Ceremony, Congo-style

One of the recompenses of life as a defense the attaché is the privilege of being invited to every major ceremonial event involving the host nation’s military. In defiance of the concept that all ceremonies are created equal, as with almost any idea originating from the West, Africa never fails to produce something in the “completely different” category. Such was the case this Thanksgiving as I bundled up in my green wool Class A uniform to join my colleagues in the sweltering heat of a Central African morning to watch the spectacle of a new Armed Forces Chief of Staff swearing-in ceremony unfold.

The first issue confronting anyone involving ceremonies in this part of the world is trying to figure out when, or if, they are actually happening. Invitations typically arrive the day of or the day after the event, so the usual modus operandi is to ask several sources from the host nation military and other embassies when rumor of a ceremony begins to circulate. This usually results in a variety of times, locations, and dates based on radio trottoir, or what the U.S. military refers to as the rumor mill. If it appears that there is a greater than even chance that the event is going to occur one must next consider the arrival time. Invitations, when received, normally have the attaché community arriving two hours prior to the start of the ceremony if it is one presided over by the Minister of Defense or President. Having arrived “on time” exactly once, in Chad, to find the venue empty except for the hapless soldiers in formation standing in the blazing sun on black pavement as their officers lounged in the shade of trees, I now arrive about 15 minutes prior to the stated time the Minister of Defense is supposed to be there, which is about average for the diplomatic community.

Arrival at the event is fairly low key once one gets through the cordon of Kalashnikov-toting guards wearing the ubiquitous sunglasses (even indoors), who look like extras from Blood Diamond or The Last King of Scotland. There is an obligatory metal detector which I inevitably set off owing to the Army bling I have earned over the years and my mound of pocket litter: cell phone, pocket knife, digital camera, keys, bottle opener, etc. I have learned to disregard both the guards and the metal detector and simply keep moving, which has yet to generate any reaction from anyone. Parenthetically, this tactic works well in most situations on the continent, particularly when in uniform: keep moving purposefully and the assumption is that whatever you are up to is authorized. Anyway, after the security theater a protocol representative in an expensive suit (you can tell because the label is always left on the sleeve as proof) and a bad tie (I once encountered a general in Chad sporting a Simpson’s tie with a mooning Bart exclaiming, “Eat my shorts, man” on it) carefully scrutinizes one’s invitation (as if it was the Oscars) and grudgingly lets you pass to an invariably attractive and colorfully dressed protocol assistant, who helps you to your seat.

Seats are marked with name plates, which the authorities remove upon delivering you to the bleachers, while remaining name plates are left out to expose to public censure those who dared to skip the important event. At this point the soldiers have been standing in the sun for two to three hours but, stoic and inured to these conditions as they are, I have yet to see one fall out or require assistance. Small talk with fellow attaché’s and diplomats follows until the tocsin heralds the arrival of the first of a series of Big Men.

Big Men are a feature of the landscape here, as they are in most places. Africa, however, treats them with a certain panache found lacking in the West. The first indication that someone important is coming is the sound of sirens coming closer, followed by a cloud of police on motorcycles sporting jackboots and white helmets and gauntlets. As they escort the Big Man they take both hands off of the handlebars to signal motorists off the road, all while dodging the potholes, pools of oil, piles of sand, and the other random detritus that litter African roads. After the motorcycles whiz by, bugles blare, commands are shouted, and protocol and press representatives rush to the arriving limousine, usually a black Mercedes surrounded by SUV’s and pickup trucks carrying squads of more of the Kalashnikov-toting extras evoked above. Upon arrival, the Big Man inspects the troops in a cursory manner to jazz music played in martial style while walking on a long red carpet upon which no mere mortal has trod. I once had the temerity to step on it because to otherwise get across it one had to leap, which was an insult to what little dignity I retain. For this I was scolded by the protocol assistant, who had somehow levitated over it in her form-fitting dress. After reviewing the troops, the Big Man moves to the seating area and occasionally nods to waiting dignitaries before sitting in the Big Man chair, often a gaudy, gilded contraption with a red velvet seat. Having sat in one of these a time or two, they are not as comfortable as they look, especially when covered in vinyl slip covers (Ginsu knife not included).

The ceremony itself unfolds like many of those one encounters in the West, with some interesting twists. The band strives mightily to sound martial but more closely resembles a struggling high school marching band. Africans are amazing musicians, but too often the band’s attempts at John Philips Sousa are as pathetic as my own attempts at playing Senegalese, Lingala, or Cape Verdian music. In the case of my latest ceremony the troops passed in review to the tune of Marching through Georgia, an old American Civil War tune about Sherman’s 1864 march to the sea, and Stephen Foster’s Old Folks at Home, a.k.a., Sewanee River. I couldn’t figure out whether or not they were trying to make a statement with their choice of music but decided against it; they just liked the way the tunes sounded. The Foster tune, with its minstrel lyrics, “All de world am sad an dreary. . .” was particularly ironic, although I doubt any other than a few Americans was aware of the song’s theme or cultural setting.

The parade portion also proceeds as one would expect, but with its own character. First the troops march past in formations composed of the various services: the Army, in matching uniforms but a mix-match of weapons in various stages of decay; the Air Force, which has exactly one operational aircraft (the President’s), the Navy, which has exactly zero operational seagoing vessels but does have speedboats for the river and matching AK-47’s, and the Republican Guard, pride of the Armed Forces. The latter goose step and chant as they pass the reviewing stand, which I still find disturbing after all of the WWII books I read growing up and the unit’s reputation as being hard cases.

The parade ends with the band marching past and the drum major performing tricks with his baton to the delight of the crowd, who hoot and ululate in approval. Tossing it up and spinning it around are the usual feats, but my last ceremony included the drum major balancing the baton on his chin while marching in step and performing 180 degree turns. It was impressive, if more appropriate for a circus act than a formal military ceremony in the eyes of a Western-trained officer. The final bit of spice was the drum major salute as the band passed the reviewing stand. Granted that the drum major’s baton is a phallic symbol, but any pretense at subtlety was lost with as the salute consisted of placing the rounded end of the baton in the crotch and pointing it straight up as the drum major passes the VIP section. The inference was clear enough. . .

If you have made it this far then the cocktail is your reward. If the Big Man stays for the cocktail he is mobbed by attendees as his security details tries valiantly – and in vain – to keep them away. What they talk about I have no idea; I have never joined the fracas to find out. The food itself is standard diplomatic fare for this part of the world: brochettes, samosas, meatballs, egg rolls, etc, all with a nice covering of flies such that the food containers appear to move from a distance. I left my squeamishness behind at my first big ceremony, Chad’s National Day in 2002, so am unimpressed by the flies. Drinks are invariably large local lager beers or soft drinks served by the same colorfully dressed protocol assistants that seated the attendees. Nobody leaves before the Big Man, who departs to blaring sirens and revving engines in a cloud of dust and exhaust from poorly maintained diesel engines. At this point it is wise to exit, because the troops that spent up to five hours standing around in formation are inevitably hovering around the edges of the party like jackals waiting for their chance at the carcass left by their officers, the lions. At some unheralded point, the officers abruptly leave and their soldiers storm the tables in a flurry of elbows and shoving. Weapons are forgotten and left lying around like my kids’ Lego’s (not that they would be any more dangerous than Lego’s given their condition and the lack of ammunition available to the average soldier.) To avoid getting trampled I try to exit after the Big Man but before the officers leave, a feat of timing that requires extraordinary situational awareness as events turn very suddenly here.

After it’s all over I return home to air out my soaking wet wool uniform and consider how it is a metaphor for the slow evolution from the Cold War mentality that permeates our military culture. An expeditionary Army should have expeditionary uniforms, even for ceremonies, and I covet the poplin or tropical wool uniforms many of my colleagues sport. Then again, here I am attending ceremonies and eating and drinking for my country while my peers are in full battle gear in both literal and figurative hot zones. At the end of day and all of its maddening humor, I owe more than I can pay and am honored to be able to represent my country and my Army in this sweltering outpost of America’s foreign policy.