Funny in Parts

AuthorHouse

Contents

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.........................................................IXA NOTE ABOUT DIARISTS....................................................XIIICHAPTER ONE THE AMBASSADOR...............................................1CHAPTER TWO "WHERE DID YOU SAY YOU ARE FROM?"............................7CHAPTER THREE LATIN AMERICA..............................................45CHAPTER FOUR AFRICA......................................................83CHAPTER FIVE THE ENGLISHSPEAKING CARIBBEAN...............................111CHAPTER SIX WASHINGTON...................................................139CHAPTER SEVEN THE UNITED NATIONS.........................................165CHAPTER EIGHT THE PRIVATE SECTOR.........................................177CHAPTER NINE SAUDI ARABIA................................................189CHAPTER TEN INDIA........................................................239CHAPTER ELEVEN ONCE MORE, THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE.....................307CHAPTER TWELVE THE INSPECTOR.............................................331CHAPTER THIRTEEN A SUMMING UP............................................375CHAPTER FOURTEEN "YOU KNOW THE WAY YOU ARE"..............................379

Chapter One

"A capacity for absorbing without derangement vast quantities of intoxicating liquor was considered essential in any envoy to Holland or to the German Courts. These qualifications are no longer regarded as absolutely essential." —Harold Nicolson, 20th century British diplomat

The U.S. Congress created the career Foreign Service as the professional diplomatic arm of the United States. It functions as the objective eyes and ears of the American people abroad and as their first line of defense against foreign threat. Foreign Service officers are picketed far out where U.S. troops, businesspersons, or academics rarely tread: places like Conakry in Guinea, Ekaterina in Russia, and Ulan Bator in Mongolia. They submit their analyses and recommendations to the U.S. Department of State without fear or favor. That is at least the idea.

It was not always so. On May 24, 1924, President Calvin Coolidge signed the "Rogers Act" into law to remove the old Foreign Service from the partisan anxieties and patronage system that Theodore Roosevelt called "a wholly unmixed evil." This act "confirmed a system of written and oral examinations, created a uniform salary scale, provided for representation allowances, and instituted a retirement program that would allow ordinary Americans, not just the rich, to aspire to a diplomatic career." This act has preserved the Foreign Service from the worst excesses of political interference, but there is still something to be desired.

The President appoints ambassadors with the advice and consent of the Senate. It was clear from the beginning that Mr. Rogers wanted the great majority of ambassadors chosen from the ranks of the career Service. There have been enough departures from this norm to wonder whether we have drifted toward a diplomatic corps of party loyalists.

To be sure, there have been superb "political" ambassadors. Three of them were David K.E. Bruce, Ambassador to France, West Germany, and the United Kingdom; Averill Harriman, Ambassador to the USSR and the United Kingdom; and Chester Bowles, Ambassador to India. But many political appointments have been unimpressive. The number of political ambassadors in recent years has swung between 20 and 40 percent, which is too many and poses a danger of feudal subservience to the party in power.

The fun that people see ambassadors having motivates unqualified people to seek an appointment. They seldom aspire to a dangerous geographic area. When a wealthy pipe joint manufacturer looks at the job, for example, he or she sees only the flags on the car, the crested dinner plates, the household servants, and the diplomatic parties. Above all, the aspirant covets the title, Mr. or Madam Ambassador. Here is a fictional story helping to explain this phenomenon.

An ambassador who led an exemplary personal life arrived at last at the gates of Heaven. Saint Peter met him and reminded him that all titles were to be left at the door, that in heaven the last would be first and the first would be last. Regrettably, the newcomer could no longer be addressed as "Mr. Ambassador."

"Does this mean," the ambassador asked, "that my secretary or my communicator could precede me at table?"

Saint Peter chuckled. "There is no rank here. We do not respect persons merely for their worldly achievements."

The ambassador looked crestfallen. "But I've already established my humility by dismissing my driver down the road."

St. Peter said good-naturedly, "I regret that was necessary."

The ambassador persisted. "I had looked forward to having you as guest of honor at my first reception in Heaven."

Saint Peter raised an admonishing finger. "This will not do, sir."

"We'll use the Peruvian silver just as in the old days. Are there any film people here?"

"Well ..."

"Think of it, the first Pope as my first guest of honor! Summon the caterers! Put Michelangelo on the flowers! You, my Saint, will stand first in the reception line right after me."

St. Peter did see a refreshing resilience in the man and considerable flair that he thought might enliven Heaven. He was not unmoved, either, by the ambassador's humility in wanting to host a simple fisherman. St. Peter said, "Well, Mr. Ambassador, it's getting chilly standing out here. Let's go inside and discuss details."

Chapter Two

"Woodstock was judged one of the ten prettiest towns in the United States. If the judges were honest, they would have named the other nine in Vermont as well." —Charles Kuralt

"You know, I've been watching that seagull over there for half an hour. I think it's dead." —President Calvin Coolidge on the Sequoia

Calendar art gives a false picture of Vermont. Outsiders think that Vermonters revel in snow like wild turkeys or chickadees, or that for some reason they just like the marrow-sucking cold. Vermonters like snow up to a point that is passed almost every year. For most of them, the winters are just too long. Many reasons conspire to keep them in place: the pull of ancestors, the love of relatives and friends, the lakes and rivers, the cost of moving.

But the summer, well ... the summer has a sweet, rising scent like the center of a warm roll. You smell mown hay, weeds, and old pine stairs. Smells drift up lazily from the bottoms of the ponds where the lizards lie. Bees float above the ponds, not busy as their reputations would have it, but droning on and on like Uncle Ned in his fedora at Lake Elmore, legs stretched out in front of him, toasting his marshmallows.

In the summer, men park their rusty pickups next to the brooks and slide down the tangled banks to fish. "Save some for me" is a common witticism called from the road. In summer, families gather to enjoy picnics near the swimming holes. Aunt Polly Spittle used to sit in her sun suit on the wall at Patch's Dam, swinging her feet in the water. She herself couldn't swim and so never immersed...