In the diplomatic career, one can rise in two ways: through seniority or merit. Although I am not a diplomat by profession, I was once "decorated" as such. As an advisor, I had many responsibilities, one of which was to assist and accompany foreign authorities visiting Brazil—something I did very well, thanks to the invaluable lessons I had learned from Brazilian diplomats whom I had humbly served in the early years of my career.
In April 2006, the South Agricultural Council (CAS) meeting took place in Brasília. A significant gathering of Agriculture Ministers, this annual event is held in one of the member countries of the Council, and this time, by coincidence or fate, the city of Brasília was chosen. Even more surprisingly, I was also selected to be part of it.
For a recent graduate in International Relations, participating in such a meeting was a true prize. Not only could I proudly highlight my "grandiose" participation on my professional resume, but I would also be face-to-face with decision-makers from South American countries. I would have access to privileged information before the press, and I would be behind the scenes, witnessing firsthand what transpired in the closed-door world of diplomacy.
Speaking of the behind-the-scenes world of diplomacy, it’s important to mention the days leading up to meetings like these. I believe the training at the Rio Branco Institute and in the Itamaraty is very rigorous. I vividly recall spending hours checking, “re-checking,” and “triple-checking” lists, names, microphones, carpets, gifts, vehicle arrivals and departures, phones, badges, security, doormen, meals, music, attendance sheets, diplomatic staff, flight schedules, airport contacts, the Federal Police, and ceremonial protocols for the embassy and the Itamaraty. These were things I can barely remember now, but they were enough to make me seriously reconsider my career, leaving me with a sense of eternal frustration.
I bring this up because my boss at the time asked me to "make a heart out of the guts." He was in a total panic whenever I didn’t know the answer to a question, claiming that we were in the final preparations and that the meeting was right around the corner, and there was no time to waste. And, indeed, there was no time. The meeting was scheduled for April, and we were already in January. For my boss, months felt like hours—time flew by, and there was always more to do. "Diplomats are busy people, and we can’t waste their time," he would often say. I think this notion dates back to Baron Rio Branco. The legend goes that his office was filled with papers, books, maps, scrolls, letters—his life was extremely busy. My boss, being his devoted disciple, also maintained this standard. He was a busy man, even without the scrolls and piles of papers. He always seemed to have no time.
With all the preparations completed for this prestigious meeting of the Southern Cone's Agriculture Ministers, I received the news that I would be responsible for receiving all the ministers upon their arrival at Brasília’s airport. It was a critical mission, and I was eager to fulfill it. Welcoming foreign dignitaries is not an easy task. You have to know how to greet someone after a long flight, ask a few questions, be clear, and always have a card in hand in case something goes wrong. In my case, I seemed to have a particular attraction to problems. Or perhaps it was the problems that had an attraction to me?
I received the list of authorities and their companions, the list of Federal Police officers accompanying us, the list of airport contacts, the list of Ministry staff on duty, dietary restrictions, phone numbers, diplomatic corps, and the drivers who would take us to the hotel. Imagine the chaos of lists and copies I was holding. I’m sure diplomats don’t have lists like these; they have assistants to carry and read them. My job that night was to carry and read the lists for my boss whenever he asked.
We headed to the airport with a convoy of cars—a scene straight out of an action movie. Police officers, official cars, escorts, and there I was, surrounded by my lists. Upon arriving at the airport, we were greeted by Infraero, who escorted us to the VIP lounge, where we waited for the arrival of the flights. Everything went smoothly on that Sunday evening. Let me emphasize, Sunday evening, because in Brasília on Sunday nights, not many shops are open. Maybe a pharmacy or a 24-hour supermarket, but that’s about it.
That night, my boss and I received the ministers. Our job was to greet them on behalf of the Brazilian government, ensure everything was in order, and escort them to their cars for transport to the hotel. We also discussed the schedule for the next day and the details of the meeting. The last to arrive was the Minister of Agriculture from Chile, Dr. Álvaro Rojas—a name I’ll never forget, especially now that it’s written here. When the Chilean Minister arrived, my boss greeted him and asked me to take care of the final details. After all, it was late, and the job was almost done. He said he’d be available by phone, as always.
I was left alone with the Chilean Minister and took the opportunity to chat with him. I can’t remember what I said, but I quickly noticed that he wasn’t paying much attention to my words. I realized he was anxious, but I didn’t understand why until I saw that it was just the three of us in the baggage claim area at 11:00 PM on a Sunday night. That’s when my panic began. I clearly remember what the Minister was wearing: athletic shoes, beige pants, and a rather casual jacket. His assistant was dressed similarly—casual, not formal. This was significant because the next day at 8:00 AM, they were scheduled to attend an official meeting and couldn’t be seen in such informal attire.
He looked at me and said, "So, what do we do?" I had no other choice but to go to the airline desk and try to figure out what they could do. The airline informed me that the luggage was in Guarulhos and would arrive on Monday afternoon. The problem was that "afternoon" was too late for us. He looked at me again and asked, “How do we solve this?” With much distress, I tried to explain that on Sunday night in Brasília, there wasn’t much open. The supermarket might be the only option, if he wanted to buy hygiene products or perhaps try to find a shirt and tie there.
With no alternatives, he looked at his watch, which had just struck midnight, and reluctantly agreed to my suggestion. Off we went to the supermarket, me, two foreign authorities, and police cars with their sirens blaring.
The ride was long. We crossed the entire city of Brasília, as the only 24-hour supermarket at the time was located at the opposite end of the city. The airport is at the far end (South Wing), while the supermarket was at the other end (North Wing). This was the perfect opportunity for the Chilean Minister to ask me questions about Brasília—its founding, population, public transportation, agriculture, energy supply, city management, violence, and macroeconomic data, all while we took a quick tour of the city. I tried calling my boss, but for the first time, his phone went to voicemail. I’m convinced that diplomats have some sort of sixth sense; they know when things are going to go wrong. Maybe that’s why my boss left the airport before I did. It’s a mystery I’ll keep to myself forever, and I’m pretty sure he has forgotten about this story—diplomats are just too busy to remember everything.
After the sirens and our mini tour of Brasília, we finally reached our destination: the supermarket. It was nearly 1:00 AM. I asked the police officers to turn off the sirens, but they insisted on keeping them on. They were following orders, they said, and turning off the sirens wasn’t part of their instructions. I kept quiet and went into the supermarket with the Minister, his assistant, and two agents in sunglasses. The question I asked myself at that moment was, "Why didn’t they take off their sunglasses?" I didn’t ask, though. After the scolding I received for suggesting they turn off the sirens, I wasn’t in the mood for more questions. I guess the sunglasses are part of their uniform or perhaps a way to obscure their vision so criminals can’t tell where they’re looking.
In the supermarket, I felt a bit uncomfortable with the police officers, but I had no other option. I followed the Minister and did my job: to accompany and assist the foreign authorities. We found the clothing section, with ties, pants, shirts, and shoes. I was relieved to have taken them to the right place. The Minister started asking a million questions about sizes, colors, and types of clothing. I had no idea, so I went to find someone who could help. At 2:00 AM, it was hard to find employees, especially those working in the clothing section. For reasons that only destiny could explain, the first person I found wasn’t from the clothing department, but from the “lost children” microphone.
I explained the situation, and he eagerly agreed to help. He grabbed the microphone and announced, "Attention! The Minister of Chile is in the supermarket. All staff, please head to the textile section!" I can still vividly remember my life flashing before my eyes: the time I learned to walk, the time I fell off my bike, my first kiss, my bad grades, the time I wanted to run away from home, the time I forged my mother's signature. I quickly grabbed the microphone from his hand and told him to stop. He looked at me and said, “Well, it’s already done.” I rushed to the textile section and saw the police officers in action. They had blocked off both sides of the section, ensuring no staff could get near the Minister. They