The security briefing in Toronto for our trip to Haiti was run by a burly ex-Mountie--big moustache and all--who now protects businesspeople from what he described succinctly as "bad situations."
"Do you plan on going out at night in Port-au-Prince?" he asked matter-of-factly. I can't imagine visiting any city without sampling its nightlife. "Sure," I said. He looked at me sternly. "That changes everything."
"What about Carnival?" I asked. Carnival is Haiti's massive, three-day Mardi Gras festival in February--hundreds of thousands of people dancing in the streets day and night. Of course I wanted to go.
"That will require twice the security," he said, looking at his notes. "I would suggest using locals," he added. "You'll stick out enough as it is."
Although I'm a fairly typical-looking Bay Street hanger-on, I've long been interested in developing countries, and I've visited some pretty chaotic places, including West Africa and Southeast Asia. What I wanted to find out in Haiti was how businesspeople weigh risk in one of the poorest and most disorderly countries on Earth. North American and European manufacturers have been migrating to Asia, Latin America and other low-wage regions for decades. There comes a point where the cost savings are so substantial that entire industries make the shift, despite the dangers (see "Danger zones," page 55).
Still, our security consultant's sternness rattled me. I'd also read a U.S. State Department report online that said visitors to Haiti risk encountering riots, theft, kidnapping and shootings.
There's some hyperbole in that, perhaps, but the short flight from Miami to Port-au-Prince a few weeks later unsettled me more. It was behind schedule, and the plane, an Airbus A300, was worn-looking--one of the oldest models in American Airlines' fleet. None of the passengers appeared to be typical North American tourists or businessmen. Most were prosperous-looking Haitians--expatriates returning for Carnival, I figured.
On the flight, I met Andrew Grene, a UN official, who recalled rides from the airport into Port-au-Prince in early 2006. All UN personnel were required to wear a flak vest and helmet. (Other UN officials later told me they often heard "tinks" of bullets hitting their vehicles as they made the trip. Shooting at them was a sport of sorts.)
When we landed, Cheng, a large, friendly driver, and another armed escort, met me and Report on Business magazine senior editor John Daly. It was almost 8 p.m., and there wasn't time to go to our hotel first. Instead, we got into a non-bulletproof SUV (local car rental agents charge a lot more for armoured ones) and headed to the city's central square, the Place du Champ de Mars, for the second night of Carnival. Our intrepid photographers, Carlos and Jason Sanchez of Montreal, had arrived a few days earlier and were already there.
Up and down hilly, winding, rutted streets we went. No traffic lights, no street lights, hardly any stores, and small houses built out of concrete blocks crammed next to one another. This city reminded me of someplace: poorest Africa.
Near the Place, the SUV couldn't make any more progress through the crowds, so we decided to get out and walk with our guards. The main boulevard was lined with temporary wooden stands holding thousands of people, and there were hundreds of thousands more on the street.
My armed escort told me to stay behind him and keep one hand on his shoulder. The other was buried in my pocket, protecting my wallet and passport. "Why aren't my pockets deeper?" I thought. I was right to be fearful. Our gun-toting escort at the rear was jostled, and his wallet was deftly stolen.
We climbed into a stand built from two-by-eights and plywood. I asked to go to a washroom, and my escort took me under the stand, pointed to the ground and said, " Ici." I wondered what women did.
Back upstairs, we had a much more comfortable and secure vantage point than most. We shared beers with Haiti's Minister of Tourism and local executives of Scotiabank, one of the few major foreign-owned businesses still operating in Haiti.
So many contradictions about the country quickly came to mind. The colour and euphoria on the street were incredible. Why don't tourists flock here, as they do to Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Rio? True, there have been shootings at Carnival in the past, but none this year. Even a headline a few days later in Le Matin, a local newspaper, expressed surprise: " Aucun mort à déplorer!" (No deaths to bemoan!)
The bigger picture is that opportunities as well as risks abound in Haiti. The country has genuine selling points: one of the cheapest work forces on the planet, duty-free access to the nearby U.S. market, prime undeveloped beachfront property, and pent-up local demand for just about every basic product and service. One giant float at Carnival carried one of Haiti's most popular bands, RAM; it was draped in huge red banners heralding Digicel, Irish billionaire Denis O'Brien's wildly successful Caribbean cellphone venture. The company arrived in Haiti in 2006 and signed up one million customers within months.
But most North Americans only hear of Haiti's problems. Four decades of punishing economic decline, and centuries of invasions, repression and violence, have left the country's 10 million people--a guess, because no one really knows--the poorest in this hemisphere (see "Haiti: 500 years of turmoil," page 52). It's hard for the locals to focus on the upside.
Around 11 p.m., we headed back to our vehicle. On the side streets, vendors were selling food and drinks. I'm used to being pestered by street sellers in other Caribbean countries, but these ones just stared at us blankly. Our presence wasn't unwelcome, just completely unexpected. Is there a business case to be made for Haiti? And if so, who's going to make it?
To briefly summarize how bad--or good, in relative terms--the situation is on the ground in Haiti today, and how it got to be that way, is nearly impossible. But 1986 is a useful starting point. That year, riots broke out, and dictator Jean-Claude Duvalier (Baby Doc) fled the country. He was the brutal and less intelligent son of François Duvalier (Papa Doc), the physician who ruled Haiti with a poisonous mix of bluster, voodoo (he claimed mystical powers) and the dreaded Tonton Macoutes secret police from 1957 until his death in 1971. The riots prompted many of the few remaining foreign-owned businesses to flee as well, including Rawlings--the manufacturer of official Major League baseballs--and a Club Med resort.
At first, Jean-Bertrand Aristide, a popular Catholic priest who had bravely spoken out against Baby Doc, appeared to offer some hope. Aristide was elected president in 1990, but was then ousted in a coup the following year. In 1994, he was reinstalled by the Clinton administration, which deployed thousands of U.S. troops to Haiti. Constitutionally barred from serving consecutive terms, Aristide was succeeded by René Préval, his prime minister, in 1996. But the two split, and, in 2000, Aristide won a presidential election that was boycotted by opposition candidates.
Which of the two is a hero and which is a villain is still the subject of violent political divisions in Haiti. Suffice it to say that by 2004, Aristide's critics were denouncing him as an autocrat who had to rely on thugs to maintain his authority. The U.S. and other developed countries wanted him out, and he was overthrown and eventually relocated to South Africa.
The United Nations moved in and set up its Stabilization Mission in Haiti (MINUSTAH--the French acronym). Basically, it's trying to rebuild the government and police force from scratch. The mission deployed a few thousand peacekeepers at first, including Canadians. Two years later, however, gangs still controlled the streets, so the UN boosted its troop contingent to more than 7,000, many from Brazil and other Latin American countries. They restored order in Port-au-Prince the way that armies do--they shot people. The fiercest fighting was in the city's poorest slum, the Cité Soleil, still loyal to Aristide.
In 2006, amid allegations of vote rigging, Préval was again elected president, with 51% of the vote in the first round, thereby avoiding a runoff. MINUSTAH, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) would like the next transition of power in 2011 to be a peaceful, democratic one--only the second time ever in Haiti. Their concern is strategic as well as humanitarian. The UN presence is widely regarded as a test case for what might happen in Cuba after the Castro regime falls.
All that said, during our week-long visit, Port-au-Prince was relatively calm. There were just 10 kidnappings for ransom, including the former minister of the interior and his wife. "It's not a serious crime here, like murder or rape," one businessman later assured me. "No one that I know of has ever paid more than $20,000 to be returned." A shootout at a grocery store was deadlier--one armed guard and one of nine assailants were killed. Offshore, near Great Exuma in the Bahamas, the U.S. Coast Guard plucked 131 Haitians off a leaky boat bound for Florida.
While the streets of Port-au-Prince didn't look all that dangerous, they were certainly surreal in many ways. Everyone looked about 15 years old to me--and half of Haiti's population is, indeed, under the age of 19. There also appears to be no middle class. Late-model cars clogged the streets, but the vast majority of people get around by walking, or by riding in the back of covered, colourfully painted small pickup trucks that function as taxis. They'd be a tight fit with eight passengers, yet many carry more than 20.
In Pétionville, the wealthy enclave of mansions in the hills where Haiti's remaining elite live, we passed the odd small stretch of stores as luxurious as ones you'll find on Bloor Street in Toronto or Robson in Vancouver. But prudent locals have an armed guard watch their Escalade or Porsche Cayenne if they shop during the day or dine at an elegant, yet well-hidden restaurant at night. Many also have guards posted 24/7 outside the gates to their homes. Centuries-old racial distinctions persist as well--between light-skinned French speakers at the top of the social scale and dark-skinned Creole speakers at the bottom.
All of this fit in with the grim economic assessments I'd read before I arrived. According to the IMF, Haiti's annual gross domestic product per person in 2007 was about $630 (all currency in U.S. dollars), or 151st out of 179 countries ranked. That's less than one-sixth the per capita GDP of neighbouring Dominican Republic, which many Canadian tourists find impoverished. Adjusting for inflation, per capita income in Haiti has actually declined steadily since the 1960s. The country no longer grows rice--a crop the locals were once proud of--in any quantity, nor does it have a commercial dairy of any size. One business that is booming, although it doesn't show up in official economic statistics, is the transshipment of cocaine and other illegal drugs to the U.S.
In early April, two months after we visited, riots erupted in the south, this time because of soaring international food prices, and spread quickly to Port-au-Prince. The cost of a small bowl of rice has more than doubled since last year to over 60 cents. When you earn less than $3 a day--as most working Haitians do--that hurts your stomach. Some locals have fallen back on terre, a biscuit of vegetable shortening, salt and mud, traditionally served to pregnant women and children to settle their stomachs.
Yet, against the steepest of odds, some Haitian and foreign businesses are still making money here--good, legal money.
You have to be very dogged and clever to maintain a business in Haiti, and our hotel in Pétionville was an excellent example. The first 12 rooms of the Hotel Montana were built in 1946 by Frank Cardozo and his wife, Edna. It has expanded to 120 rooms over the years, surrounded by wonderfully lush gardens. The hotel is still owned by Cardozo's daughters, Nadine Cardozo Riedl and Garthe Cardozo Stephanson, regarded as two of the hardest-working and toughest entrepreneurs in the country.
There aren't many tourists these days, but UN dignitaries, foreign leaders, the occasional celebrity, and rich Haitian expatriates visiting from Miami, Montreal or Paris want four-star accommodation. Photos of recent guests on display at the hotel include Kofi Annan, Paul Martin, and Brad and Angelina, who stayed in January, 2006. Cardozo Riedl maintains high standards, but it's an almost daily ordeal. When the city's electrical power is interrupted, the hotel's diesel-powered generators--with enough fuel to run for three weeks straight--kick in. All water is delivered from a private spring--20 truckloads a day.
Cardozo Riedl didn't discuss a more harrowing ordeal. In November, 2004, she was dragged from her car after an armed gang hijacked her motorcade. Security guards and police had apparently been paid to look the other way. She was held for eight days, and shackled and abused by her captors, until a large ransom was paid.
Her husband, Reinhard Riedl, a German dentist, is more chatty and upbeat. He's a bon vivant who could have walked out of the pages of Graham Greene or Somerset Maugham. The couple met at the 1972 Olympics in Munich. One afternoon at the Hotel Montana's cozy News Bar, he treated us to "the best rum sours in the Caribbean," mixed with Barbancourt Haitian rum by his favourite bartender.
His wife's kidnapping was "regrettable," Riedl acknowledged. And, yes, hundreds of Préval supporters stormed the hotel in January, 2006, and frolicked in the pool. South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who was visiting at the time, came out of his room and appealed for calm--in English, which the crowd didn't understand. But the country is now safer than it was two years ago, said Riedl. "Things are looking up for us here in Haiti."
Two Canadian companies that already have solid roots in Haiti are Montreal-based T-shirt manufacturer Gildan Activewear (more about it later) and Scotiabank. The bank has operated in Haiti since 1972, through all the upheavals.
Maxime Charles, 53, is the bank's country head. Dapper and polished, he's a proud and articulate spokesman for his employer and for Haiti. His father was ambassador to Washington in the 1940s. Charles earned business and law degrees in Haiti, and joined the bank in 1976. In 1981, he went to graduate school in France, earned a master's in international relations and law, then returned home.
As he and other Scotiabank executives repeatedly point out, the bank wouldn't have stayed unless it was earning a profit. The key has been to pick the right niches. Charles quickly reviewed the history: The bank started mainly as a corporate lender to manufacturers of baseballs, electronic switches and, more recently, clothing. But even poor individuals can benefit from banking services, and in recent years, Scotiabank has also expanded into retail deposit taking and lending.
Auto loans--$5,000 at about 20% in- terest being typical--have been a particularly encouraging success. "We had to convince car dealers that it would increase business," said Charles.
The bank now operates four branches in Port-au-Prince and two bank mach-ines. The branches were closed during Carnival, which is basically a week of national holidays, but just walking around the exterior of one of them was intriguing. It looked the same as suburban Scotiabank branches in Canada: red signs outside, grey countertops inside, and a drive-through.
But a small building out back housed diesel-powered emergency generators and dozens of batteries. Stuck to the window of the main door, in addition to a sign with hours of business, was another with an outline of a handgun with an X through it. Back in Toronto, Scotiabank CEO Rick Waugh later told me that checking guns at the door is indeed a service provided by the bank in many countries.
The branch was also by far the tidiest building in the neighbourhood, and we only had to drive down the street for a few minutes to see how impoverished the retail customer base can be in Port-au-Prince. We arrived at a dusty open-air market with dozens of stalls that were no more than bits of cloth or plastic held up with tall sticks. A dozen ragged-looking cows were tethered near a refuse pile. As traffic roared past, a dog drank out of an open sewer across the road.
Any talk of cash in Haiti also brings up the question of drugs, corruption and money laundering. Charles is firm and polite, but short on details. "There are a lot of clichés about this country," he said. He and other bank executives also note that the operations in Haiti have to conform to Scotiabank's corporate rules on cash transactions, as well as Canadian law and international standards. Charles is also chair of a Haitian commission on money laundering.
The more familiar and immediate risk for Charles is personal safety--his own and that of his 79 employees. Two of them have been kidnapped. Both were returned safely after their families paid ransoms, and they are still working for the bank. Charles has two armed guards around the clock at his family's own elegant three-storey house in the hills. However, the only robbery of a Scotiabank branch in Haiti that anyone recalls was 30 years ago. In Canada, on average, one Big Six bank is robbed every day.
Are the risks in Haiti worth it? And would the bank ever leave? These are questions for Waugh and Rob Pitfield, Scotiabank's executive vice-president of international banking back in Toronto. They point out that Scotiabank has been active in the Caribbean for more than 120 years, and now operates in 25 countries in Central and South America. "We're an international bank that happens to have its head office in Canada," said Waugh.
Sure, Haiti and other developing countries look daunting, said Pitfield, but "people manage these issues." A global bank needs a broad mindset. "Canadians are somewhat insular and not aware of the countries out there with wonderful people trying to get what we have," he added. "It's taught the bank to be open to ideas and to be tolerant."
The flip side of that, however, is that Waugh and Pitfield have to be very guarded about talking about political risk, especially any suggestion that the bank might leave a country. The only time that's happened was in Argentina in 2002, when the country was in a financial crisis. Waugh, then head of Scotiabank's international operations, told a reporter the bank was looking for a way to stay. Argentine newspapers turned the remark around, forcing the bank to sell a subsidiary. So Waugh now sticks to a script. "Each foreign country for Scotiabank has its own operational risk," he said.
By our third day in Port-au-Prince, I wished some people would let down their guard more. Fortunately, that evening, they did.
A stroke of luck: A handful of local business leaders agreed to sit down for a dinner in a French restaurant in Pétionville. Apart from a small sign outside, it would be easy to miss when driving past, but the traditional, richly-coloured Haitian interior was elegant. Though our conversations were off the record, I can tell you that our guests represented old-family money and a variety of businesses--manufacturing, shipping, publishing and several others.
Over steaks, seafood and much more, they gave us an earful. Right off the bat, just about all of them were vitriolic about a short article in a January issue of Forbes magazine that placed Haiti fourth on its list of the "World's Most Dangerous Destinations." Haiti? Only slightly behind Somalia, Iraq and Afghanistan? Worse than Pakistan (No. 5), Zimbabwe (No. 9), and nearby trouble spots like Jamaica and Mexico? Preposterous!
The magazine used data compiled by two international consulting firms, Annapolis, Maryland-based iJet Intelligent Risk Systems and London-based Control Risks. Forbes cited Haiti's poverty, civil unrest and police corruption. Haiti scored 5 out of 5 on a scale of danger, the only country in the western hemisphere to do so. In a telephone interview after we got home, Tobias Friedl, iJet's regional manager for Latin America, defended the rating, pointing out that kidnapping is a particularly serious threat to foreign businesspeople. Also, while there are stretches of calm in Haiti, the situation can change very quickly.
Indeed, when prodded, our guests at dinner, like just about everyone we spoke to in Haiti, agreed that the economy and government are "fragile" at best. To diversify their personal risk, pretty well all of them have a "place to go"--children abroad, a condo in Miami, a house in Montreal, an apartment in Paris and so on. Sure, they'd like Préval and the UN to succeed, but the government still can't provide basic infrastructure, social services or protection.
And their role? Like paying their workers just $2.50 a day? It's the market rate, they said, and no one is offering Haitians anything better. Corruption and drug smuggling? Business owners can control their own premises, but not what goes on beyond. As one of them put it, "there isn't even a fucking rowboat" to patrol Haiti's 1,800 kilometres of coastline.
Bracing stuff, but I also wanted to get a closer look at what a large operating Haitian business looked like. The next day, we wheedled our way into one of those, too.
There's a large industrial park just a few kilometres west of Port-au-Prince's airport. It consists of about 50 low-rise buildings that employ more than 20,000 workers, mostly sewing T-shirts and other garments. To call them factories is a bit of a misnomer. Erected in the 1970s, they would really be more suitable as warehouses. The ceilings are high, which reduces the heat, but air-conditioning them would be prohibitively expensive. They could also run 24 hours, but no one wants to risk being attacked when travelling home after dark--even workers paid $2.50 a day are targets.
In late 2006, the U.S. gave the manufacturers a huge break by lifting import duties. In the 1990s, a trade embargo nearly brought Haiti to its knees. Now, the country exports 54 million T-shirts a year, and is the fourth-largest supplier to the U.S. after Honduras, Mexico and El Salvador. It's also the cheapest, delivering shirts at an average cost of $14.66 per dozen.
All the Haitian T-shirt makers' operations are broadly similar, and the plant we toured was typical. We saw dozens of rows of workers at individual sewing machines. By and large, the factories only assemble the garments from cloth manufactured and cut out in the Dominican Republic by bigger and more sophisticated machines. Haiti provides the lowest-value-added step in the process, in part because the sewing machines would be easy to pack up and ship out of the country, if necessary.
Years ago, cocaine traffickers succeeded in concealing transshipments from Haiti in industrial containers filled with finished garments. So brand-name U.S. clothing companies now require their Haitian manufacturers to certify shipments as drug-free. The factories buy highly specialized sniffer dogs, some costing as much as $10,000. Workers are also searched as they enter and leave work. Many of them drift from factory to factory, but plant managers are used to the turnover, and don't see any need to increase wages. Ultimately, said one manager, the plants will keep operating "as long as the assembly work force remains cheap and docile."
Montreal-based Gildan also has a factory in Port-au-Prince, but it's not located in the industrial park. It bought a property of its own in 2006 and built a new factory, investing a total of $10 million in Haiti. We didn't tour the plant, but Geneviève Gosselin, Gildan's director of corporate communications, talked about it with me after I returned from Haiti.
Protecting the company's 1,100 workers and the building are major objectives. Gosselin said the plant is "highly secure." Workers are paid $50 for a 5 1/2-day work week--almost triple what some Haitian factories pay--and the company provides subsidized meals and transport. No employees have been kidnapped, and production has rarely been interrupted.
Gildan's resolve should help Haiti, said Gosselin. "Being in the country, plus staying, brings visibility to attract other companies." For the moment, however, Gildan has no plans to increase (or re-duce) its investment in Haiti.
Are subsistence-level wages alone the basis for an influx of new investment? Even the Haitian factory owners would say no. Just about everyone we talked to agreed that it's a chicken-and-egg problem: Investors and tourists will only flock to Haiti if the political and social turmoil subside, and that turmoil will only subside when there are real economic improvements.
The UN mission leaders aren't all that confident, either. MINUSTAH is headquartered in a 1970s highrise hotel that was basically stripped of furnishings and fixtures before the UN arrived, and that has been converted to offices. Mission head Hédi Annabi is Tunisian, but sitting in his office in a grey suit, he's almost a movie version of a taciturn French diplomat.
He said MINUSTAH has made huge progress. In August, 2006, then-secretary-general of the UN Kofi Annan had to ride into Cité Soleil in an armoured personnel carrier, wearing a flak vest, and could only peer at the locals through a periscope. Last August, Annan's successor, Ban Ki-moon, strolled through the slum in a suit and tie. "The trip was without incident," Annabi said proudly.
Drumming up business and investment is a much taller order, and that's part of the job of Joël Boutroue, the lively and argumentative deputy special representative for the secretary-seneral and coordinator of humanitarian aid. He rattled off some recent aid infusions--$100 million from Canada, $50 million from the World Bank, $30 million from Spain, and more. He's also trying to codify business laws that stretch back to the 1820s. "You need to know the laws before you can enforce them," he said.
Among Boutroue's biggest disappointments, however, are the Haitian expatriates in Miami, Montreal and beyond. They're known as the "diaspora," and he thinks they should be doing much more. "I'm doubtful they will ever return," he said with a sigh. "We have to find new investors--ones that don't run from danger."
Who is stepping up to the plate? We found signs of hope in some unexpected places. On a visit to the Fame Pereo Institute clinic in Port-au-Prince, which specializes in HIV/AIDS and leprosy, we watched Dr. Claude Péan deliver a compelling PowerPoint presentation to Maxime Charles, hoping that Scotiabank would increase its contributions. On an annual budget of just over $100,000--60% from corporate donors--the clinic sees thousands of patients a year and maintains a staff of 39, including five doctors.
With Péan was the clinic's administrator, Réal Charlebois, an 82-year-old Catholic priest who was sent to Haiti by Paul-Émile Cardinal Léger of Montreal in 1953 to found a leprosy clinic. In the 1980s, the clinic started to treat other skin diseases as well, and in 2004, HIV/AIDS. Charlebois was also Maxime Charles's high-school Latin teacher. When we asked Charlebois later how the situation in Haiti today compares with the early '50s, he said, wistfully, in French, "It was a paradise."
Given the checkered track record of Haiti's politicians, we weren't expecting much when we entered the century-old military barracks on the Place du Champ de Mars, near the presidential palace, to meet with Préval's Minister of Finance, Daniel Dorsainvil. But the tall, robust, U.S.-educated economist was a shot of adrenalin. He dismissed the Forbes article as "Georgian," and quipped that someone had "got their teaching assistant to do it."
Dorsainvil then ticked off a long and impressive series of statistics from memory: Trade balance and government budget balance both improving, inflation down to single digits, and so on. Still, he acknowledged weaknesses--the biggest being the diaspora. About three million Haitians live outside the country, from virtual slave labourers in the Dominican Republic to multimillionaires in Miami and Europe. They sent back $1.65 billion in foreign remittances to Haiti in 2006, about 35% of the country's GDP. A U.S. economic downturn could choke off much of that flow.
True, the government is having some small successes collecting income taxes at home. But most of its revenues still come from customs and excise--the easiest kind of taxes for even a shaky regime to collect.
For the moment, however, many Haitians complain that the government is actually hoarding cash. Dorsainvil says the country doesn't have enough experts to get many much-needed capital projects going. "There simply aren't enough educated people left in the country to do case studies of investment proposals forwarded to the government," he said.
On the last day of our visit, our escorts took me to a dark downtown indoor market--with only open louvres on the side of the building for lighting--so I could buy a couple of plastic voodoo dolls for $5. The dolls still sit on a trading desk at my company's offices in Toronto. No one has dared to touch them yet.
Our return flight to Miami from Port-au-Prince was cancelled, but we weren't surprised. Scotiabank's staff got us seats on a later plane. On the flight back to Toronto, I thought about the more than 30 UN personnel who've been killed in Haiti since 2004, trying to make the place better. In early April, I watched news footage of the food riots and UN forces using tear gas in Port-au-Prince--on a tree-lined street where we had stood just two months before, waiting to interview Dorsainvil.
Haiti: 500 years of turmoil
1492
Christopher Columbus lands on "La isla espanola" (later shortened to Hispanola) and claims it for Spain. The native inhabitants, the Arawak, call it "Hayti," meaning mountainous land.
The Spaniards decimate the Arawak population.
1697
Spain cedes the western half of the island to France, and it becomes the colony of Saint-Dominique. Hundreds of thousands of African slaves work the rich sugar and coffee plantations. Society divides along racial lines, with French-speaking whites and mulattoes dominating Creole-speaking mulattoes and blacks.
1800
1801
Toussaint L'Ouverture, a freed slave who became a French officer, leads a rebellion, declares himself governor general, and abolishes slavery. France suppresses the rebellion.
1804
Jean-Jacques Dessalines, one of L'Ouverture's lieutenants, defeats the French, declares Haiti an independent nation, and proclaims himself Emperor Jacques I.
1806
Dessalines is assassinated. Haiti divides into a black-controlled north and a mulatto-ruled south.
1822
President Jean Pierre Boyer unifies Haiti and briefly conquers the Spanish colony of Santo Domingo, the eastern half of the island.
1843
Boyer is exiled, after ruining Haiti's finances.
1847
Faustin Élie Soulouque becomes president, and declares himself Emperor Faustin I in 1849. His regime is corrupt and violent.
1859
Soulouque is forced to abdicate, and Haiti sinks into near-constant political anarchy.
1900
1915
The U.S., worried about its investments in Haiti and a possible German invasion, occupies the country.
1934
The U.S. withdraws its troops, although it retains control of Haiti's government finances until 1947.
1957
Physician François Duvalier (Papa Doc), campaigning against the mulatto elite and with the support of the army, wins a suspect presidential election. He revives voodoo, claiming to be a priest, and terrorizes the populace with his corrupt paramilitary police, the Tonton Macoutes.
1964
Duvalier forces the National Assembly to declare him president for life.
1971
Papa Doc dies and is succeeded by his 19-year-old son, Jean-Claude Duvalier (Baby Doc).
1986
After 15 more years of repression and punishing economic decline, riots break out. Several of the few remaining major foreign-owned businesses, such as a Rawlings baseball factory and a Club Med resort, shut down. Baby Doc flees to France.
1990
Jean-Bertrand Aristide, a populist Catholic priest, is elected president.
1991
Aristide is ousted by a military coup in September, seven months after taking office. Joseph Nérette is installed as president under the control of Raoul Cédras, the leader of the military junta. The U.S. establishes an economic embargo.
1994
Cédras flees to Panama after U.S. President Bill Clinton and former president Jimmy Carter threaten a possible invasion, yet also promise to set him up in exile. Aristide returns to power.
1996
With Haiti's constitution preventing Aristide from serving consecutive terms, René Préval, an agronomist and political ally, is elected president.
2000
2000
Aristide, who had broken with Préval, wins a bitterly disputed presidential election that is boycotted by opposition parties.
2001
Aristide becomes more autocratic, and street gangs loyal to him clash with his opponents. The U.S., Canada and other developed countries curtail aid.
2004
Ex-military officers lead a coup, and Aristide flees under the direction of U.S. marines, whose role is the subject of heated debate. Aristide moves to exile in South Africa. UN peacekeepers arrive in Haiti and struggle to quell violence.
2006
Préval wins a presidential election after a recount pushes his total in the first round of voting above 50%. From South Africa, Aristide denounces the process as "treason."
2008
Riots over high food prices break out in April.
Danger zones
Snapshots of five hot spots where Canadian companies have boldly gone, using risk assessments from Control Risks, an international security and risk consultant, and data from the Doing Business project of the World Bank's International Finance Corp., which ranks how easy it is for companies to operate in 178 countries.
HAITI
148
WB-IFC rank
202
Estimated number of days to complete paperwork to start a business
Issues
Risk of kidnapping, carjacking, armed robbery and periods of unrest, plus police corruption and a weak judiciary
Canadian firms
Eurasian Minerals (gold),
Scotiabank, Gildan Activewear
VENEZUELA
172
WB-IFC rank
51
Percentage of businesses with paid security
Issues
The business and legal environment continues to be hostile and uncertain, and increasingly violent crime will have greater impact on businesses
Canadian firms
SNC-Lavalin, Royal Bank, Crystallex International (gold), PetroFalcon Corp.
(oil and gas)
DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO
178
WB-IFC rank
7.85
Incidents of water shortages in typical month
Issues
Ongoing counterinsurgency and the return of refugees may put brakes on building a strong central government
Canadian firms
MagIndustries Corp. (hydroelectricity), Africo Resources (copper and cobalt), Banro Corp. (gold), Lundin Mining (copper and cobalt)
AFGHANISTAN
159
WB-IFC rank
1,642
Number of days it takes to enforce a contract through the courts
Issues
Corruption, excessive bureaucracy and inadequate legal, regulatory and financial structures. Increasing anti-foreign sentiments
Canadian firms
Garda (security), ATCO Frontec, SNC-Lavalin, SkyLink Aviation
CAMBODIA
145
WB-IFC rank
82%
Firms that expect to bribe public officials
Issues
A weak legal framework and lack of commercial laws, plus uncertain implementation and enforcement
Canadian firms
Fairmont Hotels, GeoSpatial/SALASAN (governance consulting and mine clearance)