover however, the CIA would only offer a single C-130 airplane to pick up the stranded American allies. A few of the highest ranking Hmong and their families made it out in the airlift. Some 300,000 Hmong eventually fled overland to Thailand. Thousands of Hmong were eventually resettled as refugees in the United States. Among those left behind in Laos or repatriated by Thailand, the Lao People’s Army began hunting and killing any that had collaborated with the CIA. The practice continues to this day.

Among most Americans, there seems little awareness that thousands of Hmong remain on the run in the jungles of Laos.

For various reasons, the American media often chooses not to run foreign news stories, even when they make headlines in other major publications around the world. On many occasions, I have noticed Newsweek and TIME cut stories from their domestic editions that are given top billing in their international editions. Such was the case with the story of the Hmong, which ran prominently in TIME’s Asia edition in 2003, followed by multiple appearances in French and British weeklies, yet barely reached the US readership.

On June 4th, 2007, Vang Pao, the commanding general hired by the CIA to oversee the Hmong secret army during the 1960’s and 70’s, was arrested in California. The sting operation involved a federal agent posing as an arms dealer and offering to sell weapons to Vang Pao.

The bizarre story of Vang Pao’s indictment made local headlines in California and then across the US, raising the possibility that their was finally enough interest within the American media to investigate the background story in the jungles of Laos. Two weeks later, I flew to New York City and tracked down Hmong activists who could help me get into the jungle.

What followed were months of waiting, and then a series of secret late night meetings with other Hmong contacts in Thailand. I also reached out to the large community of Bangkok based journalists, hoping to find a writer willing to accompany me into Laos, and to ask advice of those who had already been there. On my first night in town, photographer Roger Arnold invited me to Bangkok’s Foreign Correspondents Club. The FCC is perhaps the cleanest bar that I’ve ever seen journalists visit with regularity. The patrons are an unsettling mixture of serious working journalists, and retired Vietnam War era reporters that gesture wildly, stare with haunting eyes, and frequently launch into tirades of nonsense and profanities.

Roger recounted his harrowing trek to the Hmongs with vivid descriptions of wandering lost in the jungle for hours, suffering from foot rot and being served monkey stew. He has also done a commendable job following up on the people he photographed, months later when they appeared in Thai refugee camps.

Over bottles of Beer Lao, Canadian journalist Nelson Rand told me that once he had reached the Hmong in the jungle, they refused to guide him out. They unsuccessfully tried to use his presence as a bargaining chip, hoping in vain that the US or the UN would send an aircraft to rescue everyone. After three weeks, they lost hope and he left.

Belgian photographer Thierry Falise explained how he had been captured by the Lao People’s Army on his way out of the jungle and sentenced to 15 years in prison. During the two hour long Stalinist-style trial, the prosecutor claimed the cables from his video camera were meant to trigger explosives. He and his colleague were eventually released after massive international pressure was placed on the Lao government.

Most of the writers that I queried about joining me on the trek were either too busy with other projects or discouraged by the above mentioned tales. As the date of my planned departure neared, I grew concerned that I would have to do the trip alone, increasing the risks and decreasing the chance that the story would get published in the United States. Finally I had a breakthrough. I contacted Thomas Fuller, the International Herald Tribune and New York Times correspondent, and after a few phone calls, he agreed to do the story without even meeting me in person. It sounded too good to be true, but I went ahead and bought my plane tickets and assembled the necessary supplies including a satellite phone, hammocks, dry food, detailed topographical maps and the GPS.

I arrived in Vientiane ahead of Thomas to make the final arrangements, and then I had a few days to kill in the capital. A friend of mine had told me that Laos was so laid back, that the people even “take a nap after breakfast.” It didn’t seem far from the truth. Stretched along the shore of the Mekong river were simple wooden platforms dotted with cushions and parasols. Laotians and tourists languidly sipped beer and fruit juice as the sun slowly set toward the Thai border.

Most of the signs on official buildings were in French. Other traces of the colonial period remained: fresh baguettes all around, a few Citroën 2CV’s and the possibility of choosing between the multiple French restaurants by their provincial and regional specialties. When Paul Theroux passed through Vientiane in 1975, he described it as a country with “baffling pretensions to Frenchness.”

The river front area was swarming with tourists, though mostly not French. As I stopped to photograph the communist flag draped over the front of the Banque pour le Commerce Extérieur, I was approached by a German tourist. Over dinner she explained to me that “tubing” down the Nam Song river was Laos’s greatest attraction. According to the Lonely Planet Guide, floating downstream in an inflated tractor inter tube “has become such a popular rite of passage on the Southeast Asia backpacker circuit that several ‘bars’ have been set up on islands and beaches along the route.” I didn’t dare explain to her the true purpose of my visit to Laos.

I spent the next day visiting the Lao National Museum. Inside is a collection of rusting weapons and tatty black and white photos from the revolution. Among them are a few photos of Vang Pao, labeled as the “key henchman of the US imperialists.” On the other side of town, I later visited the Kaysone Memorial and Museum. Behind a thirty foot tall metal statue (standing with one arm extended in the classical dictator pose) of Kaysone Phomvihane, is an eight million dollar, gold plated structure, built to honor the late leader. Displayed inside are a number of Soviet metals and a bronze bust of Kaysone made by a North Korean sculptor.

===

At dawn, we packed up our hammocks and continued our journey. Later in the morning, we left the trail for good and started picking our way down a steep ravine. Eventually we were pulling ourselves along with vines and crawling on all fours as often as walking. Before noon we stopped and the Hmongs began to prepare a meal. They chopped down two massive bamboo stalks, cut slits into the sides, filled each with rice and water, resealed the stalks and then set them over a fire to cook.

Though rice is considered the staple throughout Asia, it is a rare luxury to these jungle dwelling Hmongs, who have to move their camp so often to avoid army patrols that they can not grow any crops. This rice was bought secretly on the edge of the jungle from a local villager. “She overcharged me because she knew I live in hiding,” commented Xang Yang.

By mid afternoon, we arrived at the temporary Hmong camp. Upon seeing us, some of the adults broke down in tears. Many claimed not have seen a white person since the CIA pulled out of Laos more than three decades earlier. Soon, many of the children also began to cry, possibly overwhelmed at the sight of their parents in such an emotional state.

Having travelled to several war zones and natural disasters, I could not remember ever seeing such a ragged and desperate group of people. It took a while before people were calm enough to explain their situation to us and submit to Thomas Fuller’s interviews. Five men came forward saying that they were CIA trained veterans of the Secret War. They pulled forward family members to show their bullet and shrapnel scars from Laotian army attacks. As Thomas wrote down their stories, I wandered among the ramshackle bamboo huts of the makeshift village, trying to capture bits of their daily existence. The main food that the Hmongs were surviving off were roots unearthed in the forest. They looked like armored yams, and required more than 12 hours of soaking, grating and boiling before they are edible. Even then, the taste is terrible.

After many hours of photography, video recording and interviews it became clear that Thomas and I would have to take a break to eat. Skipping meals after an all night trudge through the jungle would diminish our strength and our capacity to keep focused on the reporting. Yet here we were, surrounded by 80 odd desperate people living on the margins of starvation. We had not brought nearly enough in our packs to share with such a large group. Eating in front of others without sharing is already considered extremely rude in Southeast Asia, and here the contrast between those with full bellies and those with the gnawing pain of hunger was thrown into sharp relief. We decided that we would leave behind all our extra food when we were ready to leave the camp, but until then, it seemed unwise to dole out piecemeal treats and risk a food riot. So under the terrible gaze of hungry children, we ate our dinner. I will not soon forget their aching stares.

When we took leave of the camp the next afternoon, in addition to the food, we left behind our extra clothing. It wasn’t much, just a gesture. I couldn’t help but think of the extreme difference in lifestyle between the Hmong that had been lucky enough to make it to America and those left isolated in the jungle. It was only a few days after Thanksgiving. Nightly news programs across America were surely talking about the yearly Christmas shopping frenzy. Many people in the US would undoubtedly be preoccupied with how to avoid gaining weight during the holidays. Here is Laos, such concerns seemed almost otherworldly.

Meanwhile at the CIA, their latest scandal was about to boil over. This time it was about destroying interrogation tapes. Among the unlikely characters that I crossed during my travels this year was Dame Stella Rimington, the former head of MI5, Britain’s intelligence and security service. Over mojitos on the veranda of Cuba’s Hotel Nacional, I prodded her for an opinion of the CIA after years of working in the intelligence trade. She responded dryly, “They haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory.”

Indeed, a careful student of history would be hard pressed to evaluate whether the American spy agency had actually caused more dishonor and instability to the nation than safety and security. From the Bay of Pigs, to the Shah of Iran, to the assassination of Patrick Lumuba, to the Iran Contra scandal, to the funding of the Afghan Mujahideen, and to the Iraqi weapons of mass destruction assessments, the CIA appears to be remarkably unlucky at placing its bets and consistently stingy at paying the ensuing debts.

Luckily, the the multi-branch system of government in the US offers more options for redress than are available in a totalitarian one-party state like Laos. Americans that are concerned about the abandonment of the Hmong in the jungles of Laos can contact their congressional representatives. Senators Brownback, Leahy, Coleman, Feingold, and Kohl have already expressed interest in this issue.

Non-Americans wishing to keep up pressure on this issue can contact the Carter Center and the International Crisis Group.

One thought for the future:

A pullout from Iraq looms closer on the horizon. What can be done to ensure it is not executed with same callousness and indignity that marked the CIA’s exit from Laos?

[photo reportage of the Hmong Secret War Veterans]

[copyright 2007 Tomas van Houtryve]

*UPDATE, May 2008: The New York Times Magazine has published an extensive article about Hmong leader General Vang Pao. One of my photos from the trek into the jungles of Laos is included in the spread.

A photograph of King Gyanendra lands in a ditch with other items tossed there by anti-monarchy demonstrators in Kathmandu.

KATHMANDU, NEPAL - My first experience with King Gyanendra Shah was in February 2004. He was scheduled for an official visit to the city in Nepalgunj, which is quite possibly the least charming place on earth. Nepal is a stunningly beautiful country — green hills terraced with rice patties, and a backdrop of the jagged Himalayas. But Nepalgunj is the exception. The main roads are lined with open sewers that simmer in the choking heat. Statues of previous Shah dynasty kings mark the intersections. Each one is guarded by soldiers and ringed with sand bag and razor wire fortifications. Donkey carts and rickshaws pull passengers to the nearby Indian border. No tourists visit the place. Foreigners I met were there working for NGOs trying to stem the flow of young Nepalese girls to brothels in India.

In preparation for the royal visit, three-hundred bamboo arches were constructed. Spanning the roads at intervals of every 100 feet, the two-story arches were covered in bright cloth and painted with the slogan “Long Live Their Majesties the King and Queen.”

There was a darker side of the preparations for a royal visit. Just before midnight, Royal Nepal Army soldiers pounded on the door and demanded to search my hotel room. I had to stand off to side in my underwear while two guys with M-16s poked through my belongings.

Gyanendra arrived two hours late by helicopter the next morning. A Jaguar limousine shipped from the capital in a sealed truck was there to shuttle him a hundred yards from the chopper to the stadium entrance. Inside, about 20,000 people had been herded into rodeo-style pens. There was only one chair, the throne, and everyone else sat in the dirt.

Despite the heavy symbolism suggesting this king was above all others, the constitution of Nepal drafted in 1990 had relegated the monarchy outside politics with only limited ceremonial powers. Gyanendra himself was crowned in 2001, after his elder brother King Birendra was gunned down by his own son inside the palace along with nine other members of the royal family. Once king, Gyanendra began steadily dismantling the constitutional restrictions placed on his power. When he rose to speak at the stadium in Nepalgunj, he hinted at bolder moves ahead:

“The days of Monarchy being seen but not heard, watching the people’s difficulties but not addressing them and being a silent spectator to their tear-stained faces are over.”

One year later, in February 2005, the King made good on his promise. He declared a state of emergency, arrested the Prime Minister, sent soldiers into newsrooms, and cut telephone service across the country. Working in Nepal as a journalist, suddenly got much more difficult.

I spent the first weeks after his seizure of power trekking through the mountains with Maoist insurgents. The rebels had been trying to topple the monarchy for ten years and form a communist republic. Though they made progress spreading their ideology and control through rural areas, the heavily fortified cities remained beyond their grasp.

Inside Kathmandu, pro-democracy activists also attempted resistance against palace rule, but for months the protests didn’t gain any traction. Countless times, I watched as small demonstrations were quickly broken up by baton-wielding riot police and the protesters were dragged off by officers. High level political leaders were placed in prison or under house arrest.

Fast forward to this Spring, and simmering popular outrage finally boiled over against the palace. The Maoists negotiated an alliance with the mainstream political parties, offering to jointly pressure the King. Student groups, lawyers and other civil society members chimed in their dissent. When the opposition planned anti-monarchy rallies that looked like they would be a success, the government responded by imposing daytime curfews. Armored vehicles were deployed around the palace and soldiers with machine guns lined the major avenues.

On April 20th, a “shoot-on-sight” curfew was imposed from 2:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. with no exceptions. On previous occasions, police had issued selective passes to ambulances, journalists and diplomats. There were two other photographers staying at my hotel in Kathmandu, and we brainstormed together to figure out a way to get onto the streets. Some other foreign correspondents had decided to move to the Hyatt hotel, on the outskirts of the city, outside the curfew area. We decided that it was located too far away from the likely protest flash-points on our side of the city. Despite the conflict, Nepal has a steady stream of the backpacker tourists passing through, and there are usually a few wandering around obliviously on curfew days. We decided to shed the majority of our camera gear, put on touristy cloths and try to play dumb if we ran into soldiers. Early in the morning, pretending we were just following the Lonely Planet guide’s suggestions to visit a temple, we were able to map out a section of back streets unguarded by security forces. Later in the morning, when rumors started pouring in of police clashing with protesters, we donned our flak jackets and cameras, hopped on motorbikes and were able to sneak through the back alleys without getting caught.

When we arrived in the neighborhood of Kalanki, a full street battle was taking place. A riot policeman initially screamed threats at me to stop taking pictures, but soon they were too overwhelmed by rock throwing protesters to worry about us. The air stung with with tear gas as I followed charging police toward the crowd. One of the officers was firing an assault rifle just over the heads of demonstrators. My main challenge was trying to get between the the two sides to take photos while finding enough cover to keep clear from the volleys of rocks and bullets. I raced into a field with retreating protesters and one pulled me into a room where injured people were splayed across the floor. When I headed back out, I could hear a pistol firing. A man who was standing on a rooftop throwing rocks was shot in the head by an officer. Screaming protesters with their hands covered in his blood carried his body to microbus and the police momentarily opened their line to let it through.

In an instant, the mood totally changed. The protesters stopped throwing stones and hung far back from the police line. Slowly two or three demonstrators moved closer crying and pleading with the police.

One opened his shirt and offered his chest to the police as a target. “You shot my friend, now shoot me… we are doing this for you too. Democracy is for everyone, not just the King.”

A look of shame crept over the faces of the police as more protesters moved forward and peacefully pleaded with them. They began to sit on the ground at the feet of the police. The message was clear: You know you were wrong, we don’t need to fight you to prove it.

For several minutes the curiously calm mood prevailed, and then a cluster of enraged protesters started pelting the gathering with rocks from rooftops above. Tear gas was fired, tires set on fire, and the street battle raged on well into the evening with renewed frenzy. By the end of the day two more protesters were dead.

The following day, the government imposed another curfew, but this time people defied the orders in the hundreds of thousands. The biggest march seen in more than a decade gathered along the Ring Road that circles the municipality of Kathmandu. Most of the crowd was peaceful, but late in the afternoon protesters started tearing down a police post near the site of the previous day’s shooting.

In the following days, several neighborhoods along the Ring Road were taken over by protesters. Dozens of trees were felled across the road, and burning road blocks were set up to stop security forces. Police managed to beat back crowds heading toward the palace and the city center, but along the city’s periphery crowds formed in defiance of the continued curfew orders, setting fire to effigies, and stringing up dead rats marked “Gyanendra” while chanting “burn the crown.”

More chillingly, a trend started where protesters would turn on one individual in the crowd. It was sufficient for one person to yell “spy” or “thief” and a mob would form and try to beat the person to death with their bare hands before asking any questions. On several occasions, myself and other photographers stepped in to hold back the attackers before the individual could be killed. In general, Nepalis are unusually tolerant people, but the mood was turning increasing nasty, and it was clear that if the King clung to power much longer major bloodshed would ensue.

The opposition parties called for a major protest on April 25th. By bringing people in from the countryside, they claimed they could form a crowd of two million and march on the palace. At 11:30 p.m. on the 24th, the King came on television and tersely issued a short proclamation. He released his grip on executive power and reinstated the parliament. Gyanendra’s direct rule of Nepal was finished.

[reportage of the anti-monarchy revolt]

[excerpts of this blog on PDNonline]

[copyright 2006 Tomas van Houtryve]

KATHMANDU, NEPAL - When I first visited Nepal as a student in 1997, I was struck by the abundant contrasts. Today, those contrasts have metamorphosed into outright contradictions.

One year ago, King Gyanendra dismissed the Prime Minister, citing his inability to control a growing Maoist rebellion, and installed himself as absolute ruler. During the king’s past 12 months of leadership, he has unleashed a barrage of fiats, all justified in the name of “combating terrorism.” The mobile phone network has twice been shut down by the palace. Public gatherings were banned. The internet was turned off nation-wide for two weeks. The latest government order in today’s newspaper forbids motorcyclists from carrying passengers.

When Nepal’s mainstream political parties tried to organize a rally in the capital two weeks ago, the government issued an all day curfew and authorized soldiers to shoot anyone caught outside.

Nepal’s previous crop of rulers from the mainstream parties were not particularly inspiring or stable characters, even when judged by the shabby standards of third world politics. Besides being notoriously corrupt and prone to petty factional rivalries, they had failed to strike any deal with the Maoists during the two previous rounds of peace talks.

During the period of parliamentary democracy, King Gyanendra never hid his distain for the scandal tainted political class, and when he took power, it was with an air of confidence that he would be able to run the country much better. Besides the obvious benefits of direct rule, the king also had the advantage of being Commander-in-Chief of the army as well as being considered a “living god” by much of the deeply religious Hindu population.

But after only a year with the combined powers of politics, armed force and religion all at his command, the country is on the brink of systematic failure. The palace’s policies have ostracized Nepal from its long-term diplomatic allies (India, America and Britain), while the heavy handed treatment of mainstream political parties has actually driven them into a loose alliance with the Maoist rebels that they once detested. The economy that showed moderate growth under the corruption-marred democracy, is now in the red, and foreign donors are cutting back aid to the royal government by over 60 percent.

King Gyanendra’s strategy to win back support is to hold municipal elections on February 8th, but nothing seems to be going to plan. All the mainstream parties are boycotting the election, while the Maoists have started assassinating candidates. The government is now offering hefty life insurance policies for anyone willing to stand for office, and the army has been mobilized to the defend the polling stations — many of which are placed in schools. Civil servants have been issued orders to vote or face disciplinary action.

The parties are attempting to organize an increasing number of street protests against the elections. Last week I visited a campus where students had placed banners on two stray dogs that read “Namaste. I am a candidate for local elections. Vote for me.” When they left the campus grounds, riot police charged them with bamboo canes. They beat one of the dogs even more heavily than the protesters.

[election day photo on TIME website]

[copyright 2006 Tomas van Houtryve]

KATHMANDU, NEPAL - The narrow alleyways of Nepal’s capital are a maze of shaded lanes dotted with small shrines dedicated to Hindu deities. Morning sees residents line up, ring the temple bells and leave a small offering for the scared idols. The routine is as predictable as the rising of the sun.

Afternoons in Kathmandu are marked with an altogether different ritual these days. Street protests against the monarchy erupt with unfailing frequency in public squares and around campuses, but the program is always cut short when the blue camouflaged policemen arrive swinging their bamboo canes. If there is a big enough mass of protesters, they will try to hold back the advancing police by lobbing bricks and stones. Inevitably a few people are caught and bundled into the waiting police vans, while the rest dash away down the dusty streets to escape.

[photo reportage of Kathmandu protests]

[copyright 2006 Tomas van Houtryve]

BHAKTAPUR, NEPAL - I saw the 12 victims’ bodies illuminated by a dim torch and shards of light form the full moon. Their faces looked twisted and ghostly. They had been lined up outdoors on blood soaked mud.

The rioters had arranged themselves at the end of an alley leading to the hospital, and started fires with anything they could find — tires, wood and cardboard boxes. They lobbed bricks at the police, who occasionally charged down the alley with their bamboo canes, and shields. When the volley of bricks being thrown at them would get too heavy, they would fire tear gas canisters. People were shouting “Sons of Paras!” at the police, referring to the notorious Crown Prince who is rumored to have killed several people in drunk driving incidents.

The massacre of the 12 people had happened the night before in hilltop village of Nagarkot. The quiet hamlet is known as a popular destination for tourists to watch the sunset on the Himalayas. There were no political motives behind the shooting. Apparently an off duty Royal Nepal Army soldier had gotten drunk and settled a petty dispute over a girl by unloading his assault riffle into a crowd celebrating a festival inside a temple.

What I was watching in Bhaktapur was the locals’ reaction to the shootings. Mourners and angry students surrounded the hospital for most of the day, before the situation turned violent. The streets were clouded with tear gas and dotted with burning barricades for the rest of the night.

Here is a link to the Daily Telegraph story about the event.

[copyright 2005 Tomas van Houtryve]

NEW DELHI, INDIA - I was supposed to fly to Nepal Thursday. Information from somewhat dodgy sources hinted that the next phase of the revolt would materialize in Kathmandu in the coming week. I had hoped to arrive early and take the pulse of the situation.

My plan derailed Wednesday night when I found myself in the emergency room in New Delhi with an I.V. tube dangling out of my arm. The Apollo hospital has massive signboards on every side of the building advertising “India’s First International Certified Hospital.” India has been the world’s largest democracy for over four decades, and a few years back they revealed that could develop nuclear weapons. I found it a bit unsettling that the sign boards indicated that holding health facilities up to international standards is actually a new priority.

Arriving at the hospital at night guided by a fellow correspondent based in Delhi, it initially proved difficult to find the emergency room. We were turned back at the main entrance and eventually found our way into the atrium. The floor was lined with people sleeping on grubby blankets and tattered straw mats. Inside the atrium there was also an ATM machine, a travel agent, and a large doorway framed in marble with backlit polished metal displaying the words “Platinum Lounge.” This was the equivalent of a first class waiting lounge in the airport, reserved for people with the means to avoid sleeping on the atrium floor. Unfortunately, it was already closed for the night.

We eventually found the emergency room, where we were ignored until my colleague exaggerated my temperature to catch their attention. I was then placed on a gurney, wheeled five feet further, then told to move from one gurney to another. This one was kicked and banged around by the attendant for a while until he managed to lock the wheels.

Eventually the doctor came around, asked me to describe my symptoms (vomiting, 104F fever, headache) and ordered a series of blood tests, an injection in my back side, and an I.V. into my arm. He said we would wait 40 minutes for the the test results, then he would decide whether I could leave the hospital or not.

We waited about one hour and 20 minutes without any news.

A Sadhu, which in Hinduism is considered a holy man that dresses somewhat like a clown, was pacing back and forth past the foot of my bed. He had on an orange robe and marigolds in his hair. I had photographed a Sadhu festival in Nepal once. The holy men had spent the day at the temple smoking hashish, smearing themselves with ashes, charming cobras and lifting heavy rocks strung to their genitals. With those events still haunting my mind, I figured his reasons for being in the emergency room were probably more urgent than mine.

Eventually my colleague got sick of waiting and asked the doctor about the results. The doctor then interrogated the nurse, who revealed that she had never sent my blood off to the lab. Oops. They sent me home and told me to come back for an appointment with Dr. Rao in the morning. “He’s the best. He treats all the white people.” my colleague informed me.

[copyright 2005 Tomas van Houtryve]

POKHARA, NEPAL - The front page of Nepal’s second largest English daily newspaper printed the headline: “Astrologers Predict Government by May 28.”

There has been no real government here since the Prime Minister resigned under pressure of violent street protests nearly two weeks ago. Protesters have continued creating unrest in the streets despite the resignation. Today is the 45th day of demonstrations. Students burn tires and hurl bricks at police, while political party members mass in the roads waving flags.

The newspaper’s editors quote astrologers who have somehow managed to assign the each of the country’s political players with zodiac signs. The Maoist guerrillas are “Leo,” and the five pro-democracy political parties are “Virgo.” The King is an Aquarius by birth.

The fact that astrological signs are depended on for political analysis by the mainstream news is telling of perspective on life in this country. Fatalism is deep rooted in Nepali culture. The two major life decisions that are available to most people in the Western world — the choice of a mate and the choice of a career — are predetermined for most Nepalis. Arranged marriages are still the norm, and the caste system still dictates an inherited career for those living in the rural areas where traditions hold firm.

A widespread belief in Nepal is that when a baby is born a god writes the hour of the child’s death on its forehead. The underlying philosophy in the country is anything of importance is already decided by others — by gods, the stars, and fate.

The Maoists of course, as indoctrinated communists, don’t share the same beliefs and superstitions. That may help explain why they have grown and spread across the country so fast despite inferior firepower. While many are trusting that Nepal’s troubles will be decided up in the heavens, the Maoists have put their energy in to dominating the firm ground.

[copyright 2004 Tomas van Houtryve]

KANDAHAR, AFGHANISTAN - With the fat double blades of the helicopter churning air through the cabin, I looked across to see the tense faces of 19 and 20-year-old American soldiers. Under their Kevlar helmets, and dust goggles, and behind their bulletproof vests were sweaty foreheads and rapidly beating hearts.

Only one man, the Special Forces commando, seemed cold, his eyes unblinking and staring at an imaginary horizon as we sped towards the landing zone in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan.

The pilot held up 10 fingers… that meant 10 minutes until we would touch down and run out through the dust cloud created by our chopper.

A burst of machine gun fire and the smell of powder startled me. “Just testing the M-60’s,” a soldier yelled through my earphones as the tail gunner popped rounds in to a barren hillside.

Then, as the engines changed tone and the mud brick dwellings of the village came in to focus, our squad leader uttered a phrase oddly familiar to me: “Lock and load!”

That phrase has been my older brother’s mantra since he watched way too many Vietnam movies as a teenager. Through my childhood, I could count on him to say “lock and load” with a Hollywood ring every time he picked up his skateboard or closed the trunk of the car. Even though the young soldiers around me were loading rounds in to the chambers of their rifles, a sense of unreality swept over me. Ever since September 11, my generation has had the eerie feeling that life is imitating the movies. This mission seemed to have just the right mix of fancy toys, danger, and showmanship, to prove the theory.

Our briefing and rehearsal for the mission had been serious enough. Assembled under the 46 C (115 F) degree mid day sun in Kandahar, the commanding officer positioned us within a three-dimensional terrain map drawn in a field of dust. He moved us around and called out orders with the style of a high school football coach. Even his jargon mixed sports terms with military acronyms.

“After first down, chock 5 will set up the TAC near the LZ.”

During the briefing I learned that we would land outside the village of Malaksay, 5 km from the Pakistan border. We would be near two active Al Qaida camps, and we would sleep 2 km from the closest one. We would not attack the camps (the commanding officer and the soldiers were befuddled and upset by this). Instead we would enter the village, where a Special Forces soldier named Gene Vance had been ambushed and killed in May, two months earlier. The plan was to talk with the village elder, search the homes for weapons, and detain any suspected Al Qaida or Taliban types. A pallet containing bottled water, pencils, and medicine would be left behind- a “PSYOPS” or psychological warfare gesture intended to win over the “hearts and minds” of villagers with humanitarian gifts.

Once on the ground our Airborne infantry soldiers would link up with Special Forces living in the area and the Afghan soldiers working with them.

“If anything feels too risky, send in the AMF (Afghan Military Force) boys first,” the U.S. commander told the soldiers at the briefing.

“They aren’t expendable, but they are a lot cheaper than one of us.”

Like a group of football players, the soldiers would cheer “hoooah!” after each order issued by the commander.

“This is what you have trained for. I want you to go out there and be heroes. I want you to make America proud. Check?”

“HOOOAH!”

The briefing ended with a long series of commands issued and the loud enthusiastic “hoooah” replies.

Only one command was met with a less excited response.

“Once we have a detainee in custody and handcuffed, no soldier is to harm him. We do not beat prisoners. That’s what separates us from every other military force in the world. We are Americans, and even though these guys are as evil as snot, we don’t touch them once they are under control. Check?”

The silence was broken by only a few of the 200 soldiers mumbling “hoah.”

An antsy thirst for revenge is the feeling that unifies the thousands of troops locked on the Kandahar base. Many feel they are aimlessly sitting in dusty tents waiting too long for the occasional mission, which these days usually end up being bloodless. Playing Nintendo games and watching DVD movies is how they pass the time between duties in the crippling heat.

The Special Forces have a different perspective on these matters, and very different tactics that they use in the field operating under a shadow of secrecy. They aren’t protected by miles of barbed wire, and they don’t have as much down time. Their safe houses regularly come under attack from rocket fire. When they aren’t out plotting against the remaining Taliban, they are training Afghan soldiers, or building wells and offering medical care as part of the PSYOPS plan to win over villagers. Lately the incredible stress and intensity of their jobs has lead to some strange behavior. In June and July three Special Forces soldiers returned home and promptly killed their American wives after serving in Afghanistan. Two of them then committed suicide.

As far as treatment of captured prisoners is concerned, the talkative Special Forces commando attached to my unit always referred to the prison area where they hold captured Al Qaida and Taliban as “Camp Slappy.”

As in: “If the detainees don’t cooperate right away, then they go to Camp Slappy,” he briefed the younger soldiers.

The same friendly bearded Green Beret was happy to unload a few other secrets on me. He told me about opium tea parties and stockpiles of hashish at the Special Forces “firebases” scattered through out the country. So much for sitting around playing Nintendo.

Now as we were in the helicopter about to land near Malaksay, I was unsure if his steely 1000-yard stare was the Zen-like concentration of an experienced warrior, or a more psychedelic experience.

I was sure that I wanted to stick close to him rather than the younger grunts as the Chinook touched down on to a rocky field dotted with clumps of Juniper trees. Statistically, it isn’t the enemy that I had to be scared of. The combination of “friendly fire” and accidents has killed more soldiers than the enemy has since this conflict began. During the Gulf War, the UN estimates 51% of Allied casualties were the result of friendly fire. On April 17 a U.S. pilot dropped a 500-pound laser-guided bomb on Canadian soldiers training just outside the Kandahar base.

The killing of the Canadians was a terrible mistake, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might think a nosey photographer would make a much better target.

Off the chopper in a storm of dust and adrenaline, I began kneeling and taking photos as the soldiers poured on to field and Apache attack helicopters crisscrossed overhead. Bad luck struck me early. I had brought two of every essential item in my enormous backpack. Two cameras, two pairs of underwear, two shirts, two Camelbak water reservoirs. The only thing I didn’t bring two of were trousers, and it was my trousers that ripped wide open as I stood up and ran across the field to a safer position.

Breathing heavily in the higher altitude, I tried to patch up the gapping slash in the knee of my pants with electrical tape between snapping photos of the soldiers and helicopters. After kneeling and ducking a few more times the repair was useless.

In addition to my concern about my fashionable appearance, I really had to pee. I had been gulping down water for the last two days to avoid dehydration in the searing heat. I was wearing a 17-kg bulletproof vest, a backpack full of food and camping supplies, and my camera bag and two cameras hanging over the front. Sandwiched between the weight was my bladder. It felt like a water balloon squeezed in a vice.

For my sake, bathroom planning could have been an integral part of the mission rehearsal. It wasn’t. Since soldiers occupied every single shrub, trench and tree in sight, and I couldn’t stand out in the open, I was forced to hold it.

The mental energy that I should have been spending looking for pictures and keeping myself safe, was slowly diverted to the excruciating task of bladder clenching.

After the soldiers had set up a command and communication center outside the village, I was assigned to a unit that lead me to the Afghan soldiers and Special Forces meeting with village leaders.

The Afghan soldiers were wearing New York Fire Department hats. I don’t know if anyone had explained what FDNY means when they decided that this was the best contribution they could make to their uniforms. The Afghans seemed very happy to have incorporated the hat in their ensemble that included green camouflage, the mandatory beard, and an AK-47 decorated with ribbons, reflective stickers, and the occasional plastic flower.

Before I could enter the village a call came over the radio that another unit had found a cave.

“Bring the reporter up here. We are going to search the cave,” the voice crackled.

A spooky 45-minute hike through a dry riverbed canyon and up a steep rocky ridge line brought us within sight of the cave entrance 400 meters away. The soldiers set up machine gun and mortar positions to cover a scout team that was sent ahead to check it out. The scouts took hours - three to be exact - before they radioed with their discovery.

The sun was approaching midday and after about an hour of silence waiting in the heat, half of the soldiers fell asleep. I seized my chance to find an unoccupied bush and unconditionally surrender to the hostile demands of my bladder.

To kill the time the soldiers teased each other, passed around photos of their girlfriends back home, and snacked from packets of military rations. Shade was scarce so we tried to slither under the cover of prickly bushes.

After the three-hour wait the scouts returned empty handed. The “cave” had been nothing more than a two-meter deep rock outcropping, probably used by goat herders to protect themselves from the weather.

Demoralized and sweaty we trudged back down from the ridge. I had completely missed the chance to photograph the meeting with the village elders, and the soldiers were disappointed not have found the enemy. Some of the unit commanders were starting to get edgy and aggressive with their men. They decided they would go back to the village and search homes.

The soldiers fanned out through the narrow alleyways between the mud brick walls that surround the humble peasant houses. Goats and chickens skittered out of the way as the infantrymen secured positions and started removing Afghans from their homes. A translator would explain the situation to the residents and have them wait under guard outside as each room was checked for weapons.

Most of the homes were filthy and livestock lived in close quarters with their masters. Possessions were sparse: a few prayer books, kitchen utensils, cloths and blankets. After five houses the search was frustrating. The soldiers had only found two 19th century flintlock-hunting rifles, an axe, and a broken pair of binoculars.

I was losing faith in the whole operation. What sort of intelligence had the commanders been acting on when they had decided we should fly out here to point rifles at a few malnourished sheep and confiscate farm tools?

But in the next house the situation changed completely. Only an old grandma and a few goats were home in the two-story mud dwelling, but the soldiers unearthed a stockpile of rockets in one of the rooms. Fifty-six rocket-propelled grenades were being lined up in the courtyard when I arrived. They were from Russian, Iranian, and Pakistani manufactures.

Before an explosives expert showed up to figure out what to do with them, one of the goats broke free and tried to start eating one of the RPG’s. I ran for cover as the hooves clinked against the weapons and it started nibbling at a corner. Luckily a soldier was able to capture the beast before its appetite detonated us.

After a few minutes some Afghan soldiers showed up in an over decorated truck to transport the munitions. I took pictures of them and one of them pointed at the big rip in the knee of my pants and started laughing. I did my best to communicate with gestures that I wanted to buy some new trousers and before long I had traded my wristwatch for a traditional shalwar kamis outfit. After the rockets were removed, I ducked in to the goat stall to try out my new duds.

The Afghans were clearly impressed by my new look. Smiles, thumbs-up signs, and cheers greeted me as I came in to view wearing the designer Jihad wear. After a few minutes I thought one of the Afghan soldiers might be acting too friendly. Having been deprived the sight of women for years by the Taliban’s repressive rule, a alarming proportion of Afghans have switched to homosexuality. They can be quite aggressive with their “affection” as I had learned a few weeks before when a prison warden in Kandahar had decided to hold my hand and proposition me through my translator.

What these Afghan men really fancy are young boys. Most of the warlords and high army officers are rumored to keep at least one boy for their sexual pleasure. Twice in the streets of Kandahar I had seen grown men fighting over a boy that had sparked a jealous quarrel.

According to the Special Forces commandos that I talked to, the trick to warding off these unwanted advances was growing a beard. If a man is old enough to have a beard, they aren’t interested anymore. However before I arrived, every journalist had warned me not to grow a beard so I wouldn’t look like a Special Forces soldier. The logic is that its better to get your ass pinched then get shot at.

Luckily I had sparked the Afghans to the idea of trading goods with the Americans and they were soon completely absorbed in this enterprise rather than staring at me. Watches, pocketknives, rings, and scarves were handled, admired, fiddled with and squinted at.

The Afghans were willing to trade an AK-47 for a nice Swiss army knife or a good watch, but there were no takers. A few soldiers traded small items before we moved on to the next house search.

Just before sunset many villagers came out of their homes to face Mecca for their evening prayers. It was dark by the time the house searches were completed and I would have preferred to be somewhere safe. All the Americans were equipped with night vision goggles except me, and they wouldn’t let me use my flashlight.

The thin crescent moon sunk below the horizon only a
few moments after twilight and left me stumbling behind the troops through a rocky riverbed in total darkness.

According to the plan we had rehearsed for two days, I was supposed to return to the command center for the night, but the whole program had been scrapped as soon as the soldiers had spotted the suspected cave entrance. They said it was too late for me to get all the way to the command center, so I would have to camp with a team doing perimeter security outside the village. We hiked through the riverbed for about an hour, stopping frequently, and then finally set down our heavy packs in a elevated clearing surrounded by a few trees.

Dinner consisted of randomly opening MRE (Meal Ready to Eat) packets in complete darkness and trying guess what was inside. I still couldn’t use my flashlight, so I fumbled open a package that turned out be raspberry flavored applesauce. Some of it spilled on my cloths and sleeping bag, but I couldn’t see to clean it up so I just ended up smearing it around and going to bed with sticky hands.

Exhausted, I fell asleep under a sky so crisp and black that the stars seemed to hover three-dimensionally over my head.

I hadn’t been asleep long when a loud explosion jarred me awake. I popped my head up out of the sleeping bag. I looked for a flash or any clue of what had happened. A second thud filled the air. It sounded like it came from the opposite side of the village.

I whispered to the nearest soldier, “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know. They’ll radio if they need us.”

Nobody else seemed to be concerned, so I went back to sleep, but the booming continued intermittently through the night unsettling my dreams.

I was the last person to wake up in the morning, and the sun was well up in the sky. All the soldiers had already packed up their gear and were ready to go. I hurriedly put on my shalwar kamis and began to roll up my sleeping pad.

After kneeling and rolling the pad, a group of soldiers a short distance off called out to me.

“We thought you converted. Were you praying?”

“Huh?” I wondered.

Then I put it together in my head. I was wearing Afghan cloths. I had unknowingly faced Mecca while I was rolling up my sleeping pad, and I had kneeled and bowed several times in the process. These guys were wondering if I was “going native” like John Walker Lindh.

I made some hasty explanations, and put a stop to the rumor before it could spread through the ranks. No need to have a bunch of armed men wondering about my allegiance.

With our packs on, we headed back to the helicopter landing zone. A soldier there explained the explosions of the previous night. They had been using their mortars to launch flares. He said the fireworks would have made “great pictures.”

Soon the thumping of the Chinooks could be heard in the distance. With sore shoulders and a lot less adrenaline I jogged through the dust on to the chopper. We took off and the village of Malaksay grew smaller and disappeared, leaving me only strange memories and a new pair of pants.

[photo reportage from Afghanistan]

[copyright 2002 Tomas van Houtryve. Unauthorized copying and distribution of this content is strictly prohibited by law. Written permission is required from the author to use this content in any way.]

PORT-AU-PRINCE, HAITI - Haiti resembles nothing so much as sinking ship — lost, exploited, forlorned and abandoned. The desperate passengers fight each other for the few scraps left that could help survival.

My first night in Haiti I sat in the car with my colleague, the resident AP photographer, as we drove up to his house above Port-au-Prince. As it got dark I noticed his car only has one dim headlight. I later learned that the car is missing a functioning horn, windshield wipers, spare tire, tail lights and a host of other essential safety features. But clutched in his left hand and resting on the wheel as he swerved through the crumbled streets was a 9mm pistol. That’s more important in Haiti.

“What the hell am I doing here?”

My colleague has the look and personality of a bear. He is a 250 pound, 6′4″ bearded, black man who always wears shorts, two cameras, and often has his 9mm tucked under his shirt. He survives in Haiti. The protesters, dictators, flying rocks, mosquitoes, burning tires, and pot holes that confront him every day seem to leave him unscathed. Granted, he is about as fun to talk to as a bag of hammers… but he survives. For three weeks I would have to fill his shoes.

After two days of orientation, he departed for his vacation to Miami, leaving behind for me his half functioning car, the AP office full of mice, and some words of advice, “don’t trust anyone.”

He didn’t leave me his 9mm or his mobile phone.

The history of Haiti is a proud one. The story is almost a miracle of events considering the time and opposition of the day. Haiti was the second country in the New World (after the U.S.) to gain independence. It was the world’s only successful slave revolution, and the first black nation. After 400 years of French colonial exploitation, the slaves caught a rumor of the ideals of the French revolution (liberty, equality, fraternity) and toppled the plantation owners and white government in a violent uprising. The country of Haiti was declared in 1804 and the flag was made by literally ripping out the white of the French flag and then sewing the red and blue together.

Before the revolution Haiti was the richest country in the hemisphere. Today it is by far the poorest.

The U.S. has invaded and occupied the country twice. Like elsewhere in Latin America and the Caribbean, the U.S. has backed and funded harsh dictatorships since the start of the cold war. Abysmal human rights conditions and stratified wealth were ignored in the name of fighting communism.

Part of Haiti’s woes can be blamed on the Haitians themselves. For six generations the Haitians were kicked, spit on, yelled at, and whipped. For 400 years the slave owners told them when to work, how to breed, and not to think. They were treated like animals and today they often treat each other with that lack of respect that hasn’t been unlearned. Greed, power struggles, assassinations and pro-black racism have all been obstacles on the crooked road to peace and prosperity. Today it looks hopeless. The country is in a dire economic crisis and the recent fledgling steps towards democracy have been tainted with corruption.

Hence the feeling of a sinking ship. The best chance any Haitian has for a decent life lies 600 miles over the water. Each year thousands of Haitians attempt an escape in rickety boats only to wash up, face down on a Florida beach or be found alive and returned by the Coast Guard. Already about one million Haitians live in the U.S.

As I would leave the hotel/office each day in search of food or pictures, I was always swarmed by a troop of skinny, sunken-eyed beggars. They wait outside the few hotels in Haiti for the occasional tourist or journalist. They hustle prostitutes, taxis, guides, steal a wallet… whatever. I always tried to slip out the side, but soon they caught on. When they
appeared I would try to look fierce and clutch my cameras tight. If I returned to the hotel with a shopping bag I would dole out a few pieces before they let me dart back in.

One such beggar was Richard Miguel. Richard is the illegitimate grandson of former president Paul Eugene Magloire. His family is part of the mulatto class the descended from matches between slaves and the white owners. The offspring were born “free men” and eventually the mulattos became the elite class in Haiti. They own most of the land and money.

Richard was born in Haiti, but raised in the United States from the age of four. He was brought up by his strict uncle Rene Leon, an exiled colonel in the Haitian army. At the age of 14 Richard’s uncle was arrested by the FBI
for transferring arms over state lines in a conspiracy to overthrow the Haitian government.

Richard snapped. He rebelled, started committing petty crimes and soon was tossed from multiple foster parents to group homes. At the age of 24 he was arrested for shoplifting $2000 worth of goods from a department store. After a year in jail he was deported to the Haiti. He spoke perfect English and very little Creole. Now he is a crack addict that hustles money
from people like me. He is also extremely bright, literate and shifty. He claims to have graduated from high school with honors.

After Richard had bugged me for about a week and a half, I decided to buy him dinner. He told me his life story while shoveling rice in his mouth.

“I would rather have done five years in jail, then one year here. This is hell. It’s my country, but I hate it. I hate being Haitian.”

Richard has abscesses in his teeth and his hair is falling out. He is convinced he is going to die soon from his addiction. He smokes crack every night he can.

After dinner I returned to the hotel, emptied my pockets of all valuables and took my spare camera to the tiny room where Richard sleeps and smokes crack. The cement block house with stained red walls has a filthy sheetless mattress, a rough table, and a candle. He has more than many Haitians.

I don’t often hag out with impoverished junkies in the middle of the night, but I stuck around as he locked the door and took out his crack pipe made from a pen, tin foil, and a vitamin bottle. I shot the picture while trying not to think about the effects of second hand crack smoke in the closed room.

…….

The next day a strike started at Haiti’s largest hospital. The janitors and service workers hadn’t been paid in three months. People need every single meager pay day to survive in Haiti so eventually the workers walked out.

After two days the sanitation was so bad in the hospital that all the doctors and nurses had walked out too. Bandages were left unchanged, the floors weren’t mopped, and the dead plied up in the morgue.

I called the AP writer to ask how we should cover it. He replied that it happened so often that it wasn’t considered news unless it got much worse. He had already done the same story twice.

On Friday I decided to go anyway. The hospital director wouldn’t be able to stop me from entering during the strike. As soon as the patients learned I was a journalist they wouldn’t let me leave.

“Nobody has helped me in five days. Go tell people what they do here.”

One patient after another told me their story of neglect. Even when the doctors were there to write prescriptions, the people couldn’t afford them.

“They keep the the medicines locked in the pharmacy and won’t give them to us, even when we are dying.”

…….

Each day in Haiti involved a personal struggle with conditions unimaginable to those living in the developed countries. Just negotiating though the the daily flat tires, power outages, road blocks, and broken phones can be exhausting.

The AP writer, only has three hours of electricity per day. He lives in the “nice” part of town. Visiting him in Port-au-Prince’s richest suburb, Petionville, I still had to drive down a road that looks like a river wash and usually past a burning tire or two. People who saw me would yell, “Blanc! Blanc!” and often run up to the window and demand money.

Usually I visited Port-au-Prince’s worst neighborhoods.

Having a functioning car was a big problem. The AP photographer I was replacing has two cars. As I was driving the one he planned to leave me, the brakes caught on fire. As a result I was left with his one eyed 4×4 with no horn, windshield wipers, spare tire, tail lights, or mirrors.

My first day alone I covered a trial of 6 police men accused of executing 11 people. (The trial has since ground to a halt after death threats to the judge and jury.) The correspondent for Reuters was also there and his car was parked outside next to mine. When he left there was a man waiting by his car pointing to the front tire. Most of the air had been let out, and the man demanded money to fix it.

Worried that I had no spare tire for such a circumstance, I contacted my boss and told him I needed a safer car.

The only rental car place is at the airport, a one hour drive from down town. I took a Haitian guide named Sam with me to drive the other car back and help deal with problems.

Soon enough we had one. A few miles from the airport the rear tire had a blow out.

With no spare or jack, I had to inch along towards the airport looking for a place to repair it. After ten minutes there was a man with a stack of old tires on the side of the road. He didn’t have a car jack either. So we paid him three dollars to try to inflate the tire with a bike pump.

That gave me enough time to drive half the remaining distance to the airport. After all the air escaped I just continued on the rim.

The first car that the Avis rental agent showed me didn’t have working turn signals and one headlight was out. He took me to the other beaten-up cars, and I settled on the one with only a missing tail light.

I filled out the forms, signed the papers, and had a $1000 deposit authorized on my credit card. Then Sam and I went to find someone to fix the tire. The first three places didn’t have jacks so we settled for a guy who said he could lift my colleague’s heavy 4×4 with the rental car’s little jack and a pile of rocks. The man and his rocks got in the back seat.

Back at the airport multiple attempts with the little jack and rocks failed to raise the car. After 45 minutes the tire man eventually found somebody with a good jack and raised it. Then he carefully stacked the rocks under the axle and returned the jack to the owner. I drove him back to his pile of tires by the road with the wheel where he patched and reinstalled the tube.

It immediately exploded.

Somebody pointed out the large hole in the tire that was the cause. By now it was completely dark. The tire man and some others argued for a while, pointing fingers and raising voices. Then one man jumped over a fence and returned 20 minutes later with a used tire that would fit. He wanted five dollars for it.

By the time the tube had been patched again and we were driving back to the airport it began to rain.

The wheel was installed on the car in a complete downpour. Sam had to launch the car off the pile of rocks.

I didn’t know the way back from the airport, so Sam lead in my colleague’s car with no windshield wipers and one headlight. It was still pouring.

The engine in my rental car faltered and quit on the first hill we went up.

Eventually I made it to the top of the hill by restarting the car, revving it in neutral and slamming it in to drive ten times. Despite having no mirrors Sam miraculously saw me and waited.

There were two more hills before I returned to the hotel and I had to repeat the same shuddering dance to summit both times.

The next morning after shooting my assignment in Cite Soleil, I returned to the airport to trade in the car.

After 30 minutes of arguing, the Avis agent said he would give me a free day and swap the car for another one.

I went to inspect the other cars and they all had more problems, so I told the agent to return my credit card slip which I promptly ripped in to pieces.

Next I tried the Dollar car rental place and after the test drive settled on a car with relatively few problems. Ready to sign the papers and get on with my wasted day, we ran in to another snag. The phone lines weren”t working so he couldn’t take my credit card. With no credit card they needed $800 cash and a passport as deposit.

I went to three other rental agents and they all said the same thing.

I’m not a big enough idiot to carry $800 cash or my original passport around with me in the streets of in Port-au-Prince.

No car.

The Avis guy couldn’t even take back the shreds of my credit card receipt and and give me one of his wrecks.

I had to pay $20 for a taxi ride back to the hotel. After countless snags and abundant waste of time and money, my colleague’s car sat waiting for me in the parking lot. It’s one eyed wink and broken grille smile laughing at my day that Satan himself couldn’t have planned better.

Welcome to Haiti.

After three weeks and 14 stories ranging from AIDS to parliamentary chaos, I had learned a lot more about compassion and patience than I could have imagined. But like any sinking ship, I was ready to get off.

I spent a few days getting sunburned on the on the safe, quiet, palm lined beaches of the Dominican Republic before returning home.

[photo reportage from Haiti]

[copyright 2000 Tomas van Houtryve. Unauthorized copying and distribution of this content is strictly prohibited by law. Written permission is required from the author to use this content in any way.]