I think the first time I became concerned about my trip to Haiti was on the connecting flight from Miami. A woman on the plane, who I assume had spotted I was an outsider, asked me why I was going there. I have learned not to say that I’m doing a TV show, because that immediately leads to more questions than you get at immigration control, so I told her it was for a holiday. At that point, she became extremely animated, asking me if I knew how dangerous it was.



The true Haiti is safe and rich in culture | Letters Read more

I was with one of the producers of my new show, in which I go on holiday to places I wouldn’t usually visit. Just as we were beginning to feel genuine concern for our own wellbeing, the woman asked where we were staying and, on hearing the answer, looked horrified. She told us not to leave the hotel grounds after dark. I didn’t know what I was more frightened of: Haiti or this woman.

Such a conversation cannot help but put you on edge. The sights of Port-au-Prince, Haiti’s capital, do little to dull that. As we drove from the airport to the hotel, which was definitely in a dangerous area, we were confronted with a combination of poverty, overcrowding and the aftermath of an earthquake that could have taken place months ago rather than years. What added to all of this was the enormous collection of voodoo statues (or Vodou, as it’s spelled in Haiti) that adorned the hotel gardens.

I found all the voodoo imagery freaky. I would have killed to see a gnome

I have to be honest: while it is nice to see cultural adornments, the combination of jet lag, scary woman on plane and arresting city visuals meant that I found the voodoo imagery particularly freaky. This is, of course, all down to cultural ignorance on my part. But it was still freaky. I would have killed to see a gnome.

I was still frazzled when I went to bed that night. My room was a little walk away from the main hotel building and, as I was walking over to it, a dog came running out of the bushes and starting barking at me. I immediately turned around and headed back to the hotel. I say headed, but I obviously sprinted. I then turned back and the dog was gone. I waited a few minutes and went back out, whereupon I was once again chased by the bush dog. I repeated this process five times, as if I thought the dog might only have five chases in him. I then spent some time sitting in the lobby of the hotel, thinking about just sleeping there and wondering if dogs can actually live in bushes.

All of this was strongly contributing to the opinion I was forming that Haiti was very much not for me. After about half an hour of this misery, I decided to give it one last try. I don’t know whether the dog had fallen asleep, or if it had seen me crying in the lobby, but I made it to my room. Which had loads more voodoo stuff in it.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Boneheaded … Ranganathan with one of the statues that dot Port-au-Prince. Photograph: BBC/Rumpus Media

I was keen to explore voodoo while I was there, as I was pretty sure that relying on what I’d seen in Live and Let Die and various horror films had probably skewed my view. I asked if I could be cured of my anxiety, whereupon I was sent to pick up some items from a voodoo market. I was required to purchase a series of items that I would give to the voodoo priest in order to complete the ceremony. The list was baffling. I had to buy deodorants and colognes, which essentially meant that any airport duty free is a great voodoo stop-off. In addition to this I was required to buy powders with names like “leave me alone powder” and “go over there powder”. I seem like I’m being cynical, and I am, but mainly because I was being shown around by a man called Reggie whose stall, by coincidence, stocked all of the items I required.

It’s difficult visiting somewhere like Haiti and – in particular – Port-au-Prince. The fact is that it is not particularly pleasant to spend time there. We were taken to Cité Soleil, the most poverty-stricken area of the capital. It had all the textbook items you would look for in a poverty safari: children wearing nothing, awful sanitation and rickety accommodation. Cité Soleil has the added factor of absolutely no police, which means that gun crime is rife and kidnappings happen.

I wasn’t particularly keen on going, but not just for the obvious reasons. I wasn’t sure I wanted to wander round peering at these people, stroking my chin and talking about what a shame it all was. In fact, the only reason we went was because I was told it was safe and one of the locals was keen to show us around and prove its reputation wasn’t warranted.

Men with guns would shout at our guide. He'd say something timid back then tell me they'd been talking about the weather

Its reputation is fully warranted. Yvon, our guide, told us that everyone there would know I was with him and there would be no issues. What in fact happened was that men with guns would see us walk by, shout something at Yvon, who would cower and say something timid back, then try to convince me they were talking about the weather.

It was in Cité Soleil that I discovered a bizarre Haitian tradition to do with dominoes. Every time you lose a game you have to attach a clothes peg to your body. The initial peg doesn’t hurt so much, but if you rack up a few losses the cumulative pain of loads of clothes pegs is apparently horrific. Plus you then have no way of drying your clothes. I imagine if you haven’t a lot of money, pegs are a way of keeping a gambling element involved in difficult circumstances. That type of chin-strokey sentence is exactly why I didn’t want to visit Cité Soleil.

I heard a lot of raboday during my time in Haiti. This is a relatively new form of music, which probably sounds closest to reggaeton. If you don’t know what that is, I guess raboday’s closest British equivalent would be grime. If you don’t know what that is, then read another article, grandad. The biggest star of raboday is a guy called Marinad 007, whose song Madan Papa was playing everywhere. I was reliably informed that it is about sugar daddies. I say reliably informed, because we were lucky enough to meet Marinad and he displayed the classic rapper traits of being hugely eloquent in his songs and borderline mute in conversation.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Climbing back down is as dangerous as jumping … preparing for a cliff-dive at Bassin Bleu pools. Photograph: BBC/Rumpus Media

While my time in Port-au-Prince was challenging, it would be remiss not to mention how beautiful other parts of the country are. I spent some time in Jacmel on the southern coast, with its beautiful beaches and touristy hotels. It’s probably the first time I remembered that we were next door to the Dominican Republic, where everybody goes on holiday.

I was making a TV show, however, so I was not allowed to spend time on the beach. I was taken to Bassin Bleu, a series of three freshwater pools you can swim in and jump into from cliffs. I was presented with two jumps and was told that I would be attempting the higher of the two. The director said it was totally up to me whether I jumped or not, but that they didn’t have an ending for the Bassin Bleu bit of the show if I didn’t.

What I was not told was that, once you climb up, it is probably just as dangerous to climb back down as to jump. I will leave you to watch the show to see what happened. (I jumped and survived. You don’t have to watch.)