Colorful Haitian's Campaign Is in the Pink

Emily Troutman Contributor

AOL News

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti (Nov. 27) -- The back of Michel Martelly's presidential campaign truck is speckled with pink paint. And not just pink. It's bubble-gum pink. His posters are Barbie pink. Maybe even Victoria's Secret pink. Like everyone else's posters, they are glued corner to corner across the country, and here, in the capital city, on its ragged, crumbling walls.

There are so many posters lining this city that you have to wonder if this is the new rebuilding strategy. And in a way, it is. The elections come at a precarious time, one that is also special for the potential it holds and for the power and the voice that Haiti's next president can offer.

According to a poll taken this week, of the 18 candidates for president, only three stand a chance of winning the election, which begins Sunday. A candidate must get 51 percent of the vote to win outright. If no one is able to, which seems likely, the public will go back to the polls in January to vote again, between the candidates in first and second place.

 

Emily Troutman for AOL News

Michel Martelly, who is running for president of Haiti, moves easily between songs, politics and conversation. He says he's not running to be president of Haiti, he's running to change Haitians' lives.

For many voters, a poster is all they will ever know of the candidates. Only half of Haitian adults can read, and most do not have regular access to electricity. So where American campaigns are inundated with commercials, Haiti has its posters.

Mirlande Manigat, a stately, 70-year-old, Sorbonne-educated woman with a Ph.D. in political science, leads the poll. In her campaign photo, she wears small, granny-style glasses. It hasn't helped the impression here that she might be too old for the job. Her posters, like her campaign, are staid green and white. Appropriate, though not eminently memorable.

Jude Celestin, President Rene Preval's pick, is in second place. The 48-year-old's campaign has fairly wallpapered the city with green and yellow. They are the same colors as Brazil's soccer team and a clever choice, since everyone here already owns a green and yellow shirt. He's smiling in his poster. He looks a bit like a cat with a bird in his mouth.

Amid all this propriety is Martelly, in third place. His posters create a sea of hot pink as he looks out at the electorate. He's bald, suited, with a sincere if clown-like smile. His Creole campaign slogan is "Tet kale," which actually means "bald." But it also means "no sweat." As in, we've got this whole presidential thing covered.

Violence Mars Rally

In any universe, in any country -- poor or rich, cholera-ridden or cholera-free -- pink is not an ordinary color scheme for a campaign. And "bald" is not an ordinary slogan. Then again, Martelly, 49, is not an ordinary candidate. Some think his odd approach will help him win. Laugh at the poster and it seems to laugh at you. But he's serious. And his campaign got even more serious when shots were fired at a rally late Friday night.

Local authorities could not confirm any deaths or injuries. But at a press conference today, the campaign contended the shots, which sounded like hand guns and machine guns, were part of an attempt on Martelly's life.

Richard Morse, the candidate's cousin, who was a witness to the event, said he saw a frightening man approach Martelly then heard shooting, but he wouldn't speculate on whether the person was an assassin.

Violence, unfortunately, has become par for the course this month in Haiti, as tensions and emotions often run high at campaign events.

"Our intent was not to cause trouble,"Morse said about the rally. "Our intent was simply to rejoice the end of a few difficult weeks."

Revered for His Flamboyance

Before Martelly ran for president of Haiti, he was already Haiti's president of konpa music: "Sweet Micky," a celebrity musician revered for his wild ways and flamboyance. Pink is now, as it always has been, his signature color. It's not the evidence of a blushing bride. If there's one thing to know about Sweet Micky, it's that he was never, ever "sweet."

Over the past two decades, Martelly solidified his musical reputation by constantly pushing boundaries. When a rival band accused him of being gay, he took to wearing dresses onstage. Then thongs. And though he's been married for 23 years, he was, he admitted, once a notorious ladies' man. He told AOL News that he thanked his wife for "enduring those years."

 

Emily Troutman for AOL News

At a campaign rally for Michel Martelly in Kenscoff, Haiti, the candidate is flanked by security and at the far left, his cousin, the well-known musician, Richard Morse.

Haitian culture adores celebration, and during his peak in the 1990s, Micky made the party. He was Haiti's version of Kanye West, stealing the mic from Taylor Swift. Or Janet Jackson, disrobing at the Super Bowl. He was Britney Spears, shaving her head and running in her underwear down the beach. He was Sinead O'Connor, ripping up a picture of the pope on "Saturday Night Live."

Sweet Micky was a superstar, and everyone's favorite disgrace.

"Onstage I would drink heavily, I would smoke," he told AOL News. "I would curse. I mean -- I mean curse. I would drop my pants. I would wear a skirt. And I didn't care what people said. I didn't care, and I don't regret a second of it. First of all, this is what made me. Sweet Micky, the people loved him."

Ten years ago, perhaps because of his age or just from boredom, he decided to tone down his act. But in his new campaign for president, the straight-talking jester still shows up.

At a campaign event on Wednesday, he's standing on top of a truck, on top of a mountain in the cool, green town of Kenscoff.

"You've seen Celestin's posters, right?" he asks the crowd. "Green and yellow? That's probably why Brazil keeps losing."

Families in the town square hang out their windows, and young men have climbed to the rooftops to see him speak. Even without the celebrity, he is magnetic. And funny.

Emily Troutman for AOL News

Sweet Micky won their hearts, but Michel Martelly is winning their minds. At a rally in Kenscoff, Haiti, hundreds watch, listen and laugh as Martelly gives his stump speech. He is calling for a tax on the lottery in Haiti as a way to support universal primary education without dependence on international funding.

He tells the story of a televised debate that he attended a few days ago, and he's telling it the way he might in the back of a bar, as if everyone here is his friend. He excoriates his competition, accusing most of being part of an old regime, familiar political characters, known to many here as powerful people who squandered their chance to change Haiti.

"So ... Leslie Voltaire was there," he says. "You know, the little Chinese-looking guy."

Voltaire, an architect and candidate for president, was once thought to be a major contender, in part because of his leading role in the reconstruction process. Among other things, he has been a special envoy to the United Nations, charged with supporting the work of former U.S. President Bill Clinton in Haiti. Though Voltaire is Haitian, he also looks vaguely Asian. "Ti Chin" (my sweet Chinese), Martelly calls him.

He says Voltaire brought his "box of numbers" with him to the debate and suggests Haiti needs more than studies.

Then comes the roast of Mirlande Manigat.

Emily Troutman for AOL News

Martelly roasts his competition. Here, he mimics the propriety of the leading candidate, Mirlande Manigat. His combination of biting satire and strong policy plans allows him to connect with voters in a way that other candidates have not.

"Yeah, she was there too. With all her fancy French," and he whispers in a faux accent, "Oui, c'est la la ooo la la Sorbonne c'est blah la la ..."

Martelly stands very straight, and in his lofty mimicry of Manigat he suggests she's not connected to the people. Actually, Martelly himself speaks French, which no one knew until this campaign, he says, "because that's not what I was selling." And as he tears down his opponents, he subtly reminds the crowd that as a musician he has spent his career moving comfortably through a vertical culture -- beloved by both the rich and poor.

His impersonations are raw, offensive and funny, and they hit a nerve -- the crowd goes wild. Just moments later, Martelly is outlining his approach to universal primary education and explaining his strategy of financing it through a tax on the lottery.

His speech has, all of a sudden, gotten very serious, and now everyone is, accidentally perhaps, listening with rapt attention.

Campaign Was Never a Joke

Policy, laughing, policy, dancing, policy, a little song. That's Martelly's hat trick. And it's so impressive that his campaign has gone from a joke to third place in the polls. Many feel he has a good outside chance to emerge as the winner.

It was never a joke, says Martelly. "Those people who thought it was a joke -- they're the joke. Today I look at every single Haitian who doesn't understand me, I see them all as a joke. And I take myself seriously. Because, me? As silly as I look? I would never endure such misery. I would fight. I would become a rebel."

Emily Troutman for AOL News

Martelly has pulled into third place in his campaign for president of Haiti. Many thought the run was a joke, but his ideas and his candidacy may yet prevail.

His cousin Morse, a musician and owner of the Hotel Oloffson, has been a vocal supporter of the campaign. He says that for 20 years, a riff divided him from his cousin, but when Martelly decided to run for president, Morse was swayed by the philosophy of the campaign and publicly made amends.

"I heard him talk. And I talked to him and his wife," Morse says. "You've got to have someone who speaks to the people and is concerned with the people. You've got to have, in a sense, a rebel. Because anything that represents a continuity of what's going on right now I don't like. You've got to have someone who's not afraid to speak out and say what's going on."

What Martelly says is often shocking. At the rally, Martelly says that women who work for the government have to get that job by sleeping with powerful men.

As someone in the audience laughs, Martelly responds, "Yeah, you're laughing now, but if your daughter works in the government, she's probably already [slept with] her boss."

"He's saying things that are outrageous. And true," Morse says. "And that's why people are intrigued. They know it's true and no one ever talks about it."

Martelly started a nonprofit with his wife a few years ago, and his social works over the past 17 years, particularly in agriculture, are well known. But still, some people who knew him well were surprised to see the seriousness with which he's approached the National Palace.

"Micky is a friend," says popular radio DJ Carel Pedre. "And as his campaign went on, I discovered a man I never met. I was impressed and surprised, I guess, by his determination and his dedication."

Martelly says his campaign has benefited from the element of surprise. People who wrote him off as a clown suddenly heard him on television in Montreal, speaking French, assuredly articulating Haiti's challenges in decentralization, economic equality and the opportunity for education.

Pedre, among many others, thinks Martelly has just the right combination of charisma and authority to inspire ordinary Haitians.

"Some people saw me as a clown," says Martelly. "But I think they are a clown themselves for not knowing there was someone smart behind the clown. I was successful for 22 years. ... It's not easy to be successful in this industry for 22 years."

Michel Martelly created the public persona, and it paid for his house, he says. "That was the business. Sweet Micky was the store."

Lamarre, a 69-year-old voter in Kenscoff, says the candidate's wild past is clearly behind him, "Sweet Micky is born again. And now he is Michel Joseph Martelly. We've seen him in the country. We've seen what he can do for us. And maybe, we can be born again too."