Diplomacy - the inside story

By Andre Jaquet

Diplomacy is fast becoming globalised thanks in part to electronic communication. By the time the diplomat abroad has drafted an elegant, encrypted cable to his headquarters, his colleagues there have probably already read several more revealing news reports from that country. If the trend continues, envoys abroad may one day replaced by computers with diplomatic immunity. That will not be the same: computers don’t get to drink champagne, not even if it is duty-free.

I have often thought that successful diplomats would make good chameleons. A good chameleon develops some external camouflage to blend into its environment but at its core remains what it is – a chameleon. Diplomats have to perform some complicated cultural gymnastics to be effective in the countries that are hosting them. The challenge is to understand and learn to manipulate enough of the local culture to be respected by influential people in the country in which they find themselves. But the diplomatic chameleon needs to revert to his true colours when he steps back inside his Embassy and when he returns home. That is not as easy as it sounds.

To be an effective representative of one’s country abroad, it is not enough to pass the screen test. You have to go to smile school. First you get the professionals who join the Department of Foreign Affairs after more or less earnest studies in international relations, languages and politics. So-called professionals vary greatly in their capacity to cope with the compromises and flexibility that nomadic diplomatic life imposes on them.

The Pitfalls of glamour

As for the lavish excesses that many associate with the lifestyle of diplomats, I will admit to having sipped champagne from a fountain one evening. I was a greenhorn diplomat stationed in Montreal when a friend who was on the Board of the Washington Opera Society slipped me a free ticket to a charity event in Washington DC. Socialites, Senators, Journalists (yes - with a Capital J) and diplomats paid $1000 each to rub shoulders with each other, ostensibly to raise funds for the Arts. Washington-based Ambassadors threw lavish dinner parties for as many guests as they could accommodate at their respective residences and all came together at the residence of the Swedish Ambassador, Count Wachtmeister, who was also the Dean of the diplomatic corps.

My arrival for dinner at the Saudi residence was less than auspicious.  The other guests stepped out of sleek, quietly purring limousines that had drawn up with the soft crunch of expensive gravel in the driveway. My transport, on the other hand, consisted of an old and thoroughly battered black and orange taxi. The surly driver missed the entrance and reversed at great speed, spewing oily fumes and scattering the gravel on the Armani suits and Dior gowns of the guests. 

The Ambassador, a Prince of the Royal house of Saud, greeted me at the door and when I complimented him on his beautiful and tastefully decorated residence, he murmured apologetically that yes, it was nice, but too small, really: it could only seat 52 guests for dinner.

At our table, Newsweek senior editor, Arnaud de Borchgrave solved the problems of the world to a rapt audience. Senator Strom Thurmond, a renowned roué, clearly did not follow the conversation closely, his attention having been diverted by the spectacular cleavage to his left. For my part I was doing some fancy footwork to orchestrate a ceasefire between my Jewish friend, an Iranian diplomat and a conservative Senator, who a week before had called for carpet bombing of Teheran to resolve the US Embassy hostage crisis.

After dinner, I cadged a lift to the Swedish residence, an imposing structure at the apex of a long, semi-circular drive. On approaching I noticed a delicate lace pattern in the hedge and as we came closer, I saw that this had been achieved by arranging thousands of fresh white roses in the hedge. There were several dance areas scattered in the gardens and a red hot disco in the residence itself. And yes, champagne flowed, not from bottles but from an elaborate champagne fountain in the arbour. On leaving, we were offered gifts of perfume and silk ties from a fairy-tale horse drawn carriage parked in the driveway.

Elegance and glamour are certainly part of the diplomatic scene. To my great chagrin, glamour always seems to be associated with slimness – a state of Nirvana that has eluded me all my life. Oh to be as thin as a stick insect! It would make climbing in and out of the Porsche so much more of an elegant exercise.  I comfort myself with the thought that in reality, diplomats are not all slim and seldom drive Porsches.

Different Strokes

The high flying diplomats, fuelled by ambition are invariably lean and mean. The French place a high premium on a “coefficient de gueule” (loosely translated: good looks and charisma) while the Italians cultivate “La bella figura”. The Brits are generally nondescript and wear dreadfully dull club ties but make up for it by being clever as all hell. The Americans are quite visible these days and when you do corner them they are usually relaxed and once they have ground their teeth at the latest gaffe committed by their President, they are generally congenial and well informed. They certainly don’t fit the derisive description of ‘limp-wristed cookie-pushers’ coined by one of their politicians.

The Latin Americans are without doubt the most elegant of all.  They appear at receptions, fashionably late, straight from the pages of a high-class fashion magazine. I say ‘appear’ because they don’t ever seem to walk in the door like the rest of us. They make an entrance as though magically beamed down by Scotty in a spaceship with CD number plates.  In their slipstream they trail equally elegant, nipped and tucked companions in green silk and gold jewellery. We lesser mortals now and then make vague attempts to smarten up, but straightening a fading old Woolworth’s tie or tucking a generous paunch into pants that are showing the strain just doesn’t do it.

As a rule, the Scandinavians are serious, effective and boring and one of the Spanish Ambassadors I met was an appalling snob who paraded through receptions as though everyone in a radius of three metres had stepped in dog shit. The Japanese are the hardest working, their Ambassadors often giving six or more working lunches or dinners every week for the two years they are at a post. The Chinese are, well... inscrutable.

African diplomats are in another category altogether. They are mostly a genial bunch, glamorous and well-dressed but often ineffective because their governments are mostly strapped for cash and provide envoys with neither the staff nor the resources to do a decent job. In my experience, Ambassadors from Francophone Africa are generally more adept at the wheeling and dealing of diplomatic life than their Anglophone counterparts.  Among the worst were some South African diplomats of both the old and new order. The Egyptians are often smooth, polished, very focussed, and suspicious of all those who question their belief that Egypt will dominate the continent and the Middle East. 
On the other hand, the Nigerians have too many high-ranking military types in their diplomatic service to be entirely credible. When I was in Canada the Nigerian Mission was headed by a very affable chap who, according to one of his staff, had bought his chieftainship and Ambassadorship. He had four Ministers (diplomatic title of the second in charge at an Embassy) in his Mission, each one representing a different political faction or religion.

The many envoys who represent undemocratic regimes tend to be too ideological and doctrinaire for their own good and believe that they are doing their job well by aggressive, ‘my country right or wrong’ posturing. And if those broad and outrageous generalisations sound harsh and unfair, let me point out that the laws of libel prevent me from describing those diplomats that are really awful.

The truth shall set you free – but be aware of cultural idiosyncrasy One of the great myths is that to do their job well, diplomats must be devious, less than frank and above all, they must never reveal their true thoughts and intentions.  The most widespread aphorism is that a diplomat is an honest man sent abroad to lie for his country. What is not commonly known is that the man who coined the phrase lost his job soon afterwards. Others abound: Diplomacy is the art of saying nice doggy until you can find a good stone.  Yet another will have it that a diplomat who says yes means maybe; a diplomat who says maybe means no; a diplomat who says no is no diplomat”.

What lies at the root of this reputation? One reason is that diplomats soon learn that straight or blunt answers are open to all sorts of interpretation by different cultures. And so they develop skills to bridge the gap between cultures. Words, gestures and actions that mean one thing in one culture can often mean something significantly different in another. A mundane example: you have just had a great meal in Athens and the waiter asks whether you enjoyed the food. Unable to express yourself in the local language you use your thumb and your forefinger to make a circle and gesture meaningfully to the waiter. Every Anglo-Saxon would immediately understand that you mean “Very Good!” or “Perfect!” Alas, the Greek waiter will think you are mocking his sexual orientation.

Then again, in most countries, when you are in a group and receive a call on your mobile phone the natural instinct is to turn away so as not to disturb the group. If you do so in Portugal, it is considered as an insult. The point is that a funny misunderstandings in daily life are one thing but misunderstandings in formal exchanges at a high level can have negative consequences.

South Africa has its own special brand of idiosyncratic cultural behaviour. I recall an incident in Johannesburg in the 60’s when the chairman of a large South African shipping company had invited a team of Japanese shipbuilders to tender for the construction of a large cargo vessel. Great care was taken in all logistical arrangements because hosting non-Caucasian foreigners in apartheid South Africa was a minefield. Because of trade ties, the apartheid government had stumbled upon the appallingly insulting category of ‘honorary whites’ to Japanese visitors.

Negotiations had been very successful and the evening before the contract had to be signed, a South African industrialist had invited visitors to his home for dinner. Now an odd custom in the posh northern suburbs of Johannesburg is for the ladies to proceed to the powder room after dinner, while the men assert their atavistic territorial nature by peeing on the vast lawns that often surround the mansions of the rich and famous. Our shipbuilder took his male guests through this ritual and later retired satisfied that the evening had gone very well.

However, the next morning the delegation did not arrive for the signing ceremony and enquiries at their hotel revealed that they had left for Tokyo that day. Several weeks later, having had no reaction to their letters and calls, the South Africans sent a high-ranking executive to Tokyo to solve the mystery. After a great deal of prevarication he learnt that their Japanese guests had misinterpreted the lawn excursion as a means of preventing them from using a ‘whites only’ toilet.

Oh, the tangled webs we weave...

Some in the profession believe that deviousness is a useful means of persuading a host government to take certain actions or adopt certain policies. In fact the one thing a diplomat had better hold on to for dear life if he wants to be effective is his credibility.  Tell a lie and you will often be found out and no-one will believe a word you will say for the rest of your posting.

In his highly readable book, ‘Diplomatic Bag’, Sir John Ure, a distinguished British diplomat, recounts that when Metternich, Chancellor of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, received the news that a particularly devious diplomat had died, he remarked: “Now I wonder what he meant by doing that”.

Of course, in diplomacy as in life, telling the truth is not always easy because defending the indefensible is often part of the job. A distinguished British diplomat, who was reportedly the model for Sir Humphrey Appleby in the Yes Prime Minister series on the BBC, revealed all one day. He had just been confronted by a CNN reporter because his Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, had that morning issued a statement which was the absolute opposite of what he had told the press the previous day. “Doesn’t that make you feel just a little uncomfortable?” the reporter asked. “My dear fellow,” came the reply, “my government pays me to feel uncomfortable”.

To avoid too much discomfort, diplomats develop sound bites and pretty phrases that gloss over the unacceptable and suggest a nobler purpose. That is a propaganda technique as old as the human race: you suggest the false in order to suppress the truth – one of the many rationalisations I adopted over the years. But it does get you into trouble at times.

Discomfit sometimes strikes from unexpected quarters. As High Commissioner to Canada, I was once in a closed circle of mostly friendly Canadians who were trying to understand President Mbeki’s stance on AIDS and on Zimbabwe. On these occasions I often took a staff member or two with me to project solidarity among South Africans of different races. I was half way through a rather effective soft shoe shuffle on these thorny issues when I was interrupted by one of my black staff members who spat out at me: “That is not a good explanation! How can you criticise our President? Everyone knows that he is the cleverest President in the whole world and he is much cleverer than you”. In less than ten seconds she had left some of our best allies wondering whether the new South Africa was any different from the old.

Diplomats sometimes find themselves in uncomfortable situations because of the dignified pose that is expected of them. In fact many have nothing to offer behind the gravitas that they affect. The burden of representing your country means that at all times you have to be worthy of that great honour and to appear in public in an undignified manner doesn’t help at all.

I can recall at least two occasions on which my gravitas was seriously dented. During my stint in Switzerland, the Swiss government devised a plan to beautify the rather sterile surroundings of their Parliament buildings and hired a local artist to design a garden. He came up with the original idea of creating a garden consisting of interesting natural rocks from towns with a Swiss connection in a number of countries, which he would then place on a bed of white pebbles, to emphasize Switzerland’s connectedness to the world.

As fate would have it, a junior Swiss diplomat in Pretoria called Max Schweizer chose to get a rock from - wait for it - Schweizer Reinecke, at the time a bastion of white conservatism. A few months later the Swiss Tourist Office in Zurich asked me to unveil the said rock at a press conference. Travelling from Bern to Zurich on the highway was never a pleasure but on this occasion traffic delays were much worse than usual, which meant I was twenty minutes late for the occasion – a cardinal sin in Switzerland.

When I finally arrived at the venue I took the stairs two at a time which was a bad decision, considering that I was wearing a new pair of shoes that were somewhat longer than I was used to. As a result I tripped on the last step and made a dramatic entrance into a hall filled with photographers and dignitaries. It would have been better to allow myself to fall rather than try to stay upright because the result was that I stumbled past the flashing cameras, with my arms whirling like windmills and I finally landed on my backside at the base of the plinth on which the venerable Schweizer Reinecke rock was waiting to be unveiled.

I mean, what do you do in such a situation?  Face the crowd, grin ruefully and point downwards and say “New shoes”? Not in Switzerland, you don’t. I picked myself up as gracefully as I could and went straight into my Ambassadorial mode as though nothing had happened, only to be hugely embarrassed when I unveiled the rock. The good Town Councillors of Schweizer Reinecke had sent a beautifully polished square cubic meter of granite and on two sides had engraved their full names which they had highlighted with gold paint. 

Diplomatic tradition dictates that whatever unexpected and unintentionally embarrassing situation arises that threatens his or her dignity; the foreign envoy should ideally either carry on as if nothing had happened or turn the incident into a pleasantry. When I was stationed in Paris, I think I passed that test rather well during a very formal military parade to honour the soldiers of various countries who had been killed during the two World Wars.

As I was placing a wreath on a cenotaph for South African soldiers who had died at Delville Wood, a stray dog appeared from nowhere and lazily lifted its leg against mine, in full view of the Defence and Foreign Ministers and other dignitaries present. What compounded my embarrassment was that this happened when apartheid was still in place.  I saw the funny side of the situation but managed to keep a straight face while others could barely contain their mirth. I stood to attention, waited until the Last Post had been played and then walked back to take my place with my fellow Heads of Mission.

To my dismay, the stray dog appeared to have taken a liking to me. It followed me, nonchalantly repeated its first performance and settled snugly next to my other leg. I swear I detected a malicious grin on its jowls. You see, what made it all the more awkward for my dignitas was the fact that the dog was pitch-black.  I followed my first instinct, patted my tormentor and told it in a stage whisper “I understand and get your message. But remember: these soldiers died before apartheid existed”. I think I won that round.