What is more disconcerting than Duvalier's fascism is his complete disregard for his country's poverty. One Washington official said, "We asked Duvalier what programs he was developing, and with a smile he replied, 'What programs would you like?' He has no programs.

"The government's revenue from taxes is about $13 million. A breakdown of the budget would probably show 80 per cent going into salaries, and 20 per cent going to the foreign bank accounts of high Haitian officials. Duvalier did not invent the system, but he has perfected it."

The concept of government service does not exist in Haiti, nor has it ever been a part of Haitian history. Since the early 19th century--when Henri Christophe, the country's first black ruler, drove 20,000 slaves to their deaths in the construction of his massive fortress, the Citadel, high in the mountains over Cap Haitien--the government has existed for its own benefit. It simply does not do things for the people. It does not build highways or schools or hospitals; it does not try to improve agricultural methods or encourage industry; it does not give care to the young or the aged. Projects undertaken with AID money lie abandoned.

Of the 2000 students who graduate each year from the university in Port-au-Prince, 1000 go into law; for law is the road to politics, and politics is the source of wealth.

From this tradition of government, in which the only policies are survival and enrichment, a society of two world has emerged. One is the small and largely self-contained world of Duvalier--Papa Doc has not been outside of Port-au-Prince since 1963 and rarely appears in public--and his government. It is the world of upper classes and the few members of the intellectual and commercial elite who have not fled the country, the world of Graham Greene and his comedians. But the vast majority of the Haitian people live in the other world, the world of the countryside, whose relations with the central government are rare.

There are those who would say the life of a Haitian peasant in the countryside has little value, that a life of poverty is cheap, that the natives put on a colorful show in the nightclub, but that with no shoes and no automobiles they cannot grasp the touchstones of happiness.

It is surprising, and confusing, to many Americans that despite their poverty, backwardness, and illiteracy, and despite, political terrorism, repression, and censorship, the life of the Haitian peasantry has a richness and a joy of its own.

Small individual land holdings are the way of life in the countryside and give the people something tangible, no matter how impoverished, that they can call their own. Property, the home, and the family become a basis for life.

Passion and primitivism are also part of the Haitian people's strength. In a Haitian church on Sunday morning, they make no pretense of wealth or sophistication. They don't suffer mal du siecle, they aren't neurotic, introspective, or brooding. They come to church to share the little they have.

The minister is not facile with words and has no finely embroidered altarcloth; but he speaks with passion, and speaks in a language the people understand. The Haitians have found something--perhaps an acceptance of each other--which must be cherished and defended. They seem very close to Christianity.

The same kind of joy and spontaneity springs from the market places, despite the squalor, the smell, and the flies. On market day, the people rise before dawn to assemble their wares and carry them, in great bundles on their heads, to the villages. The market place becomes a meeting place where people find their friends, catch up on the news, and exchange their goods. They will bargain furiously over prices, not so much out of bitterness as with an exuberant sense of play.

A voodoo ceremony--most Haitians are Catholic, but voodoo practice is widespread--shows another form of the people's life-affirmation. The sacrifice of animals and the drinking of hot blood are brutal aspects of voodoo, but in essence the ceremony is a celebration. The villages gather together around the pounding voodoo drums, and the dancing and singing are frenzied.

Two men perform a fire dance, and the mesmerism is like that of a bull-fight. The drums and the singing grow quiet as the two men, both stripped to the waist, both black as the night, dance with torches in each hand. They pass the torches over their bodies and let the flames lick their faces. They walk on hot coals and seem to wash their bodies in the fire--which does not burn because the voodoo god protects his dancers.

Suddenly the spirit of an evil god possesses a young girl, who falls violently to the ground and rolls, screaming, onto the fire. The two dancers rush forward, pull her back from the flames, and hold her until the voodoo priest can drive out the spirit.

The voodoo may be lunacy, the religion may be primitive, and the market place unsanitary. But one can not help wondering if the Haitian people aren't able to relate to each other in a way that most Americans have forgotten.