Dispatches: Voodoo on the Hustings

Toto Constant emerges from his two-story white villa in Port-au-Prince, looking for all the world like a Sunday driver out for a spin in his Nissan rental. But the illusion is soon broken by the arsenal in his car: an M-1 carbine, an Uzi submachine gun and two .45-cal. pistols. Life can be dangerous if you’re Emmanuel (“Toto”) Constant, founder of the Front for the Advancement and Progress of Haiti, or FRAPH, successor to the murderous Tontons Macoutes of the Duvalier era.

This particular Sunday, however, Constant is a squeaky-clean presidential candidate out looking for votes in some distant election, dispensing pork- barrel promises, anti-U.S. rhetoric and a little voodoo. His two-car convoy heads for the hamlet of Montrouis, where he stops for cola drinks and conch while shaking the hands of awed peasants. In the town of St. Marc he promises an electrification project, then tucks into a helping of fried goat. Later he rants to farmers about Haiti’s exiled President Jean-Bertrand Aristide and promises that FRAPH will poison the water supply of any U.S. invaders. “Down with Aristide!” the farmers cheer. “FRAPH forever!”

Candidate Constant is eager to create a new image for FRAPH, which built a Macoutes-like reputation for murder and intimidation in the pro-Aristide slums. Now Constant claims the group is a “Salvation Army” helping the poor. Once a member of Haiti’s mission to the U.N., he makes much of his degrees from Canada in physics, math and engineering. Of course, he still packs a .357 Magnum in the city. “The weapon is for psychological impact only”, he says. “I have the power of voodoo with me.”

Constant understands the political power of Haiti’s peasant religion. He often treats journalists to late-night voodoo rituals and trips to the sacred waterfall at Saut d’Eau as he calls for help from his loa, the warrior god who represents St. George. This Sunday, Constant is intent on communing with his loa at a temple in the valley north of Gonaives. By the time he arrives at the site — a concrete hovel — darkness has fallen. Inside is an altar topped with white lace, a cross and a merry christmas sign. At its base are rum bottles and skulls.

The ceremony begins. Constant offers up pictures of four loas, including his own. A priest takes shavings from the bone of one skull, sprinkles rum on the crowd, then swigs. He spreads rum on the floor, drinks again. He begins to foam at the mouth, spittle flying as he shakes his head. A bottle of rum is set afire. Constant dances uncomfortably. A loa takes possession of a girl, who writhes at Constant’s feet: he looks embarrassed. There is more dancing, more drinking. Then Constant too is lying on the floor, in a fetal position. A girl dances around him as fire licks at rum-soaked spots on the floor. The priest and Constant embrace. Constant disappears. Five gunshots ring out. Constant reappears, wearing an orange robe. Time passes in a haze of booze and heat.

Then, suddenly, it’s over. Fried goat is served, and the crowd chants in Creole, “Toto for President! Without Toto, Haiti can’t have a life!” As the last cheer fades, Constant heads off into the night. It is the end of another day on the campaign trail.