Surviving Mauritania: Countdown To A Coup

“But what you’ve done here
Is put yourself between a bullet and a target
And it won’t be long before
You’re pulling yourself away.”

— Citizen Cope ‘Bullet and a Target’

August, 2008

Nouakchott International Airport

Islamic Republic of Mauritania

Day 1

The Air France flight from Charles de Gaulle descended down to the desolate desert below.

The briefing books were still on my lap as I looked out the window. The plane had landed in the middle of the tarmac a few football fields in distance from the nearest building. I collected my carry-on luggage and exited the plane into the cocoon of oppressive heat, and lung-collapsing dust which would encompass my next few days.

At the time, Mauritania was the poorest country in the world. More than twenty percent of the population lived on less than $1.25 USD/day. Plagued throughout it’s history by ethnic violence and human rights violations — including present-day slavery and human trafficking — the corrupt practices of the political power-brokers offered no real hope for economic or political stability. Making an already volatile situation even more problematic, the slow burn of the financial crisis soon to hit Europe and the United States had all but cut-off both charitable and financial aid from previously well financed non-government organizations and corporate sponsorship programs.

My official role on this trip was protective in nature, but my cover was that of a ”logistics officer.” Officially, I was to be more concerned with the protocol and coordination of events rather than those of diplomatic security. In short, I was to provide a vigilant overwatch, but I was on strict orders to only intervene if absolutely necessary.

In developing nations, might often makes right. I had learned the hard way it was often better to not allow for the particulars of my own skill set to be too widely known. Having served in this capacity several times in recent years, I had established something of a reputation for being effective in this role. While this was good for my professional development, it also meant I had the misfortune of constantly being sent to such “exotic” locations.

More often than not, I found myself most effective when portraying myself as yet another foreign service professional. One who whispered thoughtful advice to the decision makers responsible for the security of our delegation. I had become quite skilled at empowering those who were otherwise clueless, yet none-the-less in charge, with my own prescribed considerations for them to disseminate as their own. As a wise instructor once taught me, it’s always better to be the one pulling the puppet strings than it is to be the puppet . For he who pulls the strings can easily relate to the world view of the puppet. The opposing vantage point not so easily envisioned.

I descended the steps of the plane, and prepared myself for the long walk in oppressive heat to the terminal building. Half way down the stairs, I noticed a large man exiting an old van with floral print drapes. He held a small sign with the symbol of my representative organization. Our eyes locked and a nod of recognition exchanged. I was likely easy to identify. I had noticed only two other westerners on the plane. Both of whom were many years my senior.

We exchanged brief pleasantries. He introduced himself as a member of the presidential guard who was assigned to help expedite my visa clearance procedures. Together we identified the rest of my luggage being off-loaded from the back of the plane and loaded them into his van. I thought it odd as we drove away from the direction the other passengers were heading. He must have noticed my inquisitive gaze as I looked back.

“Reserved” my greeter explained, pointing in the direction of a small building set aside from the others. “For special guests.”

My Embassy Contact, a man whom I will refer with affection to as “EC” as he may still be in the hallows of foreign service, was waiting for me as I entered the stale-aired room. Looking around it was clear this place did not get a lot of use. Lines could be seen in the two-toned dust where the heavy drapes in front of the windows had been swept open not long before our arrival. The single air conditioning unit blasted on high in an attempt to make up for lost time. The smell of hot plastic wrapped around still covered couches in unattended parts of the room permeated through though the air each time a door opened and fluttered their unfastened ends.

EC was young, early twenties, and I could tell that this was his first assignment. In the diplomatic corps, experience gets you postings in Paris. Youth gets you Uganda. This being Mauritania meant he wasn’t very well politically connected. Like me, he would have to make his way on merit. But then, we all have to grow up somewhere. To his benefit, he offered subtle insight as to his understanding of my role here and seemed both competent and willing to help. After the requisite, but brief vetting known all to well by those familiar with the inter-workings of government service, EC and I traded a few local D.C. stories, name dropped, g-talked and after establishing each other’s bonafides shifted the conversation back to the mission at hand.

EC confirmed that the Mauritanian President was still in China on a fund raising mission, but that everything was otherwise on-schedule for our delegation’s arrival. Our talk turned to the accommodations the President had graciously offered for our stay. I was anxious to see what they were providing as early as possible, and help prescribe as many of the preferred pleasantries as possible that the delegation often requested.

Mauritania is considered a “hardship post.” A term used by the United States Diplomatic Service to describe a living environment with a standard significantly lower than those of home. In the case of Mauritania, this meant the Ambassador had his own small private residence inside the gated embassy, while the rest of the U.S. staff occupied the same barracks as the soldiers who ensured their safety. The options for our accommodations were therefore somewhat limited.

Since there were no suitable hotels in Mauritania, EC explained that we would be staying in the new Presidential Palace. Recently constructed, though not yet christened, we were to be something of the unofficial dry-run. Diplomatic guinea pigs to see what still needed to be fixed before the President and his family would make the official transition into the new residence.

EC explained that he had only seen the new palace from the outside. The embassy had requested he get an inside look. We decided he should join me to compare notes for our respective reports on first impressions.

The new palace had been constructed just a few hundred meters away from the VIP reception terminal so as to not inconvenience the President with a long commute to welcome official guests. It included it’s own access point to the airport tarmac which connected to the hanger where the presidential plane was secured.

The gentlemen who greeted me at the side of the plane returned with my passport. EC and I stood and began following him toward the door to leave, but instead of the exit, we were escorted to a small table with chairs and offered a seat. Noting our confusion, he explained it would just be a few more minutes while he confirmed that everything was ready for our arrival.

We were served coffee, figs, and juice. The unsolicited serving of refreshments to men of our respectively low rank, meant we were being intentionally delayed in order to buy the palace more time to prepare for our arrival. Despite our offering to walk down the tarmac to the palace, a suggestion that seemed to utterly terrify the local security team, it was another hour before our motorcade arrived. In this case, the “motorcade” consisted of the van which had picked me up at the side of the plane, and a smaller sedan that had just arrived from the palace telling us it was ok to now come over.

The drive was short, just a few minutes, but EC used the time to once again frame my expectations as to his underlying uncertainty of the construction’s reliability. It was, after all, still being built by the Chinese as part of a deal struck between the two respective governments. One which almost certainly favored the Chinese in the yet-to-be-mined resources of this impoverished country. I assured EC that I knew what to expect. A recent mission to Equatorial Guinea just a few months earlier had left a lasting impression I would not soon forget. I wasn’t expecting the water to be clean enough to drink, but I was hopeful for a shade more clear than yellow that would prevent baby-wipes from being the only source of a shower.

We arrived a few moments later. Our motorcade pulled off the road leading to the tarmac, through the back gate, and then around to the front of the presidential palace.

The head of the house staff greeted us as we exited the van. Walking up the front steps and through the wide open front door we could see many workers still scrambling to get the palace ready ahead of the delegation’s arrival. The smell of wet paint hung heavy in the air, as open windows and oscillating fans did their best to circulate their fumes from the palace. It was getting dark, but a flip of a nearby switch revealed many lightbulbs had still yet to be screwed in.

In the main reception room, three men hung presidential photos in-line at eye level. Mauritania had earned it’s independence from France in 1960, but judging from the number of Presidential photos being hung around the room, political stability was not a constant theme. Taking in the room, EC and I both looked at each other with the same arched-eyebrow expression. The dates-of-service labeled below each picture told a foreboding tale. In Mauritania, the life expectancy of a sitting president left much to be desired. Having one’s affairs in order was an unwritten pre-requisite.

Continuing our tour up the stairs, we stopped when out a front-facing window we saw two large open canopy trucks full of soldiers. The convoy entered the font gate and started driving down the long driveway leading from the road opposite the airport. Our delegation’s “protection detail” had arrived for our introductory meeting.

EC and I headed down to receive them.

The convoy had not yet came to a complete stop as the self-proclaimed head of security swung himself down from the front seat of the lead truck. Tall, thin-framed, and dressed in full military regalia, he was armed with a pistol holstered in a cross-draw fashion and an AK-47 slung across his back. The barrel of the rifle pointing just near the base of his neck. The many medals pinned to his chest clinked in cadence as he marched toward us.

Good, I thought. At least I know how the next few days will play out. Although we had never met before, I had worked with him a thousand times. The bravado of his approach gave the impression he was a man used to being in charge. Someone who was not used to being questioned. Someone uninitiated, who’s decorative employment of medals and weaponry was that of someone dressing as though this was how he believed he should be.

EC and I met him between the two trucks. He introduced himself as “General” and instructed us that it would be appropriate to address him by his title.

The driver of the first truck got out and began to bang his fist along the side rails awakening the sleeping soldiers. Orders were shouted by the driver and echoed by the now rousted soldiers who helped each other down as they sprung into action.

This was an unfortunate reality of third world circumstance. Labor was cheap and life was cheaper. Both of which were represented in this case by two large cattle trucks full of untrained 18-year-old kids carrying ill cared for and barrel rusted rifles.

I could feel the General watching me as my eyes as I mentally evaluated the display of action and capability.

What I saw could only be described as something of a discombobulated, half-circle of malnourished, ill equipped, and untrained soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder from one end of the palace to the other. Uncertainty and confusion in their eyes as they attempted to pass themselves off as something of a protective formation.

What I said to the General, who was now clearly expecting a compliment on this meant for me display was, “Impressive! That’s a well-oiled machine you have there, General, Sir.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “As you see. We are very professional, and you are very safe here.”

Just as I feared.

For all of the General’s pomp and circumstance as he talked me through his plan to protect our delegation in the coming days, there was no talk of cover and evacuation, no talk of safe havens, no talk of nearby hospitals or emergency response. Each and every question I asked was answered with, “You do not need to worry. We are very professional. You are safe here.”

I had little doubt that should an unfortunate incident actually unfold, we would all wind up dead to the last man — killed in the crossfire of the very men assigned to protect us.

I let the General finish his brief employing a strategy that has served me well over the years. It’s called: “Shut up and smile.” When used effectively, it never fails. I had been on the ground less than two hours and already my internal self-defense alarms were triggering on a continual basis. There was nothing I could do but carry out my own contingency planning. Expect the worst, and hope for the best.

The meeting with the General finally finished, EC and I completed our tour of the palace and spent the rest of the day looking over each member of the delegation’s itinerary.

On a second pass, something caught my eye. The delegation would be arriving by private charter, but this was nothing out of the norm. What concerned me was that the current plan had the plane being secured at a hanger in close proximity to the palace, but listed our pilots as staying at a government housing facility thirty minutes away.

Regardless of circumstance or scenario, one thing I’ve always been sure to have in place is the ability for an expedient exit. You just never know when things are going to go south — and when they do — they do so quickly.

Reviewing the plan once more, I inquired with headquarters in Washington as to the protocol of having our pilots stay with us in the presidential palace. Having the plane nearby was a practical convenience. Should something be accidentally left behind in the cabin, having the plane close by would make for an easy recovery, but only if we had the keys. Having the pilots thirty minutes away, negated the point of keeping the plane close. Of course, I had selfish reasons beyond missing slippers or a suit coat being left on board. Far away pilots meant an unscheduled departure would require an additional layer of logistics I would rather not have to factor into an evacuation plan.

A few hours later my request to Washington was granted. There were several extra bedrooms not in use by our delegation which could accommodate the two pilots and steward.

A day of planning complete, I said goodbye to EC and we agreed to meet the next morning to run routes and visit venues. Exhausted, I retired to my room in desperate need of a shower. However, as I opened the bathroom door, the reality check of only a partially tiled floor leading to a large basin with a single spout protruding from the wall quickly reframed my expectations. The water wasn’t yellow, but the the pipes groaned as they dug deep into the well several hundred feet below the foundation. My gut groaned as well. I feared both were representative of the uneasiness the rest of this trip was going to provide.

Day 2

The embassy sent a car for me the next morning. I was already waiting when it arrived. I wasn’t sure if the General or his contingent of armed soldiers was scheduled to be a part of the day’s travel prep, but I was eager to depart without him. I needed to see these sites for myself.

Driving down the dirt road leading to the main gate of the palace, we turned right outside the gate away from the airport and toward the embassy. A few minutes down the road, I looked up from plotting waypoints on my blackberry and out the window. This was like no poor I had seen before. Small herds of skeletal framed camels walked the shoulders of the road. Donkeys carried twine-wrapped sticks on their back. Bundles draped across their visible spine. Near-exposed ribs on display as the sticks bounced off of them with each forward step. Tumble weeds of accumulated rubbish the size of large beach balls were tossed from breeze to breeze down the long-ago paved streets. Children played with trash. Street vendors sold scraps. Women solicited themselves to drivers at stop signs, and when refused, offered their babies instead while the men who made money from their misery watched from nearby shadows. As well-briefed as I may have been on the poor condition of this country, briefing books alone could not prepare me for the harsh reality and dire consequence of these desolate and poor conditions.

Day 3

The delegation arrived in the early afternoon and we greeted them inside the private hanger with all of the requisite ceremony. The General had doubled the size of our protection detail from the day before. Flower girls dressed in white presented flowers flown in from France. Local journalists and photographers scuffled with each other to get anything they could sell to the international news wires for an amount greater than they would earn all year.

As the motorcade departed the private hanger for the palace — a distance of about two football fields — the general had lined his soldiers shoulder width apart along the entire route.

As expected, all of them were facing in. All of them watching, waiving, and saluting their General in the lead vehicle as we passed. The General ceremoniously saluting back to them along the way. Not one of them faced outward. Instead, all of them stood at some modified form of attention. Staring at us as we passed, as if the threat were going to come from those they were charged to defend.

We arrived at the palace a few moments later. Rooming assignments were handed out, and a brief tour of the amenities was offered. The Chief of Staff shot me an inquisitive look when he saw the two pilots and steward arrive a few minutes later and disappear into the back bedrooms on the first floor. I gave him the head nod that said, “handled” and he seemed to not object. The Chief of Staff and I had travelled together before, and a foundation of trust had been forged on recent trips. If I said it had been handled, which meant in this case that it had been signed-off by Washington, then he had every reason to believe that it was. After all, the name of the game was trust.

We were a little ahead of schedule. EC had arrived a short time later and informed us that the President was late in getting back from a meeting with his cabinet. He had been bringing them up to speed on his China trip. Dinner was postponed by two hours. Almost on cue, our respective blackberry’s pinged as we all received an email from the embassy providing us an updated memo.

Intelligence reports indicated the President’s trip to China had not gone well. The Chinese were no longer willing to invest any more money in Mauritania until a return was first seen on their their mining rights. Lifelines for the President were folding up fast.

We retreated to our respective rooms to make our own best use of the extra time.

A few hours, a cold bath, and a clean suit later, we all departed for the official Presidential Palace. It was just a short drive across the tarmac to the other side of the airport.

The evening touched on all of the requisite tones. Small talk, private meetings, favor-returning introductions, and then as the crowd thinned out, we sat down to dinner without any notable concerns. I had chosen a seat at the end of the long table closest to the door across from a Reuters reporter who often traveled on trips to Africa with our delegation. Our assigned seating allowed us to be present enough to participate should the need arise by our respective counterparts, but also afforded us the ability to quietly step away to handle pressing communications without being a disruption to the official business at hand.

While dessert was being served, I received a BlackBerry Message (BBM) from EC asking to meet him near the entrance of the building. I excused myself from the table and met him at the bottom of the staircase while we continued to the front door so he could show what he wanted me to see.

In the distance, just beyond the front gate of the palace, a protest had begun to gather and was gaining in size quickly. “Is this about us?” I asked. EC shook his head no. News sources in London, New York, and DC had filed stories on the fallout meetings between China and Mauritania and it had just hit local news wires in Nouakchott.

“Ok.”

I knew it was no longer safe for us to exit the way we had come, but perhaps we could use the motorcade still parked out front as a decoy. I BBM’d the Chief of Staff:

“Priority — Non Urgent. Protest forming at front gate.

Planning alternate exit. Notify before movement from table.”

I knew that dessert had only just been served, so we had a little bit of time. The Chief of Staff pinged be back a moment later.

“Understood. All good here. He just ordered coffee.”

Hashing out a plan in my head, I went in search of the General. He didn’t answer his phone, but I was able to I find him playing billiards with some of the Presidential Guard in a basement game room. I asked him if he had heard the news. He shook his head “No.” I filled him in.

“I will have the protestors dispersed at once!” he assured me. “No problem, no problem at all.”

I stepped closer and spoke softly enough so that only he could hear. I suggested that going out the front door may expose us to some bad press and potential harm to those we were meant to protect. I then reminded him of the plan he [never] discussed with me the day before which called for leaving the motorcade parked out front as a decoy, using all of the soldiers to hold the attention of the protestors, while we took a smaller convoy of no more than two cars through the back gate, around the tarmac and then circle back to our guest palace.

He smiled, put his arm around my shoulders, and then explained he had that planned all along. He was just testing me to see if i had been listening to him.

“We are very professional here and you are very safe, my friend” the General re-assured me. “I’m just waiting for the two cars to be pulled around back.”

“What would I do without you, General, Sir?”

Geppetto — 1

Pinocchio — 0

I pinged the Chief of Staff when the cars were in position and told him were were good to go. A few minutes later he gave me the five minute warning.

I was able to convince the General to “sell the decoy” a bit by sending a bunch of soldiers out to the motorcade in the front to get the engines running and line the cars all up. To my surprise he was even willing to have them drive out the front gate and lead the protestors away from our location. But then, it was his idea.

Thirty minutes later we were all safely back at the guest palace. We were already back in our quarters before the first truck in the decoy started pulling out of the driveway. Most of the delegation didn’t even know about the protest. Many of the protestors themselves left none-the-wiser.

Day 4

We awoke the next day which began with what I believe they called breakfast, but was really nothing more than some figs, olives, hummus and tea. I made due with my homemade ziplock bags of dried fruit, beef jerky and mixed nuts. Everyone was grateful to share.

The morning meetings with various government and non-government organizations went without incident. I noticed our protection detail kept shrinking as the morning went on. Four trucks of soldiers last night. Three this morning. Now it seemed we were down to two. I pinged EC for an intel request.

“The President is losing favor and there are some rumblings in the cabinet calling for a military coup.”

That made sense. Any sign of weakness seen by the President was an open invite for the opposition to make a power play. In a developing nation, a President losing favor means the military is likely dealing with a rotating order of priority. Politically savvy leadership would start hedging their bets. This was about survival. Align too closely with the current regime and if the President loses his head, yours is likely next. But an expressed willingness to support the “greater good” of national interest meant your survival rate could exponentially improve.

My problem was I didn’t know with any certainty where our delegation was aligned with the current pecking order of importance. Seems as though the embassy didn’t really know either.

After our lunch meetings we made our way back to the guest palace to refresh and prepare for the evening’s events. We had a few hours before a scheduled dinner engagement with some ambassadors and foreign ministers.

As I had expected, our protection detail was dwindling. Only one truck of soldiers this time. The General was nowhere to be found and phone calls to his mobile phone were going unanswered.

Pulling back into the guest palace, I noticed the contingency of soldiers left to guard the palace had been drastically reduced as well. I pinged EC again.

“Urgent. Significant downgrade. No General.

One truck convoy. Reduced contingency at palace.”

My phone in my suit coat pocket began to vibrate. EC was calling me back.

“Find out anything useful?” I asked,

“When are you scheduled to depart?” he asked with uncharacteristic directness.

“Not until…” I began to answer until he interrupted me with urgency.

“Get out now — we’ve bought you an hour. Military is heading your way now to take over the Palace. They’ve promised us enough time to get you wheels up, but they won’t stay patient forever.”

To drive home the fact that this was not a drill, a hoax, or some embassy version of a prank he signed off with that day’s distress code phrase which meant “Get Out Now!”

I initiated protocol for an immediate departure.

I was then — as I am now — forever grateful the pilots were just one floor below instead of thirty minutes across town.

I sprinted down the steps to the pilots room and gave them a quick update of what was going down. They sprang into action, forgoing their uniforms for the sake of expediency. When hedging bets between life and death, cargo shorts and golf shirts trump neatly pressed uniforms every time. Within 10 minutes they were out the door.

Next I notified the Chief of Staff, who got his team ready to move. I did the same on my end. Protocol dictated the team at the embassy would make requisite notification back to Washington, DC. My focus was on the safety of the team and notification once we were off the ground.

My phone chirped. The pilots were on board and initiating pre-flight. We were fortunate the pilots had refueled upon arrival so there was one less thing required to prep the plane for take-off.

Transportation was next.

There was an SUV parked in the back that could hold the six of us if I drove. I found the keys in the ignition courtesy of the driver who had fallen asleep in the front seat. He would wake up later in the custodial closet of the garage, maybe a bit bruised, but otherwise left unharmed.

Sensitive documents were shredded by hand and dumped into a garage trash can. We pulled a weed whacker off the wall, unscrewed the fuel cap and then doused the documents in whatever oil/gas concoction was used to run the engine.

Thirty minutes later, everyone was loaded into the vehicle with whatever essentials they could carry on their person. Luggage was getting left behind. If it wasn’t deemed sensitive, we left it in our rooms. Speed at this point was an important aspect of our security and I didn’t want to take anymore time than we needed loading replaceable luggage. If you could’t throw it over your shoulder it didn’t come.

I looked out the garage door. The rest of the guards were still enthused by their pick-up soccer game on the lower yard. It was now or never.

I pinged the pilot:

“Coming Now”

He acknowledged the plane was ready.

“Ready and waiting”

We started the SUV, set the trashcan on fire, and drove off. Some of the guards looked up from the soccer game as we drove off.

Not knowing what to do, I waived. Some of them even waived back.

Four minutes later we were plane side.

A minute later we were on board, doors closed and wheels turning. We just needed a few more minutes of luck.

We bypassed the protocol for departure and went straight for the runway. No need to stand on ceremony at this point. A government to government phone call could clear that all up later.

The pilots were good men and ignored the air traffic control as we began our unscheduled movement to the runway.

Through the window we could see the military convoy lined up outside the end of the long driveway leading out from our presidential quarters.

The plane sped forward. I turned in my seat and looked through the open cockpit door to the clear runway ahead of us. We were looking good.

A moment later we were in the air.

I pinged the soon-to-be promoted EC

“Wheels Up”

His response was immediate.

“Next round on you”

By the time the plane banked right for the still-being-chartered route back to Paris the military rebels had already stormed the front door.

The Coup had begun.

Another presidential portrait waiting to be hung.