In the diplomatic career, one may ascend through two avenues: seniority or merit. Though not a diplomat by profession, I was once, rather curiously, “decorated” as such. As an advisor, my duties were manifold, one of which was to assist and accompany foreign dignitaries during their visits to Brazil—a task I performed with some competence, owing to the invaluable lessons gleaned from the Brazilian diplomats I had humbly served at the dawn of my professional life.
In April of 2006, Brasília played host to the meeting of the Consejo Agropecuario del Sur (CAS). This significant gathering of Ministers of Agriculture convenes annually in a member country, and this time, by coincidence or perhaps fate, the chosen city was Brasília. By a similar twist of fortune, I too was chosen to be in attendance.
For a recent graduate of International Relations, participation in such an event was a veritable boon. Not only could I prominently feature this “grandiose” involvement on my fledgling curriculum vitae, but I would also stand face-to-face with the decision-makers of South America. I was granted access to privileged information ahead of the press, and granted a pass into the hushed, closed-door world of diplomatic theatrics.
Speaking of these behind-the-scenes machinations, one must recall the days that precede such meetings. The training at the Rio Branco Institute and within the Itamaraty itself is, I believe, exceedingly rigorous, for I recall spending interminable hours checking, “re-checking,” and “triple-checking” lists: names, microphones, carpets, gifts, vehicle movements, telephones, badges, security personnel, porters, luncheons, music, seating charts, attending dignitaries, press corps, international flight arrivals and departures, contacts at the airport, with the federal police, with embassy and Itamaraty protocol officers—in short, a litany of details I can scarcely recall now, but which collectively persuaded me to abandon any diplomatic ambition, leaving me with a certain perennial resentment.
I mention this because my superior at the time implored me to “make a heart out of guts.” He would descend into total panic upon asking a question to which I lacked an immediate answer, proclaiming that we were in the final preparations, that the meeting was imminent, and that time was of the essence. And indeed, we were perpetually out of time; though the meeting was in April, it was already January. To my chief, months were but hours, fleeting and insufficient. “Diplomats are busy people and we cannot waste their time,” he would often say. I suspect this ethos hails from the era of the Baron of Rio Branco. Legend tells of an office besieged by papers, books, maps, parchments, and letters—a life of immense tumult. And so, as a devoted disciple, my chief upheld the Baron’s standards; he was a man perpetually occupied, even without the parchments and escritoire, forever short on time.
Once the preparations for the magnificent meeting of the Southern Cone's Agriculture Ministers were concluded, I received word that I was to receive each Minister upon their arrival at Brasília International Airport. It was a mission of great import which I was determined to execute flawlessly. Receiving dignitaries is no simple feat. One must know how to greet a weary traveler, ask few questions, be clear, and always hold a card up one's sleeve should problems arise. Especially in my case, for I possess a singular attraction to predicaments. Or perhaps it is they that are drawn to me.
Thus, I was furnished with the lists: the list of authorities and their entourages, the list of federal police agents accompanying us, the list of airport contacts, the list of Ministry staff on duty, the list of dietary restrictions, the list of essential telephone numbers, the list of the diplomatic corps, the list of drivers assigned to transport us to the hotel, the list of recommendations, and others I no longer recall. One can only imagine the confusion of papers and copies I held in my hands. Assuredly, career diplomats do not themselves carry such lists; they have assistants to bear and recite them. This was my function for the evening: to carry and read the lists for my chief, upon request.
We proceeded to the airport with a motorcade of official cars—a scene ripped from an action film. Police, official vehicles, outriders, and myself in their midst, clutching my sheaves of paper. At the airport, we were received by Infraero officials who escorted us to the VIP lounge, where we awaited the incoming flights. All transpired without incident on that Sunday evening. I shall write it once more, in bold, to emphasize the day and the hour: a Sunday evening. It is crucial to note that in Brasília, on Sunday evenings, few establishments remain open. Perhaps a pharmacy, a 24-hour supermarket, and a handful of restaurants.
That night, my chief and I received the authorities. Our mission was to greet them, offer welcome on behalf of the Brazilian Government, ensure all was in order, and escort them to their cars for transfer to the hotel. We also briefed them on the following day’s agenda and meeting details. The last to arrive was the Chilean Minister of Agriculture, Dr. Álvaro Rojas—a name I shall hardly forget, more so now that it is inscribed here. As the Chilean Minister arrived, my chief greeted him and instructed me to see to the final arrangements, for it was late and the service was nearly concluded. He bid me farewell, stating he would be available on his mobile phone for any eventuality, as always.
I was thus left with the Chilean Minister and endeavored to make conversation. I cannot recall what I spoke of, but he paid little heed to my words. I perceived he was anxious and preoccupied with some matter. I only understood the nature of his concern when I realized that he, his aide, and I were the only souls remaining in the airport baggage claim hall at 11:00 PM on a Sunday. There began my despair. I recall quite clearly the Minister’s attire: sports sneakers, beige trousers, and a jacket of an even more casual nature. His aide was dressed in a similar vein—comfortable, casual, scarcely formal. This was of consequence because the next morning, at 08:00, they were to attend an official meeting, for which such attire would be wholly unsuitable.
He looked at me and said, “Entonces, ¿qué hacemos?” I had little choice. I went to the airline counter to inquire after the luggage. The company stated the bags were in Guarulhos and would arrive Monday afternoon. The problem was that the afternoon would be far too late for our purposes. He looked at me again and asked, “¿Cómo resolvemos la situación?” With considerable anguish, I explained that in Brasília on a Sunday night, very little was open. A supermarket was perhaps the only option if he wished to purchase toiletries or perhaps find a shirt and tie there.
With no alternatives, he glanced at his watch, which now read midnight, and accepted my “invitation.” And so we departed for the supermarket: myself, two foreign dignitaries, and the police cars, sirens wailing.
The journey was extensive, traversing practically the entire city of Brasília, for this was the only 24-hour market at the time. The airport lies at one extremity of the city (the end of the South Wing) and the supermarket at the other (the North Wing). The drive provided a propitious moment for the Chilean Minister to request a briefing on Brasília: its foundation, population data, public transportation, agriculture, energy supply, city provisioning, crime rates, micro and macroeconomic data—and for good measure, a swift tour of the city’s monuments. I tried calling my chief, but for the first time, his phone went to voicemail. I am certain diplomats possess a crystal ball; they sense when matters are about to go awry. Perhaps that is why he had departed the airport before me. This is a question I harbour to this day, quite convinced he himself has no memory of this episode; they are far too busy to recall every engagement.
After our sirens-blaring tour of Brasília, we reached our destination: the supermarket. It was nearly 1:00 AM. I asked the officers to silence the sirens—there was no need. But they paid me little mind, stating they were following superior orders and that deactivating the sirens was not part of their instructions. I held my tongue and entered the market with the Minister, his aide, and two agents wearing sunglasses. I must ask: why did they not remove their sunglasses? I said nothing, however; after the reprimand over the sirens, I desired no further discourse. I suppose the spectacles are part of the uniform, or perhaps serve to obscure their field of vision, denying criminals the knowledge of where their gaze is fixed.
Inside, I felt distinctly uncomfortable under the gaze of the officers, but there was no alternative. I accompanied the Minister and fulfilled my role: to assist the foreign authorities. We found a section with clothing: ties, trousers, shirts, and shoes. It was a relief to have guided them to the right place. The Minister called me over and posed a million questions regarding trouser and shirt sizes, tie styles, and shoe fits. I knew nothing of the sort, so I went in search of a store employee.
At 2:00 AM, finding staff is difficult, let alone those who tend the clothing section. For reasons only fate can explain, the first employee I encountered was not from apparel, but the man responsible for the public address system, used for lost children, mothers who abandon their offspring to shop, and incorrectly parked cars.
I explained the situation to him, and he promptly offered his assistance. Seizing the microphone, he announced: “Attention! The Minister of Chile is in the market. All staff please report to the textile section!” As in other episodes of my life, I saw it flash before my eyes: learning to walk, falling from my bicycle, my first kiss, poor exam grades, the time I wished to run away from home, forging my mother’s signature. I swiftly took the microphone from his hand and told him not to do that. He looked at me and said, “It’s already done.”
I raced to the textile section to find the police in full action mode. They had cordoned off the area from both ends, preventing employees from approaching the Minister, scolded me for drawing attention to an operation meant to be discreet, and piqued the curiosity of the few customers present. The Minister, distracted by the clothing and unable to understand the Portuguese, was merely surprised by the officers’ agitation.
I tried to mitigate the situation, and we managed to select some clothes. Naturally, there were no suits, so a friend of mine began making calls to see if a formalwear rental shop could be persuaded to open early the next morning. We would stop there before the meeting so they could choose suits. They purchased ties, shoes, trousers, toiletries, toothbrushes, combs, cream, razors, and so forth.
I arrived home at 3:00 AM, exhausted and anxious, knowing I had to wake at 5:00 to collect the Minister, go to the rental shop, and proceed to the meeting. The next day, I also had to explain the situation to my colleagues and my chief, take notes on the meeting’s decisions for my report, liaise with other departments, and ensure a complete record was kept.
When I recounted the story, no one believed me. They laughed until they were breathless. The meeting commenced, and I remained there, seated behind the conference table near the Chilean flag, motionless, as if in a dream. I could scarcely comprehend the proceedings, but I was prepared for any eventuality. I believe the Chilean Minister was also somewhat worse for wear, though he was not with us that morning, having been whisked away to another meeting with other officials.
I recall clearly that our Minister of Agriculture at the time was Dr. Roberto Rodrigues. Colleagues urged me to tell him the story, certain he would find it immensely amusing. Somewhat inhibited, I obliged, and he was indeed amused. He gave me a hearty embrace and thanked me for my work and efficiency in resolving his Chilean colleague’s predicament. I was pleased by the recognition of my efforts and felt more at ease during the meeting—after all, it is not every day one receives praise from a Minister.
The meeting, fortunately, proceeded well. I could not wait for it all to end so I might rest after the marathon. However, during the closing remarks, Minister Roberto Rodrigues took the floor and stated: “Dear Ministers and assembled authorities, I cannot conclude this meeting without mentioning the invaluable participation of the Diplomat, Rui Samarcos Lóra, without whose effort and dedication this assembly could not have been realized. Please, a round of applause for him.”
Astonished, I rose, my face flushed. I saw everyone on their feet, looking at me—Ministers and authorities from across South America. I glanced at my friends, who, laughing and utterly bewildered, shook their heads as if to say, “Now, enjoy it!”
After the applause, nearly every Minister and official came to greet me, asking questions I could not answer, and I became fast friends with the foreign diplomats stationed in Brasília. What puzzles me to this day is that I never discovered what truly transpired. I do not know if Minister Rodrigues, in a gesture of gratitude, declared me a true diplomat for solving the problem, or if the diplomats surrounding him relayed erroneous information, communicating that I was, in fact, a career diplomat. They are, as ever, far too busy to remember such minutiae, leaving me with nothing but the memory and the title, bestowed in a moment of surreal and glorious confusion.