Archive for the ‘Haiti’ Category

In the Meantime in Ayiti – Sebastian’s Adventures in Haïti

April 2, 2011

 Back in March,  Sebastian (Wanda’s son) spent  15 days in Haïti, assisting a Polish film crew with the making of a mockumentary (fiction/documentary ) film about the life of Amon Frémon, an Haitien voodoo priest of Polish descent (The film work title being “Sex, Voodoo and PRL”, PRL being the former communistic Republic of Poland) Sebastian’s knowledge of the country (he had spent several months in Haiti during his anthropology studies) was very helpful to the crew.  Hereunder is his story.

 En Mars, Sébastien (le fils de Wanda) s’est rendu à Haïti pour assister une équipe de production polonaise avec le tournage d’un film documentaire/fiction traitant de la vie d’ Amon Frémon, un prêtre haïtien de descendance polonaise. La connaissance du pays que possède Sébastien et les contacts qu’il y détient (il y a séjourné plusieurs mois durant ses études d’anthropologie) étaient très utiles pour l’équipe de tournage. Son récit est ci-dessous.

Le récit est en anglais seulement et la traduction en français serait vraiment fastidieuse, surtout en raison de l’usage de mulitples termes intraduisibles. Désolé… 




So, it all started at Schiphol aeroport when I, unwittingly as is my wont, came on time to check in at British Airways. Passport goes into the slot, computer goes beep, girl at the check-in asks me if I have a Visa. Me, unruffled, answer, course not, I’ve a Dutch passport, don’t NEED a visa. Girl at the check-in apologises, it’s her first day at work after a three-month sabbatical.. However, do I have an ESTA, I need an electronic ESTA-confirmation, a Visa-Waiver-Programme thingy that goes beep-beep in the computer.. Suavely, I says, I dunno, I hope my PRODUCTION-team applied for it, I sent them my passport numbah n everythang.. Ahh, says she, there we are, we cannot let you board if the computer don’t go beep-beep, n seeing as it evidently isn’t going beep-beep, your production-team didn’t apply the necessary electronics for your passport to go beep-beep.. There’s a computer over yonder, let us make our way over there an see if we can get it go beep-beep on time for your flight..

Over yonder we go, rick-e-ta-ticking away on the computer to try for my electrific ESTA-applicatication. Meanwhile, I frenetically try to call the 27-year old production team-leader on the ground, in the field as it were, (however, she is not on the ground or in the field – she’s high up in the air, flying her way to Heathrow with the directors and sound-boy) all the while, a decidedly uneasy feeling creeps up me spine and lodges itself squarely, smack-bam, in the middle of my gullet, affecting my tonsils also.

It all goes quite smoothly, until we a hit a rough patch, namely; a 14 US$ payment for said electrapplication… with a credit-card.. that I do not own.. why? Because I am stupid, also, I am black-listed.. and am beginning to feel less than proud of this sinful legacy of my youth. No matter however; the super-efficient Englishman at the BA-info-counter, says BA will pay for it, this time, only once, I am in luck, but we’ll have to try the passport in the slot until I get approval to go into the US –  a place I do not necessarily want, but need, to go through to get to the promised land – Ayiti-Cheri.

We try and try, and try yet again, and do so for protracted amounts of time, and still it goes beep only once, not twice, and I’m beginning to feel fucked, that is, buggered, meaning; taken up the ass, in a rather rough, not gentle, fashion.. and it does not feel nice at all, truth be told..

The earthquake hits, the choleric epidemic breaks out, malaria-larvae have penetrated my blood-vessels and are lodging themselves into my liver; the gate closes, and I have missed my flight. The super-efficient Englishman at the BA-info-counter however, rebooks my tickets and, although I will not meet my team in Heathrow, I’ll be in NY on time to get on the plane to PAP… As long as my ESTApplication goes beep-beep when my passport hits the slot… I must wait for the next flight, and go where anyone goes to drown their fears and frustrations. Munching away at genetically-modified freedom fries and a gravy-sodden sponge-like Burger King-burger, I call Marta, the production-assistant, yet again, for the umpteenth time. Lo and behold, she calls me back. She’s never heard of ESTA, what a bother, what now, what do we do, I will call the girls in Warsaw at the office, and other such expressions of panic – I feel strangely calm.

To the check-in once again, and wouldn’t you know it, my passport has a mind of its own and refuses to beep twice.. my calm has dissipated immediately, making way for the comfort of panic-stricken emotions. I ask all the girls at the check-in, isn’t there anyone we can call, the embassy, a benevolent American benefactor who might help, anyone? These people do not exist – they say in chorus, and Kafka is jabbing me between the ribs, and it does not feel nice at all.. Marta calls me for the last time, from the plane, and from now I will have to deal with the girls at the office. Before she hangs up, I remember I need, in the unlikely event that I get to the US, an address where we’re staying.. I hear “Lane 153” and the line goes dead. We try n try n try, n try yet again, but the liberating double-beep just will not come, the gate closes, and by now I cannot walk, the gang-bang orgy that has been going on in my rectum has finally crippled me, and it does not feel nice at all, …

Turns out, one of the girls calls a numbah, at the end of that numbah is a man, this man can call a nother numbah, this is an American numbah attached to a bonafide Merican benevolent benefactor, and this Merican Maricon benifuckter can check what the status of my ESTipplication is.. it is good he says, however, it has not been paid, the Netherlander needs to pay $14US with a credit-card, that he does not own, for he black-listed, but no worries, cause the super-efficient Englishman at the BA-info-counter has .. NOT .. paid for the application. It’s all gone Pete Tong, tits up, lungs out, legs akimbo, wrongggggggggggg………….

This is no time to point fingers and reflect on the vicissitudes of culpability, I rush to the super-efficient Englishman at the BA-info-counter and ask how to get to NY. He can’t get me there, but there is a single, solitary, last-man-standing ticket for a KLM-flight to NY in an hour, you’ll have to run, you’ll have to pay, there is no seat-nember, good night and good luck. This I do, I run, I call the girls at the office in Warsaw, say: “this is no time to point fingers and reflect on the vicissitudes of culpability, but if I pay for the ticket, will I get it back?” There’s quite a few uhmms and Ahhs from the girl in the office in Warsaw, but ultimately,”yes, you’ll get it back, what else we gonna do?” The ticket has no seat-number, but I refuse to stand, and would be refused to board if I did so, so I get a seat and… 6 hours later.. JFK – that monstrous excuse for an airport.

I do not know the name of the hotel I am to sleep in, and after struggling through the queue at the Homeland Security control, unbooted and unsuited, fingerprinted and rectally-scanned (they said it would be a retinal scan, and I believed them), I find out their (the Polish crew) flight has arrived in NY hours before. Never fear though, Rypson’s here, and Rypson has concocted a failproof plan whilst flying high in the Atlantic air; he will wander around the gate looking for three tall Pollacks posing as directors and a sound-boy, and a 27-year old girl posing as a production-assistant. He does so for a while, unsure of why God has decided to direct a flight from Warsaw to JFK Terminal 7; there are multitudes of groups of tall Pollacks and 27-year old girls waiting for their loved ones, and no-one is waving a film-crew flag.. Rypson is disgusted and feels the all too familiar gang-bangers (Kafka has sneaked himself among them) encroaching on undefended territory right behind him.. it is starting to feel not nice at all, yet again..

He cannot call Marta from his phone, for in all his wisdom he decided to order a phone that will not call in a foreign country. He decides to enlist the help of a helpful Merican benefactor.. it turns out that the girls behind the BA-check-in at Schiphol were right all along; these people do not exist. AnMerican sim-card is out of the question, it costs 80 $US, so the obvious solution is a calling-card for foreign numbers, he may call at a payphone. He buys one for ten bucks, he tries and tries and tries again, it will not patch him through to her Polish number. The Merican at the phone-card counter explains to him that this is impossible. He tries himself, and unbelievably, it turns out to be possible after all. He whips out a calling-card for twenty bucks, this one’s from another company, this one will definitely work. It does not. This is impossible the Merican says, and tries it himself. It turns out to be possible after all. My plight has been forgotten and for a good hour we discuss the possible impossibility of two different calling cards not working. This is very interesting. However, I remember I have pressing matters as well, and retrieve my 30 bucks and wander around Terminal 7. I remember “Lane 153” and ask at another counter whether this address actually exists and, if so, whether it might perchance be linked to a hotel. It does and it is; Comfort Inn Hotel. Sounds bout right. I take a shuttle and arrive at reception 15 minutes later. A young Indian boy appraises me while I explain my predicament; I think I might have a room, but I didn’t meet my crew at Heathrow, I don’t have a working phone, phone-cards do not work in this country, I am tired of being tirelessly fucked in the arse, I do not know under which name the reservation was made, but anything that sounds Polish should be checked subito. After 5 minutes he enquires whether my name is Sebastian .. I say no of course, Homeland Security  might be following me, but I get sent to their room anyway. I meet Franio (sound-boy), Piotro (director, director of photography, basically camera-boy), Barto (director, jack of all trades) and Marto (assistant to all things produced in the field and on the ground). They tell me they nearly missed their plane in Warsaw (they needed to check-in the film-equipment at Immigration.

Next day we nearly miss our flight to Miami (film-crew need to check-out their camera-equipment at Border Control and Homeland Security, but all the disparate offices are appropriately closed), but we don’t and make it anyway, we are finally on our way to civilisation and leaving this inefficient, God-forsaken, Third-World nightmare (Darfur would merit better reviews).


We land at L’Aeroport Toussaint Louverture in Port-au-Prince (formerly, for a while, Port Republicain). We lose Franio (the sound boy) along the way, Marta has a Haitian baby thrust into her arms – her motherly instincts take over, and we get mobbed by ‘official’ baggage handlers ‘helping’ us carry our bags. The aeroport is cracked and fissured, it is a Haitian mess, Ein Polnische Landstag. Meanwhile Marta is calling Jonas Louifils, our designated driver, he is waiting for us outside the airport. We get to him, a good-looking 32-year old Haitian born in the Grande Anse, currently resident of PAP. We hit it off right away, and my Kreyol is coming back to me … I confess to be slightly worried about that. Thing is, id you show any proclivity towards trying to speak Kreyol in Haiti, Haitians will by-and-large be so pleasantly surprised that they start teaching uou on the spot by explaining their words a hundred-times over, they are natural linguists. Franio turns up again, we set off at the back of Jonas’ truck through devastated PAP towards our Coconutvil Hotel in Delmas neighbourhood. We have dinner, get to know Jonas, and we take a ride PAP’s centre; it is Warsaw after the War; rubble, dust, tents and makeshift homes, the Cathedral and Presidential Palce have imploded into the mess of the once stately Champs Mars square, I do not see the statue of Marron Inconnu for all the tents that have been set up around it, there are two latrines for the whole camp. I tell my compatriots to stop flashing their cameras, the people do not relish the idea of being photographed in all their misery, it is heart-rending and there are no words, they lose all meaning…


The next day Jonas picks us up at 7, we leave at 9, and set out to procure funds, snacks, Prestige, Comme Il Faut and Barbancourt (beer, cigarettes and rum). We find a cash-point, I feed it my card, and it appreciates this enormously; it gobbles it up, munches on it for a few seconds, swallows, then burps … and says thank you, do you have more of that? No I don’t, I now have no card. No worries however, it is Marta who will pay for everything, so there is no problem. I do, however, sms Arjanne to cancel my card (with my new Haitian Digicel-simcard). This, my beautiful angel, does with much effort. Eanwhile we make an appointment with Leah Gordon’s (the English journalist/photographer who has been connected with Haiti and Vodou for yonks) boyfriend Eugene, a Vodou sculpteur and highly acclaimed member of Atis Rezistans – Les Sculpteurs du Grand Rue. We make an appointment with him for an interview and a possible Vodou-ceremony with a neighbour Vodou-houngan of his.

It is now 17:00 o’clock and we haven’t bought all we need, so we decide to leave for Cazale and let Jonas worry about the weights for the camera-contraption. As we veer to the right at Cabaret, we ascend along the dusty track towards Cazale and it all comes back to me, I am excited and nervous.. W drive on, the longest 13 km in all the world, and make a left at the fork to Bethel/Bretelle. As we make our way amongst the banana-groves of Cazale I spy a familiar figure crossing the newly-built bridge across the river to KaBelno (the oldest part of town); it is Tonton Milot! My appropriated uncle together with his trusty steed; ‘IciRed’ (‘It is Tough Here’) – his donkey. I give him a shout, and his wrinkly mouth spreads from one ear to the other, his pointed nose keeping watch above it. We make it to Lakay Guerda Benoit, right next to the Legliz Sen Michel Arkanj. Edson Belneau, Geri’s nephew, is waiting for us, as is Irma; she will be our Mami for the next couple of weeks. The house has been prepared for us, Irma has cooked for us, our beds are made for us.. I am home! That evening, we drink with the Juge de la Paix, Robenson Belneau, Edson Belneau and ‘Jeff’ Belfort – all family-members of Geri.


The next day, a Tuesday, is market-day on the grounds of the weekly Mache, a newly built L’Ecole Secondaire overlooking it. At 09:00 we make our way through the banana-groves and piti-mi beds with all our equipment to make some atmospheric shots, I do not like the feeling of this but acquiesce, also it is much too hot, we should’ve been there at 5 or 6. We film for a few hours, I have to be with the crew at all times, they lose their shit if someone starts to talk to them, at one moment I was talking to my old host, Sylvain Benoit (Geri’s father), and some guy started to shout at them and laughing at them with some market-sellers (Maman Machann), they didn’t feel very much at ease after that. We make our way back at about 14:00 o’clock, everybody’s wasted, but we still have to do our first interview with a gentleman named Mercidieu, I remember him, and he tells us about his family living in Charleston and Miami, and he tells us about the time he met the Pope, Jan-Pol De, at L’Aeroport Francois Duvalier in ’83.  We have dinner at 16:00 and we leave for another interview with Tonton Milot, we have an appointment at his son’s house; Gilbert, on the other side of the river. We get to Gilbert but Tonton Milot is nowhere to be seen, it is explained to us that he is coming, but he is not here, he is still feeding IciRed in KaBelno. He arrives at his son’s house at 18:00 and we make another appointment for the day after. On the way back home, I meet several of my friends, amongst whom; Jean-Jules Emile, Jid! We hug and make happy.

Piotrec ap filme, Franio ap bwe you cocoye, e mwen menm. m’ap f’un ti pale ak Mercidieu

The day after. We walk towards Tonton Milot’s house this time, he is not at his son’s Gilbert’s house, he is not there either however, it is explained to us that he is coming, but he is not here, he is still feeding IciRed in KaBelno. On the way, several young beauties shout out Sebassyen! You do not recognise us? How are you? This scene is repeated many times during my sojourn in Cazale, more often than not, I indeed do not remember them, but I am a natural diplomat, I  lie and say that of course I do remember them, how are you? We do the interview with Tonton Milot (who has appeared in the meantime, together with IciRed) in Lakou Granmoun (the old-people’s/ancestor’s courtyard – all courtyards are outside). He tells us Amon Fremon – the protagonist of this film,  it is through this Cazalien houngan’s eyes that we will look at Polish sexuality during the PRL-period – was a Man without End, a Man who was too much/deep for the Earth he walked upon, a man who had black teeth which had become even blacker after his visit to Poland with Glokoski, A Man who also became whiter after that Odyssey, a man who did not heed the signs of his imminent death in ’97, a man who did not take care of his affairs when he died, a man who was feared when he was alive, a man whose house and houmfort (vodou-temple) were destroyed and taken apart after his death, a man who was told by a Loa-Spirit (it might have been Bossou, it may have been Zonbi Nan Wouj, it could’ve been the Marassa-twins) where to find a jar of gold, a man who treated Tonton Milot’s daughter (since deceased) without pay, a man who was terribly cheap though (Yon Chich, yon Tintin), he didn’t share his treasure with his friends, a man, more importantly, who did not share his treasure with his sister whereas the Loa told him to do so, a Man who disappeared into thin air or disappeared under water when the Duvalier-police arrested him to force him to disclose the treasure he had found, A Man who predicted there would be a chicken with eight chicklets walking across the bridge at Pont Sofi (and indeed there were), a man, in sum, with many diverse qualities.


During the next few days we did many interviews, first going to the person in question to ask whether they would mind to make an appointment for a little talk while we made images (fe’on ti pale le n’ap prann kek imaj yo). Mostly they said yes, always we asked about Amon Fremon’s visit to PRL in ‘80, about their Polish ancestors of 1804, about the Pope’s visit in ’83, about the Massacre of ’69. Always they would answer us and veer off to the direction of the underdevelopment of the area, about the help they would like to see from Poland, about the film-crews that had come and asked them about information, leaving never to return, and never to send them any sign or help. We interviewed Amon’s last wife, with 7 children running around, her kay-pay (mud-and wattle hut) perched precariously on a ledge of a hill overlooking Cazale. She had had two children by Amon, she had sent them away to Cabaret and Port-au-Prince as Restaveks (child-labour in the houses of the wealthy – there are around 300.000 to 500.000 of such children) in the hope that their masters would send them to school for their domestic work. She was 36 years old and sweet and shy, peasant-shy, poverty-shy. She was 14 years old when she was with Amon, 17 when he died at the age of 70 some years. What kind of person was Amon like? She did not know, he didn’t beat her, he was not mad that often. Love? No, it was not love that brought them together, she had it tough (Ici Red) here, maybe he could help her some if she would be with him. Yes she knew he had gone to Poland, no they hadn’t ever talked about it, she was 15 and did not ask questions, she simply had his children, he didn’t leave her anything else after his death, his other children, two of them who were older than she was, took

everything he had, which was not much after all, they never found that pot of gold…

The next day we interviewed Monique, Amon’s second daughter; a businesswoman from Port-au-Prince, we paid for her trip to Cazale, she was in the business of buying and selling refrigerator-parts in Santo Domingo. She didn’t have any pictures of her father, she knew that he had been to Poland but they had never talked about it. Except that he had said that he had liked Poland, but could not stay there, he didn’t speak the language and missed his zye-ver (green-eyes; his name for Monique) terribly. There were plans to go to Poland again, this time with his daughter, but then he died, she does not know if Blokowski was still alive, did we have any pictures of her father? How he died? He got sick and died. Yes he was an houngan, but she didn’t meddle in those kind of mystic affairs, she was afraid of them, Bondye was on her side but her father had told her that she would always be safe, his Loas would always take care of her, she would like to visit Poland though.. was this possible?

Day after day, we met up with people, many a time it was a rejoiceful reunion, always the conversation would steer towards the underdevelopment, the help that was not coming from Poland, the wish to visit Poland, the people that had died, Amon…

We spent one late afternoon with Tonton Milot’s family in his Lakou. This family was easily some 40 or 50 individuals at any given time. The director-boys needed some material of unforced inter-personal behaviour between girls and boys, and I explained to them that as they had so little time this was going to be difficult. We should go to someone we know, someone who’s family, and hang out, little by little opening up the cameras and the sound, get them used to us. So there we were in Tonton Milot’s kingdom, with his daughters, wife, sons-in-law and other assorted extended-family members. As the situation was still rather uncomfortable I sacrificed myself, I did the Haka-dance that I’d learned in NZ years ago, for them, twice! It was success, and I believe that I have missed my true calling, I should’ve become a clown in Cazale, they were very taken with my antics. I performed with great gusto and aplomb, and as a result I lost my voice – which either made me sound sexy or like Ezili Danto. The situation loosened up, I played football with the boys and destroyed the pigeon-coop, the dog’s pen and kicked a ball in a 2-year old girl’s face (I am not, nor have ever been, a great footballer – actually, I’m crap) – we had a great time. As we were walking back home, kids from all directions were emulating my Haka, I believe I have started a tradition. That afternoon was my favourite, I could’ve hung around there indefinitely.


Finally we made an appointment with Auguste Louis, a powerful houngan from the Grand Chemin neighbourhood. We sat in his Houmfort negotiating the price of the ceremony, the drummers, the dancers, the costumes, the food, the alcohol and the cigarettes. He started off at 20.000 gourdes, some 2.500 American Dollars. Finally I whittled it down to 700. Houngans are not paid for their work by any ecclesiastic hierarchy, houngans charge what they think their customers can part with, obviously, for us, the price amounted to 700 dolla Mericain. The ceremony was planned for Thursday morning, at 09:00 am. Empere Auguste was shaved and bathed, anointed with pungent perfumes. He and his assistant, the Houngekon or LaPlace and LaReine (the queen of his houmfort and societe), drew the veve of the Marassa twins on the ground in front of the central pole of his peristyl. He fed Ezili Danto her food and her drinks (pork, red rice and brown beans, wine, rhum, cakes and cigarettes). And then we waited for the drummers and the dancers from the mountains. Meanwhile, people from Cazale came and went, had a couple of drinks, left, and came back again. Sanctity in a Vodou-ceremony is a trifle different from sanctity in a Polish Roman Catholic Church; there is laughing, joking, drinking and smoking. At the beginning of the ceremony, Empere Auguste had given me a braided bottle of clairin/tafia with special herbs inside against flatulence and an upset stomach. Although I had neither at the time, I decided that I should, as a precautionary measure, in the interests of conducting interviews without farting every 5 minutes, take swig out of the bottle every so often. The rest of the crew thought that this was a good idea also, and they duly kept coming to me for their anti-flatulent medicine. At 11:00 am I was raving drunk and embarked upon a suspended negotiation round to find out how this magical medicinal bottle could become mine. By the end of the ceremony I was able to whittle down the price from 30 dolla Mericain to 6 $US. My ceremony had become a success.

Auguste then commenced to call down Exili Dantho in the inner sanctum of the Peristyl, all us Pollacks were present, it was our request after all. I sat next to Auguste and he needed 157 dolla Ayisyen (31,4 American dollars) to give to Ezili to entice her come down and ride him, like a jockey would ride a horse. We gave some gourdes and Auguste prayed, shook and trembled and then was quiet. Erzulie Danthor looked around, at us, at the queen of the Houmfort, at the houngenikon, and asked us, in a high-pitched outlandish voice, how we were, all the while shaking us by both hands, crossed over each other. She enquired as to the reason this encounter, I replied that I would like her to bless Cazale as well as Poland. This was difficult for me as I had no voice and definitely sounded like Ezili Danto, who is beautiful but not sexy. She would do so she said, but she knew that we were actually asking her help to ensure the success of our respective businesses, our projects and watch for our health and defence against all accidents. She said she would do just that, and she anointed our arms, legs and face with oily perfume. Ezili then disappeared and Auguste yawned, woke up, and said we should eat.. it was pork with red rice and beans, and coca-cola.

Around 14:00 Met-la (le Maitre) Auguste started the prayers in front of Ezili’s food and drink table, this went on till about 16:30, it was very boring.

The light was disappearing when the drumming, singing and dancing began, there was a DanPetwo dance, a Rada-dance and a Zonbi-dance.. At around 21:00, 22:00 we left the party, drunk and exhausted, it was to go till 06:00 am the next day.


The next day we met many of our new friends and bid them farewell, they all said, please do not forget us.. and we went on back to Port-au-Prince, on the back of Jonas’ pick-up. Back to Coconutvil Hotel.

The next day we planned to go to Eugene the Atis Rezistans sculptor and do an interview with him at 7, we arrived there at 10 and entered his Lakou where many boys were sitting outside, checking their e-mails and listening to Youtube songs by latest rap-star Izolan. I negotiated a price for the filming and we asked many general questions relating to odou and its cosmology. More interesting was the situation Eugene lived in. ext to his studio/gallery/ chock-full of Vodou art and paraphernalia, he had a tiny bedroom with pictures of Che Guevara, Dessalines and Osama Bin Laden, a TV and a cd-player. He still lived there in the neighbourhood he grew up in, working with a loose configuration of some 50 sculptors and about 50 children, teaching the tricks of the trade. Eugene and several other sculptors are well-known, sell their objet-trouve Vodou art for many thousands of dollars in the US and Europe, do interviews with BBC, ABC, CNN and Al Jazeera, but choose to stay in their old neighbourhood. Partly, benevolence, helping their neighbourhood to generate income, but partly they cannot leave, the neighbourhood and the people that depend on them would never let them go. There are many hundreds of people that depend on them and the whole neighbourhood (a few concrete-brick structures with a lot of corrugated iron structures – we would call it a slum) is now devoted to making art. We were very safe there with Eugene, there are many powerful houngans living here, and some of the artists are themselves houngans, no one in their right mind would even think of kidnapping us..

After filming Eugene we commenced on a mission to find some Haitian music. I pretty much knew what I wanted but there were no existing music stores, we finally found a street-side stall. The five of us went inside where it turned out we were surrounded by the latest in Haitian Porn. Leaning across a football-table strewn with dvds of Big Dicks and Black Chicks, we listened to and chose some 10 pirate cds.

Gade sa-a! Yon bel ti manman on ye!

The next day, I left for Europe. It was cold.

copyright Sebastian Rypson 2011

 Sebastian is anthopologist. During his studies, he spent several months in Haiti investigating about Haitians of Polish descent. These were descendents of Polish mercenaries who deserted Napoleon’s army after it was defeated by the Haitians. The study was the subject of his thesis which he completed in 2008.

Sébastien est anthropologue. Durant ses études il a séjourné plusieurs mois à Haïti, enquêtant sur les haïtiens de descendance polonaise. Ce sont les descendants de mercenaires polonais ayant déserté l’armée de Naploéon à la suite de sa défaite en Haïti.  Cette étude fut le sujet de sa thèse publiée en 2008.


From Sebastian’s Album