I could not, however, recommend that the president travel to Bamako, Mali’s capital, as much as I would have liked to. There were so many countries, and our time was so limited, that those who had already basked in the glow of the American president were eliminated from the list, with the sole exception of Nelson Mandela.
South Africa was to be the centerpiece of our trip, the one non-negotiable stop. President Clinton had tremendous affection for Mandela and deep respect for the fight he had led for several decades, many of them spent in a jail cell on Robben Island just off of Cape Town. Mandela’s generosity toward his erstwhile captors and his successful steering of South Africa from a racist apartheid regime to majority rule, without the destructive violence that it was widely feared would attend such an upheaval, was one of history’s great feats. To see Mandela cheered by white South Africans at least as loudly as by his own fellow blacks gave the world hope for the future of that once-divided land.
The first date to fix, therefore, was South Africa, and my office arranged for the president to call Mandela on a Saturday morning in mid-January 1998, barely a week since we had locked in the March time frame. Barely a week—but what a week it had been. Just two days after confirming that the trip was a “go,” as we were madly scrambling to organize ourselves, we looked up at the television screen in our office to see a breathless-seeming Sam Donaldson. “If he’s not telling the truth, I think his presidency could be numbered in days, not weeks,” he exclaimed. The story of course was the president’s dalliance with a White House intern, who turned out to be Monica Lewinsky. For the next several days, as we held meetings and debated the itinerary and the themes we wanted to stress, we were wondered if the trip would go forward, and whether, if it did, it would be with Bill Clinton as president or, perhaps, with a newly sworn in Al Gore. The press frenzy drowned out all other public discussion, and Washington took on the atmosphere of tabloid central as the pressures mounted to drive the president from the city, preferably tarred and feathered.
When my deputy, Robin Sanders, and I walked into the Oval Office the Saturday morning of the call to Mandela, we had no idea what to expect. Would the president be undone by his personal travails, resembling a shell of his normally larger-than-life self? Robin, an elegant lady with extensive experience in Africa, was hobbled, having badly sprained her ankle in a fall, and was using crutches to limp around.
As we entered, the president stood to greet us and immediately asked about Robin’s injury. That thoughtfulness, I saw both then and later, was the hallmark of Bill Clinton’s relations with those he came into contact with. He was in a subdued mood but seemed none the worse for wear and made absolutely no mention of his personal problems. His legendary talent for compartmentalization was evident in our small talk while waiting for the telephone connection with Nelson Mandela.
Robin and I sat on a couch in the Oval Office and the president was at his desk when the call came through. The speaker phone was on, and the president had only three points to make: I want to come to South Africa, when is a good time, and I look forward to seeing you. That was it. We were there in case Mandela had some questions for the president that we could easily answer for him.
The president started to make his points but was interrupted by a passionate Mandela, who made the first mention of Monicagate, exclaiming, “What the press is doing to you is terrible,” and going on to proclaim all of Africa’s love for the entire Clinton family. For the next several minutes, every time Clinton began to speak, Mandela returned to this refrain. Robin and I looked everywhere except at the president as we became increasingly uncomfortable. I looked down at my shoes and the blue rug, up at the molding where the ceiling met the walls, noting how tightly it followed the curve of the wall. I studied the decorations, the busts, the artwork, the knicknacks.
Finally, I looked over at the president, who by this time was resigned to having to listen to his friend’s well-intentioned but embarrassing expressions of sympathy and support. His elbow was on the desk, phone cradled in his hand against his ear as he leaned heavily on his arm, fatalistically waiting for the opportunity to make his points and end the conversation. He was patient and unfailingly polite, but the experience was excruciating for us, and it must have been at least uncomfortable for him.
He finally nailed down the date with Mandela and was able to bring the conversation to a close. I jumped up and Robin struggled with her crutches as we said well-done to the president and started to ease out of the Oval Office. But Clinton came around the desk and, in a half-blocking move, stopped us with a simple, “This is going to be a good trip, isn’t it?” That was all it took for Robin and me to shift gears and launch into a twenty-minute discussion about the wonders of Africa, sharing our respective experiences. Sitting back at his desk while we stood in front of it, Clinton told us how he had read about Africa as a teenager and had always longed to travel there.
He was excited about the prospect of the trip, his pleasure leading Robin and me to forget all about the awkward telephone conversation. Since then, I have often wondered whether the president consciously wanted us to go on our way thinking about Africa, and not about Monica. If so, he succeeded—but then again, so did we. We had just spent twenty minutes alone with the most powerful man in the world, sharing with him our impressions of the continent we each loved and leaving him even more enthusiastic about what we planned. We were able to take his mind off the budding scandal just as much as he did ours. I walked out of the Oval Office absolutely convinced that Bill Clinton would still be the president in March and that we would be flying off with him, aboard Air Force One, to the continent where I had always left part of myself.
Mallorca, Spain, 1966. I’m sixteen years old, sitting on the wall in front of our home with the Mediterranean Sea in the background. My parents were journalists who covered cultural topics in Europe for the King Features Syndicate, the San Francisco Chronicle and the International Herald Tribune.
My first diplomatic position was from 1976 to 1978 in Niger, the desert country in West Africa. This posting launched my lifelong love affair with the whole continent—its peoples, its magnificent landscapes, and its abundant wildlife. On this and the following four pages are photographs from that time in my life.
A baboon in a tree in W Park, Niger. The park takes its name from the bends in the Niger River which runs through it.
African antelope in W Park. The park is bordered by Niger, Benin, and Burkina Faso (then known as Upper Volta).
A Tuareg nomad, majestic on his camel as he observes the campsite that my wife Susan and I had made in the countryside between Niger’s capital Niamey and its northern city, Agadez.
Two Nigerien women, as elegant and proud as they are poor.
The mosque in Agadez is a fascinating structure that dates back to the sixteenth century. It is constructed of adobe and timber.
A Nigerien man butchering a sheep for mechouis, the Nigerien version of a communal barbecue.
Nigerien children playing by an adobe wall. Children are ubiquitous in this high-birth-rate country and, like kids everywhere, curious about foreigners.
I’m grinning after a great day of hiking in W Park.
Giraffe in game park in Kenya, 1977.
Unlike Niger, Burundi has deep forests. I saw this Burundian man walking in one in 1984.
In 1985 I worked as a Congressional Fellow on agricultural issues in Al Gore’s office. I found him a down-to-earth representative for the people. In 1990 I spoke with him from Baghdad while he took a break in the Senate cloakroom and solicited my views during the debate on the use-of-force resolution prior to the launching of Desert Storm. I told him that I did not believe sanctions alone would drive Saddam from Kuwait.
Majority Whip Tom Foley was my other boss during my Congressional Fellowship. Here, on the floor of the House of Representatives on July 4, 1986, Tom opened the doors of the House chamber and hosted Joe and Sabrina, my twins, then seven, after we had watched Independence Day firew
orks from the balcony of the Capitol.
Paris, 1986. Even though I’ve never had a chance to serve there, I always love to visit the City of Light.
The Champs Élysées, July 14, 1987. My twins, Joe and Sabrina, wanted a better view of the Bastille Day parade. A father can only indulge his children.
Senator Richard Shelby (seen here holding hands with Saddam Hussein) and Senator Arlen Spector, December 1988. To my right is Nancy Johnson, the embassy political officer. To Senator Spector’s left are two senate staffers. The senators came to see whether there was a possible positive role for Saddam to play in the Middle East Peace Process. They were ultimately disappointed.
On August 6, 1990, four days after Iraq invaded Kuwait, I met with Saddam Hussein. He wanted to find out if he could keep Kuwait in exchange for oil at a cheap price. I told him to get out of Kuwait immediately.
Saddam’s business card was sent to me with pictures from our August 6 meeting. It was a strange courtesy from a ruthless dictator’s government. The card reads “Saddam Hussein, President of the Republic of Iraq.”
The Oval Office, January 14, 1991. Just back from Baghdad, meeting my commander-in-chief. He welcomed me with kind words and gratifying praise.
When I received this personal note from President George H. W. Bush, I was honored that with everything else he had to deal with then he took the time to write me. It was in character for a thoughtful man.
The Rose Garden, the White House, Washington, January 14 1991. Thirty-six hours before the launching of Desert Storm, President Bush is asking me the most humane of questions about Baghdad and the Iraqi people, exactly the questions I would want a president to ponder before a war.
The Oval Office, January 14, 1991. Secretary of State James Baker and I are talking about how I felt finally being out of Baghdad, something he had worried would never happen. I’m pretty happy—and so is he, judging from his smile.
A year after President Bush appointed me Ambassador to Gabon and Sâo Tomé and Príncipe in 1992, Joe and Sabrina came to visit me there. Here we’re at the home of President Miguel Trovoada.
In the jungles of Gabon, the bridges across the swift rivers are often made of vines and rope woven together.
After presenting my letters of credentials to the president of Gabon, Omar Bongo, in the capital, Libreville, the two of us engaged in a brief chat.
I am with Jesse Jackson and Leon Sullivan at my residence in Libreville, Gabon, in 1993, during a reception for the participants in the African African-American Summit. Many of the most important figures of the Civil Rights movement came for the summit, where Sullivan, one of the greatest orators of his generation, gave a spellbinding address.
The Oval Office, 1997, meeting President Clinton for the first time, as Sandy Berger looks on. Al Gore helped break the ice at this first meeting. In the background are Tom Pickering, the under secretary of state for political affairs (left, facing camera), and Leon Fuerth, the vice president’s national security adviser.
The Oval Office, 1997. I am briefing President Clinton for a meeting with the Malian president, Alpha Oumar Konare, while Susan Rice, the assistant secretary of state for Africa, and Jim Steinberg, the deputy national security adviser look on. Sandy Berger, the national security adviser is checking his notes. In the background near the windows, Leon Fuerth and Strobe Talbott (right), deputy secretary of state, are chatting.
A personal note from President Clinton, written the day his impeachment trial opened in the Senate. Judging by the last sentence about Africa, he probably would have liked to be as far away from Washington as possible at that moment.
I am talking with Denis Sassou Nguesso, president of the Congo, and two of his government ministers at a luncheon in Washington, D.C., in 2002.
I am sitting with Senegalese President Abdou Diouf, in Dakar in 2000. He is telling the local press, out of camera shot, that he credited me with bringing the president of the United States to Africa.
I am making a point to Tim Russert during my appearance on Meet the Press, October 5, 2003. Earlier, on July 6, I had defended my New York Times article “What I Didn’t Find in Africa” on the NBC show when Andrea Mitchell was the guest host. The second time I was defending myself and my wife. The second picture [below], of Tim and me, commemorates the later event.
As an early observance of Halloween, a month before the holiday, a clever cartoonist satirized the outing of my wife. It provided one of the humorous moments during this period. (By permission of Mike Luckovich and Creators Syndicate, Inc.)
Chapter Thirteen
Taking President Clinton to Africa
THE PLANNING OF PRESIDENT CLINTON’S TRIP to Africa involved several different offices in the White House and throughout the government, most of which my colleagues and I at the Africa Bureau of the National Security Council (NSC) usually had little contact with. Fortunately, the offices were staffed with people for whom planning presidential trips was a way of life. They knew what they were doing, even if much of it was new to me. Advance teams were dispatched to the short list of countries under consideration to determine whether they could accommodate an invasion of at least six hundred people, a traveling horde that includes the full delegation and staff plus security, logistics, and communications. Possible events were discussed, and sites for speeches and conferences scouted. Negotiations were undertaken with host governments to ensure that common views existed about what we may want the two presidents to discuss and to accomplish. The Secret Service looked hard at the security implications of everything being planned and had the telling vote in one of the most important decisions we had to make about the itinerary.
I tried to use all the management techniques I had learned over the years, especially from my time in Baghdad with my colleague, Emil Skoden, and with General Jim Jamerson in Stuttgart. In working with both, I had seen just how valuable teamwork can be and the importance of obtaining full participation from all parties. In addition to sound management, it was imperative, if we were going to meet the deadline of mid-March, that as much authority be delegated as possible. Fortunately, the White House is a place where every employee is dedicated and highly motivated, and my office was no exception. Robin Sanders, my deputy, also in charge of Central Africa; John Prendergast, responsible for East Africa; and Erica Barks-Ruggles, the West and Southern African director, epitomized public service at its best. John referred to the three of them as the “pack mules,” because I could just keep loading more and more responsibility and tasks on their backs, and they would find a way to carry out each mission. We would gather in our office every morning, argue about where we should go and what we should do, continue to argue throughout the day, and finally settle all the issues midway through the night and then return the following morning to start all over again. Emotions were high, as the directors had their favorite countries and issues, the domestic constituencies had theirs, and the interest groups theirs as well. Everything had to be negotiated, and sometimes renegotiated.
We were bombarded with more good ideas, and some bad ones, than we knew what to do with, both from within and from people we had never seen or heard of before. Jesse Jackson pitched the president to go to Zimbabwe and meet with President Robert Mugabe, for example, and even though Mugabe was, and always had been, an unacceptable dictator, we still had to beat that suggestion back. It fell to me to tell the president directly that it was not a good idea. Despite the mythology surrounding Mugabe in some circles as a liberation leader and an agrarian reformer, he was just another authoritarian driving his great country into the ground.
We narrowed the debate early by establishing criteria consistent with what we wanted to achieve. Our overarching theme for the trip was Africa in all its glory, as a counterbalance to the calamities regularly broadcast on television and headlined in newspapers. Therefore, we looked first at countries that had engaged in significant political reform and had managed to incorporate market solutions to drive economic growth. Second, we knew that we could
not ignore the conflicts that affected large swaths of the continent, and in fact I did not want us to give that short shrift. There was no political gain for the president to travel to Rwanda. But there was every policy reason to try to hammer home the point that the international community had to react faster and better in the future than it had in that country so damaged by genocide in 1994. So “conflict resolution” was a second theme.
We also emphasized the importance of education, health (especially the HIV/AIDS crisis), human rights and post-conflict reconciliation, and environmental issues. One thing we hoped to do, too, was visit a country that faced these issues and was not English-speaking, so as not to be accused of slighting a large portion of the continent’s people. The itinerary was thus whittled down to Ghana, Uganda, Rwanda, South Africa, Botswana, and Senegal, where French is spoken. While in Uganda, President Clinton was to cochair, with President Museveni, a regional summit of seven Central and East African leaders to discuss the arc of conflict that afflicted countries from Angola and Congo in the west, up through Burundi and Rwanda, to Sudan.
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