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Every time I went to Haiti I felt I was going to die there. I was as far from being a cowboy as I had ever been. I had a prosperous life to return to. Each time, before departure, I calculated the risk, and if it had ever seemed more than negligible I certainly would have stayed home.
Still the feeling always persisted. In Haiti I had once been possessed by demons. Probably these fears were not so unusual among other blancs — foreigners like me—and maybe even among Haitians perhaps especially among Haitians. Also I now knew that the fear would dissipate soon after arrival.
Once you stepped outside the airport you had so many things to do and take care of and pay very close attention to that there was no room to be afraid. But for blancs it always begins at the airport. Further experience of kouri could be had on the descent from the Citadelle, when the people selling crafts and military detritus ambushed you.
There was no danger involved whatsoever nobody wanted to make it so awful that tourists would never come and you could probably prearrange it with a guide so that it hardly happened at all, but … in fact I bought some rather nice stuff.