Three years ago, Nepalese troops with the UN Stabilisation Mission inadvertently imported cholera, a disease unknown in Haiti for centuries, which has killed more than 4000.
By the time we get close to the presidential palace, a ruin since the quake, the riot police are retreating down the street outside the palace under a rain of stones. From inside the enclave we watch the stones and the tear gas fly. President Martelly must have more on his mind today than talking to foreign journalists.
Yet when he arrives, a couple of hours late, he is a model of presidential calm and composure. Dig around on YouTube and you can find many videos of Sweet Micky, the Haitian carnival singing star, wearing a pink baseball cap back to front, a yellow T-shirt or nothing but a pair of boxers, crooning, swaying, grimacing, acting the goat.
Today, however, the makeover is complete and only towards the end of our session does the infectious grin on the face of this bald-headed, austere, dark suited man remind one that his former line of work was making people happy.
Michel Martelly came to power in April last year in a run-off second-round election against Mirlande Manigat, a college professor and former Haitian First Lady, campaigning as a sort of mother figure to the wounded nation.
But Martelly was only on the ticket against her after the ruling party's candidate was removed from the race after claims of fraud and under pressure from the US and elsewhere.
The pattern of outside interference, which led to President Jean-Bertrand Aristide being ousted in 2004, continues. Today, Aristide and his notorious predecessor, former dictator "Baby Doc" Duvalier, are again living quietly in Haiti.
All eyes, therefore, are on Sweet Micky - who, despite headlines about winning by a "landslide", won the votes of only around 10 per cent of the electorate, in a poll in which only 24 per cent bothered to turn out.
But if he feels the pressure, he doesn't let it show.
"There are four things I want to talk about," he begins. "Education and employment, because 70 per cent of the population is unemployed, poverty - there is extreme misery in the country - and environmental issues. My campaign slogan was that I would keep my promises, and that's what I'm trying to do.
"I got into politics because, after a very good career, I wanted to bring change to my country."
He reels off a list of what he has achieved in his first 18 months in office: putting one million children into primary school, giving them hot meals while they are there, rebuilding the capital's university with money from the neighbouring Dominican Republic, building new schools and thousands of homes.
There is the plan to vaccinate all the children against cholera, plans to eliminate hunger and malnutrition, and the "massive reconstruction project" he says he has started.
So far, so uncontroversial - but also confusing. He sounds as if he is describing a completely different country from the chaotic mess on the streets where the demonstrations continue, a country which has hardly known good governance in living memory.
He also makes it sound as if he is fully in control when the international community, in the form of bodies such as the United Nations Development Programme and Unicef, have been in dominant positions for many decades, and half the national revenue comes from foreign agencies and non-government organisations.
When the question of the NGOs comes up, it is with an understandable note of resentment. The foreign presence, he implies, ties his hands.
"Some NGOs have become more important in Haiti than the state itself. Many people in Haiti would rather work for an NGO which has a budget coming from abroad than to work as a government minister.
"Often in conferences in Haiti there are many foreigners taking part, because we just don't have enough specialists in certain fields."
Two issues in particular restrict his freedom of action, as he sees it. An endless wrangle about the national "conseil electorale", the electoral commission which regulates Haitian democracy, has resulted in the repeated postponement of parliamentary elections, with the result that Martelly is governing in a kind of limbo.
At the same time there is row with the UN over the nation's defence. Haiti's army was dissolved by President Aristide in 1995; since 2004 the UN Stabilisation Mission has been in charge of all security duties, while training an indigenous police force.
Under its watch, the nation's murder rate has fallen to 9 a year per 100,000 of population - far lower than the Latin American average.
Yet the blue helmets are a standing offence to Haitians' sense of their independence, and seen by many as another army of occupation.
Martelly's most controversial aim is to create a new national army.
"The ambition of Haiti is to become self-sufficient, which is why I talk about defence of the border. You can call this body whatever you like - I'm not calling it an armed force. But it will be composed of police and military men.
"We need to be able to protect our own borders."
Towards the end of our meeting, President Martelly turns reflective.
"I've been asking myself what my life would be like today if I was still a musician - singing, enjoying a good beer ... But can life really be beautiful when people are living in these conditions? I feel now I'm doing something useful for my country."
Outside the presidential enclave, as we take our leave, the smoke and tear gas have cleared.
Today the poorest country in the western hemisphere has a new figurehead. But for all Martelly's good intentions, Haiti's future today is as murky as ever.
New act for a bigger crowd
Nicknamed "Sweet Micky", Martelly was known by most Haitians before his quest for power as a cross-dressing kompa jazz singer.
But the married father-of-four emerged during campaigning as a populist candidate, styling himself as a champion of the poor rallying against Haiti's elite.
These sentiments served him well among the country's youth, who turned to him after US-based hip-hop star Wyclef Jean was disqualified from running.
Older voters, however, found it hard to forget his risque, trouser-dropping act.
Despite this, he won a presidential run-off against former First Lady, Mirlande Manigat, in March last year.
- Independent
