Arriving in Port-au-Prince was a shock to all senses. Simmering, chaotic, vibrant, mysterious, volatile. It was December, 2002. Apart from the inauspicious presence of several aid missions, I was the only white person on the plane. The only tourist. As I was waiting for my backpack at the baggage claim I asked one of the aid workers if he had any advice about Haiti, to which he replied: not to come.

Port-au-Prince was not easy to like. The heat and humidity, the crowdedness, the noise and the smoke, the pronounced sense of imminent danger, all overwhelmed me. Finding a reasonably priced hotel that didn't charge by the hour was a difficult task. At night all the lights in the city were out and walking to the hotel in pitch darkness without knowing what could be lurking behind the corner was as scary as it sounds. But after making a trip to Cap-Haïtien in the north of the country and returning, Port-au-Prince didn't look so intimidating any longer. Quite likable, even. Not that the north was worse or anything (in fact, it was absolutely fabulous). I guess Port-au-Prince, with its congested streets and jungle-covered hills looming above, is something of an acquired taste. After returning from the trip to the south of the country, I was already in love with Port-au-Prince.

I had a scientific conference in Florida, and since the university was paying for my flight there, I thought this would serve as a springboard for a short trip to one of the countries in the region. I chose Haiti.

Haiti is the poorest country outside of Africa. Created in the beginning of the nineteenth century by the rebelling slaves of the French colony of Saint-Domingue, it was the first black republic, and the second republic in the western hemisphere. The Haitian people impressed me with their political awareness, with their aspirations, with their pride. Despite a promising start, their history has been a long and sad saga of dictators, coups, disappointments, oppression and exploitation and wretched poverty. Every time the country seems to manage to get back on her feet, she is brought down to her knees again by greed and cruelty.

Haiti has her share of lush mountains and Caribbean beaches, but the people and the culture are what made Haiti a unique experience for me. While nominally Christian, Haitians' real spiritualism is Voodoo. Haitian Voodoo is a strange brew of West African Voodoo and Roman Catholicism. Baron Samedi is a spooky skeleton with a top hat and a cape, Tonton Macoute is the uncle that walks the streets after dark and kidnaps children who stay up. As a visitor I could only get a glimpse of this mysterious and fascinating religion. In Jacmel I was invited to a Voodoo ceremony. Mystified, I could only stand and watch how the mesmerizing drum beating was resonating in the dancing people's bodies.

Haiti is also very artistic. Port-au-Prince has many galleries of Haiti's wonderful naïve art, with lots of brilliant paintings on display. The walls of Haiti's churches are covered with murals of naïve depictions of biblical scenes in rural Haitian scenery. Every bus and every shop is covered with colorful paintings. Among stalls of vegetables and clothes, Port-au-Prince's Marché de Fer has also stalls selling voodoo paraphernalia and pretty oil paintings.

I cherish the weird spiritual conversations I had with that Rastafarian, whose name I forget, at the café in Cap-Haïtien, conversations that would go on all night. I cherish the graceful company of Louise, the owner of the rickety old hotel in Pestel.

I am heartbroken by this beautiful country's misery and misfortune.