In Haitian Camps, 'Clef' Is More a State of Mind

PETIONVILLE, Haiti (Aug. 20) -- He's not Wyclef Jean. He's not Wyclef. In this camp, he's often just "Clef."

Among the tents at Place St. Pierre, everyone is wearing his T-shirts. Last month he stopped by here to promote his charity Yele Haiti's new cash-for-work program. Many saw him in person. Four weeks after the event, his reputation gets more saintly every day.

They know Clef. But how well do they know him? It's the simplest question that caused the most debate.

How much money do you think Clef makes every year?

"At least $1,000," George says.

"Ten thousand dollars!" shouts a passer-by.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Pierre says.

"I don't know," Jeline says ruefully. "But if he can afford to pay 1,000 people $7 a day to sweep the streets for a month, then probably, he's got money."
When pressed by NPR on questions of his finances, the hip-hop artist and would-be president of Haiti put it this way: "I make a lot of money a year."

Today, the electoral council is expected to decide whether Jean can run for president. Thursday night, Reuters reported that an unidentified electoral official said he was not on the list of approved candidates who satisfy legal requirements to run in the election.

Jean told CNN's Larry King that the report was false. "I wanted to clarify a rumor on Reuters that there's a list of candidates that came out and that (my) name isn't on it," Jean said. "That's not true. The list is supposed to come out tomorrow ... It's looking good for us."

No matter, for his fans, and now, his beneficiaries. The say he's already won.

Wyclef Jean isn't a politician here. He isn't even running a campaign. He's a love story. He is marrying up. He's a swift escape. He's the green card. He's the car, the girl. He's the imaginary life filled with flights in and flights out, and each return, coming back with better clothes and something more to give.

Wyclef Jean is the beautiful life on the other side of the Western Union transfer. He's the candidate of imagination. And when reality is a roadside tent, every promise he makes is golden.

No one here can say for sure why Jean doesn't live in Haiti. But they have some ideas.

"If I lived in America," Pierre says, "I'd play soccer. I'd live well. I'd have a house in the city with four bedrooms. I'd live by myself. I'd live in Hollywood, yeah, Hollywood. Every movie I watch, I see a part of Hollywood, and I think, yeah, that part is nice."

Pierre lives with his mom under a gray tarp. In the evenings, he hides inside it and worries about the gunfire from neighborhood toughs. But he's 15 years old. Still young enough to dream big.
Anne Marie, an orphan who is 12, dreams bigger.

"I'd like to be in the country," she says. "I'd have six bedrooms. A swimming pool. A big yard. A cat. And a dog named Beslet."

It's 9 a.m. and today Anne Marie has already swept the tent and washed the dishes. She's stopped to chat on her way to carry water. So what does she imagine herself doing in that big house?

"I guess I'd clean it," she says.

A few tents down, Antoinne is minding her young son.

"I'd love to have a nice little house," Antoinne says. "Somewhere I could live until I die."

She has the Yele Haiti T-shirt, but no job.

"He said he needed 200 people, so I didn't make it. But he said they'll give us all a chance later. He said he'll be back."

In interviews, the ones that will never be seen here in Haiti, Wyclef always says he's been drafted into his candidacy by the youth. But it's hard to say what he means by that. In stock car races, to draft someone is to ride so close behind another car that the car in front moves the air for the car behind it.

To make the metaphor work – to make Haiti work – Wyclef, clearly, needs to be the car in front.

"Will Haiti be better or worse when your daughter is your age?" I ask Jeline.

"Worse," she says. "How do I know? Because I lived 29 years, and believe me, nothing is better."

She looks down. She once called her brother to ask if she could come to the U.S. to live with him, but he said no.

"Every time we call and ask him for money, they've got some problem. A sick kid, an accident."

Jeline sells cigarettes, $1 a pack; and bread with peanut butter.

What does the world look like from Haiti? An aid worker says she once took a tour to the top of Haiti's tallest mountain. She said what strikes you isn't the vast ocean expanding blue and crystalline into the distance. You notice the trees. And how they only seem to grow in the neighboring Dominican Republic. You see the emptiness of Haiti, she says. You see its poverty, even where there are no people.

No one in this camp at Place St. Pierre has ever climbed to the highest point of Haiti, but to be sure, they know the feeling.