Many didn't really want to come to the United States; they left the only life they've known because of economic and political conditions. But what they found in their adopted home isn't what they expected. Then again, they weren't sure what to expect.

They are bombarded by the buildings, the malls, the smooth roads, the supermarkets, the all- you-can-eat restaurants. They make more money here, but bills are greater. There's rent, telephone payments, electricity bills, clothing, food, taxis.

The country's efficiency is unfamiliar. Dial 911, and emergency trucks arrive in minutes. A person could be dying in Haiti, and no one notices. Police are helpful here. In Haiti, they're feared.

"It was hard for me to adapt, but I knew what I wanted to do and knew what I had to become, and I worked hard to do that," said Gary Daniel, who left Haiti 13 years ago and is a chemist in Tampa. "The U.S. is a land of opportunity, but it also can be a land of disaster."

Daniel is among 83,249 Haitians in Florida, which is home to more than any state except New York. They arrived by boat or plane. Some are citizens; most, like Daniel, are not. Thousands who fled Haiti remain at the U.S. Naval Base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, awaiting word of an American-led invasion of their country.

In Haiti, 1,897 people granted refugee status by U.S. immigration officials can't leave their country because an international embargo has stopped departing air flights.

The flood of Haitian boat people has largely been replaced by Cubans, who have a shot at political asylum if they reach Florida. The state is home to 497,619 Cubans; many of their countrymen who have fled their homeland also are being held at Guantanamo.

Haitians who have made Florida their home worry about raising their children in this strange new world. Youngsters are exposed to crime and guns on television news -- things they ran from in Haiti. Children in Haiti stay close to home and work only after finishing college.

In the midst of all this, Haitians fear losing their culture. So they form new friendships among others from their homeland. They are quiet people, spending much of their time working, going to church, cooking, playing with their children and talking with friends. Life is much simpler where they are from.

Still, they want to blend with their surroundings and fervently learn English because it's their means of succeeding. With slow determination, they settle wherever there is work and assimilate into the communities.

They are doctors, lawyers, teachers, counselors, radio talk show hosts and preachers. In Tampa, Haitians have opened a publishing business and a transfer agency where they send food, money and documents to and from their country. A small food market is preparing to expand into a restaurant.

Others have started babysitting businesses and English classes. Some are interpreters. Haitian ministers have begun churches throughout the Tampa Bay area.

"Haitians are very entrepreneurial," said Charmant Theodore, director of the Tampa Haitian Community Services Center.

Dade County has the state's largest number of Haitians, but thousands are in Tampa and elsewhere in Central Florida. Many live in Polk County because housing is cheaper and closer to work in Kissimmee and Orlando, where the tourist industry means more jobs that require little experience.

"Haitians are establishing quite a hold in the service industry," said Mike Guare, an attorney with Florida Rural Legal Services in Lakeland, which represents about 800 Haitians in Polk, Hillsborough, Orange and Manatee counties.

Before coming to the United States, many Haitians had the impression from tourists that Americans were all rich and didn't work hard for their money.

But soon after arriving, they realized that opportunities require hard work.

"In the U.S., you can make big money like anybody else can," said Robert Supreme, a Haitian who came to Miami two years ago and now lives in Holiday. "You must have patience."

Multiple jobs

Guare helps many clients obtain or renew work permits. Most are young and came to the United States in 1992, following the ouster by the military of President Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

Only a handful need public assistance. Some who do farm labor get food stamps when they are between seasons. "The economic benefit far exceeds the public resources that some thought they might drain," Guare said.

Refugees qualify immediately for social programs such as Medicaid and have sponsors paid by the State Department for at least 30 days. Sponsors help them find jobs, housing and access to social benefit programs.

Those granted asylum aren't as likely to have sponsors and don't receive as much public help.

Many Haitians who come to the United States aren't well-educated. Those who are don't have it much easier; because degrees from Haiti are rarely accepted in America, they must go back to school.

"They are by nature very smart, very intelligent people," said Maria Dominguez, executive director of St. Thomas University Human Rights Institute in Miami. "Many haven't been given the opportunity to learn those skills."

Their first jobs often are cleaning hotel rooms, washing dishes and busing tables in restaurants. They also mow lawns, work in factories, and harvest fruit. A large number make $4.50 per hour.

With $4 or $5 per hour, a person can survive, said Supreme, who earns $700 monthly working for a nursery. That's a lot more than he made in Haiti, escorting tourists and interpreting for missionaries.

"Everything is more expensive here, but you have money to buy it," Supreme said.

In Haiti, many don't have cars and use tap-taps, small trucks crammed with people who pay a small amount for the ride. Most walk here as they did in Haiti, or pay for rides with friends because taxis are too expensive.

They often eat three times a day, a lot more than the single meal they could afford in Haiti.

School problems

It's difficult to know what grades to place them in, for example, because grade levels in Haiti are different, Theodore said.

A Haitian settlement study by St. Thomas University in Miami found that Haitian children try to integrate into schools quickly to avoid prejudice. But they often fall behind, Theodore said, and are placed in special education classes. The isolation distances them further from their culture.

Some schools have counselors who speak Creole and programs that teach English. The Tampa center tutors children and adults there and at libraries, churches and Hillsborough Community College and churches.

Despite the difficulties, most Haitian children manage to learn. They are accustomed to learning in a different language because in Haiti most speak Creole but are taught in French, the country's official language.

"They get the basics," Theodore said.

The Tampa center and Miami's Haitian Refugee Center are lifelines.

"If you find a Haitian in need, 80 percent of Haitians will try to help even if they're not related," said Jean Claude Picard of the Church World Service in Orlando, who left Port-au-Prince in 1971. "We know people more than money."

A one-day free clinic, with Haitian doctors donating their time, will begin soon at the Tampa center. Theodore and Haitians in Lakeland are trying to start a community services center there.

Also, the 44-member Haitian Civic Association of Tampa Bay, a social organization Daniel heads, meets monthly and sponsors cultural events in Tampa.

Daniel and other group members organize parties, such as Haiti's Flag Day celebration May 18 at the Sons of Italy in Tampa. Haitian bands from Miami or New York sometimes play at festivities, which up to 300 people attend, he said.

"We're trying to keep the flame alive."

He's frustrated. His wife and two teenage children are stuck in Haiti. He wants them with him.

Evanier, who has returned to his homeland three times since moving to Miami 13 years ago, plans only to visit Haiti after exiled President Jean-Bertrand Aristide returns. He likes his life in Florida.

Many Haitians in Florida feel the same way. But there are those who want to spend the rest of their lives in Haiti once democracy is restored. Many will wait at least a few months after Aristide's return to ensure his supporters aren't attacked or killed by remnants of the military.

Some predict that former Tonton Macoutes will continue to wreak havoc. The private militia terrorized Haitians during the 29-year Duvalier dictatorship and have joined forces with other military thugs.

Evanier knows all too well about the dangers in Haiti. As minutes pass, concern for his wife grows. He just wants to talk to her, to make sure she's safe.

Someone waves Evanier to a booth.

She's on the line.

He quickly finds out as much as he can. She tells him she's afraid to stay in Haiti's capital but doesn't have a car or money to pay someone to take her to the countryside. Five minutes later -- a cost of $6.40 -- he hangs up.

"I need my wife," he says, emerging from the booth.

Evanier, 45, has a secure job at a dress factory. "I will stay here. When Aristide returns, there will be a big celebration."

Luckner Exume, 38, left Haiti 17 months ago and is creating a new life in Tampa. Like Evanier, he fears returning to his homeland and doesn't want to move back.

A former security guard for Aristide, he works at Super Cargo in Tampa, which transports money, food and supplies to Haiti. He also attends night school and wants to be a mechanic.

Exume is afraid that problems could continue in Haiti because an agreement reached Sunday between U.S. negotiators and Haitian military leaders stipulates that they step down by Oct. 15, but not that they leave the country. Aristide, who was elected Haiti's president in December 1990 and has lived in Washington, D.C., since his ouster, is to be reinstalled as part of the agreement.

"I see a lot of danger for my country still," he said.

Yet, Exume may be compelled to go back. Two of his five children remain in Port-au-Prince, and he wants to bring them to Florida. If they can't leave, he will return home.

He also might return if his former boss needs him as a security guard. "If Aristide calls and says come back, then I come back."

Jean Wilfrid Desir says he wants to return to Haiti as soon as Aristide does. He never wanted to go to the United States.

"If my president goes back today, I want to go on the same plane with him," said Desir, of Haines City.

Desir's family was a big supporter of Aristide's. During the last elections, his father's house turned into a polling place. Haitian soldiers barged in and pumped bullets into people.

His mother and brother were killed. Desir and another brother ran away and left the country by boat in April 1992. He was picked up at sea and taken to Guantanamo Bay Naval Base in Cuba, arriving in Polk County about a year later.

A third brother, two sisters, his father and four children remain in Haiti. Desir doesn't know where exactly. He also has $8,000 in a Haitian bank waiting for him.

"I am very sick to see my children and my family in Haiti," said Desir, 35, a busboy at a hotel. "All my brothers and sisters are in Haiti.

"All Haitians in my country are my brothers and sisters."

There were 83,249 Haitians in Florida in 1990, according to Census figures, but those who work closely with Haitians say the figure is perhaps triple that, counting children born in the United States.

In Miami, which has the largest concentration of the state's Haitians, the exiled president's cousin drums up support for democracy in Haiti. Joseph Aristide once taught, did accounting and built homes in his country. He also campaigned for the successful 1990 elections that turned sour less than a year later.

Joseph Aristide left home shortly after his cousin's ouster. He came to Miami with his wife, Gladys, leaving behind their 4-year-old child.

"I must go back to help my people," the 36-year-old exile said. "I have responsibility for my country. I have Jesus and nobody will touch me."

Rameau Cezeau Jr. stands next to Joseph Aristide, waiting to voice his opinion. The mechanic came to the United States eight years ago.

"Anytime democracy is restored, I will go back to Haiti," said Cezeau, 33, who lives in Little Haiti with his wife and two children. "At any time when our lives aren't persecuted in Haiti, I bet almost 70 percent of us will move back."

Down the street, a conversation among a group of men standing outside a Haitian jewelry repair shop focuses on changes in Haiti -- a frequent topic in the streets, restaurants, shops and homes. Jean-Claude Brutus, 40, has been in the United States for 14 years. A former soldier in Haiti, he became disgusted with the military and left.

Brutus visited Haiti in 1985 and was arrested and beaten. After several days in jail, soldiers forced him to leave, escorting him to an airport. Four years ago, he started a Creole radio program in Miami, called "The Force," during which he talks about social issues and news. He, too, plans to return to Haiti after Aristide's return.

"I don't like the system in the United States," said Brutus, who hopes to open a radio station in Haiti with money from his late father.

"There's no respect for black people."

Roger Biamby has been in the United States about the same time as Brutus. The executive director of the human services division of a Little Haiti Catholic center, Biamby wants to return to his homeland someday to establish social service agencies there. But that won't be anytime soon.

"I would not advise for anybody to return because the Macoutes are ever-present," said Biamby, estimating 15,000 to 20,000 of the special forces in Haiti who mostly have melted into the rest of the population.

"The presence of the U.S. military force in Haiti is no guarantee of security for the people," he said. "We want a total eradication of Macoutes from the face of Haiti. They represent a threat to democracy, a threat to development and a threat to Haitian society."

Biamby isn't sure if Aristide will return to Haiti. If he does, the president could be killed.

Still, many other Haitians predict that Aristide's return will bring peace and democracy to Haiti. Alex Fels-Aime first came to the United States four years ago, traveling back and forth to Haiti until Aristide's overthrow. He graduates from high school next month and plans to continue his education to become a computer technologist.

Fels-Aime sits under a large tree, a refuge from the scorching sun in Little Haiti. He is alone in Miami; his parents, wife and two small children are still in Haiti. They moved out of Port-au-Prince into the countryside, away from danger -- they hope.

"I would like to go back to my country," said Fels-Aime, 28, a cook at Denny's. "There is too much pressure here and a lot of violence. The food is too expensive. My country is beautiful.

"I will return two months after Aristide goes back to make sure that he stays. When I go back, I'll stay for life."

Nearby, two large speakers are propped outside the door of a record store. The volume is cranked, competing with tunes pounding the streets from other shops, restaurants, clubs and houses.

This is Little Haiti.

Signs along the roads are a mixture of Creole and English, with restaurants called Chez Moy International, Charcuterie, Bebe and Royal Caribbean. Elderly women sell mangoes, bananas, tomatoes and other perishables on small tables at curbsides.

This is where many Haitian exiles live when they arrive in the United States. It's familiar to them and comforting in such a strange land. About 40,000 people live in Little Haiti and slightly more than 100,000 in Dade County.

The climate also is similar to their homeland.

Hot. And sticky.

"It's Haitian, but it's also very Miami," said Fedy Vieux-Brierre, administrator of a community policing and development project in Little Haiti.

Colorful Caribbean scenes -- lush countrysides, sapphire seas -- are painted on metal garbage cans on sidewalks. Some buildings are pink, green and blue. This isn't an area where people wander through the cobblestone streets. There's a constant flow of cars going 35 mph along the many paved, one- and two-lane roads.

Little Haiti is interspersed with businesses and homes, some rundown and badly in need of repair, a handful boarded up. Many have steel bars on windows and doors. Money transfer and telephone exchange businesses are found on just about every street. Restaurants, grocers, electronics stores and furniture shops also are plentiful.

People walk along sidewalks and dirt paths about any time of day. They congregate at street corners and in front of businesses. The language in the streets, in homes, in restaurants, in shops is Creole. Many speak broken English.

No matter.

In Little Haiti, "Haiti" is the operative word. The real thing is about 700 miles away but to many who live and work here, this is the next best thing to the Caribbean country.

Same goes for the journalists.

In recent days, reporters and photographers have invaded this poor community that covers 10 square miles. Vans carry satellite equipment, and people trudge the streets with video cameras, looking for instant comments on the developments in Haiti from people who aren't in a hurry.

They hit the usual spots: Veye-yo, a Haitian social club. A Catholic center. The Caribbean Marketplace. The Haitian Refugee Center.

Some Haitians are quick to voice opinions on the topic of the day. Others are tight-lipped and don't want their pictures taken, afraid it might somehow get back to the military in Haiti and put their families in danger.

A story is told of a Haitian man whose picture appeared in a Florida newspaper. Somehow, police in Haiti saw the article, and when he visited, he was beaten.

Despite the interruptions by media from around the world, life continues in Little Haiti. The unemployment rate is about 40 percent, because of the steady stream of exiles, although it may not be as high because many Haitians do undocumented work such as car deliveries, agriculture labor and babysitting. The average hourly wage is about $5.50.

The Haitian enclave within northeast Miami was settled Dec. 12, 1972, when a boatload of 147 people arrived from Haiti.

"Because rent was accessible, it was a magnet for other Haitians, part of an extended family situation," said Roger Biamby, a director of the Pierre Toussaint Catholic Center.

"The Haitian people have developed in the area out of survival. They won't make the area a ghetto. They have improved the area through personal financing and pride in the Haitian culture."

Two years ago, Miami began its NET project -- Neighborhood Enhancement Team -- in Little Haiti. It's one of 13 service centers throughout the city that plans and coordinates police protection, code enforcement, job placement programs and other services. City employees in Little Haiti's NET office also speak Creole.

"The people are responding positively to the city's efforts here," Vieux-Brierre said. "We're trying to improve this area from an economic standpoint and beautify it. This is a neighborhood with a tremendous potential of really developing."

With more than 200 businesses, Little Haiti has been guiding residents to promote the unique culture through its music, arts and cuisine so tourists can be drawn to the ethnic community, Vieux-Brierre said.

He predicts that once democracy is restored in Haiti and the international embargo lifted, Little Haiti's import/export business will flourish. For now, people spend much of their time talking about the politics of their homeland.

"Once the political situation settles, they'll do more," Vieux-Brierre. "It's taken so long to develop the area because the leadership here is focused on the problems in Haiti instead of problems in Miami.

"They spend most of their energy and time on politics. Instead of building, they end up fighting each other."

Tourists and residents alike stop by the Caribbean Market, painted a circuslike green, purple and yellow.

Walking through the market -- which consists of six stores -- is like stepping into one of the many tourist spots in Haiti.

Colorful masks of monsters with horns protrudefrom their foreheads. Animated crowd scenes are painted with simple lines on large canvases. There also are leather sandals and clothes.

Business has been slow lately. Not many visitors have stopped by -- besides journalists -- and Haitians in the area don't have money to spend on wood statues, colorful paintings, straw hats and other cultural items made in Miami and Haiti.

Solange Bien-Aime and her husband, Leaman, opened Lakay Tropical Ice Cream in the market four years ago.

Business is fine because drinks and food don't cost as much as the paintings and other artwork in other shops.

Still, people don't visit as much as they did because of the area's high crime rate, Solange Bien- Aime said.

"Little Haiti is a good place for Haitians," she said. "The only problem is that there's not enough security. We call police, and they don't come for an hour."

Next door is Liberi Mapou, a book and music store.

Bernadette sits on a chair outside the shop and chats with Eileen, who sells paintings and other crafts.

They're among many people who don't want to give their surnames.

A crowd has formed by midmorning down the street at the Haitian Refugee Center, with people waiting for help in finding jobs, applying for work permits and residency, and other assistance. On a window at the center is a faded photograph of exiled President Jean-Bertrand Aristide.

"If Haiti's situation changed, the situation here will change," said the center's executive director, Guy Victor. "There's a lot of business and commerce between Haiti and Little Haiti."

On the outside of the cement building is a painting of the Statue of Liberty. She holds a tablet that reads: "Haitians," and the base of the statue reads: "The Gate of Freedom?" The platform is a jail cell, with steel bars and people crammed inside.

Next to Liberty is a Haitian man in a sinking boat looking up at her. He is holding a sign that reads: "Why?"