SINS OF COMMISSION
Quentin Crewe finds
British ambassadorial staff an embarrassment
MY PARENTS brought me up to believe that the first thing one had to do on arriving in any capital city was to call at the British embassy to 'sign the book'. This ensured an invitation to lunch, at which the ambassador would give a lucid account of the state of local politics, a few suggestions about lesser-known sights to see and a couple of useful introductions.
On the whole, it no longer works quite like that. It can be a lot more fun. A few years ago a lively ambassador in Khartoum invited me to a racy lunch with an agent of Kashoggi and someone's extremely saucy Ethiopian mistress. This year, however, I arrived in Uganda with a friend who, even today, still shares my parents' view of embassies. He had secured an introduction to the British high commissioner in Kam- pala, Sir Derek March.
An invitation to coffee after breakfast arrived promptly. Not quite the same as lunch, but these are less leisurely days. Sir Derek, indeed, gave a succinct assessment of the political situation, suggested a handy waterfall, and mentioned a few people I should meet. (My friend was leaving almost at once.) Sir Derek went further than that. His information officer would arrange for me to meet the President, Yoweri Museveni. He also kindly lent me a book, which I had to promise to return as it was a gift from the author. He said that he hoped I would come to dinner soon.
In the four months that I stayed in Kampala, I never heard another word from him, though we waved at each other at a farewell party for a couple on his staff. I was glad of the book because, when I happened to meet the author, an elderly distinguished politician, I was able to tell him how useful it had been to me. The author was delighted, not so much by my compliments as at the news that the high commissioner had received the book, for he had had no acknowledgment. My friend sent him one from England, by way of thanks for the coffee. No word came in return.
The workings of the high commission reflected, perhaps, this approach. I found it shut on Wednesday afternoons. I have noticed that several British embassies work only four and a half days a week. The Foreign Office assures me that it is unusual, but then their list says only that the Kampala high commission shuts an hour early on Fridays and makes no mention of the Wednesday half-holiday.
In Kampala, they found other occasions to shut as well. Once there was a rumour that the Muslims were to protest outside the high commission about Salman Rush- die. The doors were barred and the staff went home. I went to see the demo. No Muslims came. Maybe the information officer, the only man I have ever met called Lemuel, got it wrong. Still perhaps it turned out to be a chance for an- other game of football. He was very keen on that — a good mane on the right wing, so I heard. He was certainly no good at fixing appointments with the President. In the four months I was there, he failed to get anywhere. This was a pity, as I would have written a rather encouraging article about Uganda, which is known, now mostly for Idi Amin and Aids. Fostering good relations is surely the business of a high commission.
On another day, the high commission shut early because they were having another farewell party for the laving couple. The change-over occasioned by the departure of these two must have cost the taxpayer a lot. They moved out of their house three weeks before they left and stayed in the Nile Hotel, which costs $170 a night. Their replacement arrived in good time to take over. He stayed at the Sheraton, which charges $200 a night. I daresay the high commission gets a dis- count. Nonetheless the house belonging to the high commission stood empty.
Talking of those parties (I went to two), I was struck by how few black people were there. I soon learned that the diplomats' lives were spent almost entirely with other diplomats, aid workers and Europeans involved with development programmes. They lived well, drinking duty-free booze and eating specially imported food. Why the latter, when the natural bounty of Uganda is one of its great delights, I cannot imagine. But they could not do without their bottled mayonnaise. They might just as well have been in Coulsdon or Cheadle Hulme, except of course for the servants.
Their conversation was rich in deroga- tory information about those they referred to as 'these people'. They were never going to find out how much more interesting, cultivated and entertaining 'these people' were than they. There was an indifference to the highly varied culture of the Ugan- dans that amounted almost to contempt. I had a young Ugandan friend — a girl of great intelligence, charm, and, incidental- ly, beauty. She was engaged to an English- man and they were much in love. They knew that I had met the British consul and asked if I would write a letter in support of her application for a fiancée's visa for Britain. I suggested that it might be better to introduce them to the consul, Alan Blyth.
We all went to the high commission. The consul seemed barely to glance at the girl. He addressed all his remarks to the white Englishman, referring obliquely to her as `the lady', as though she were some ab- stract figure. 'The lady would have to have a medical examination to see that, er, well, you know . . . Blyth, who, I surmised, was a little deaf, formed the impression that they were going to get married in Uganda, 'in which case the lady would not need a medical examinatibn', whereas in fact they are coming here to marry. 'If you get married in Uganda, you know, it must be a proper ceremony. I mean not one of your dancing round the tree things.' The girl winced at the phrase, but none of us said anything. If they didn't get a visa — their plans would be wrecked.
During my time in Uganda I was struck by the ignorance and the arrogance of the British in Kampala. Where do they find these people, I wondered? I mean these people whom we pay to represent us, to foster good relations with other countries.
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