COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER 23

Every man has a fantasy that he keeps nestled away, down deep in his innermost being. Occasionally, during a dull staff meeting, or at three o'clock in the morning when sleep has eluded him, he brings it out to sharpen and hone to perfection by focusing all of his attention on it. It may be to own a quiet place by the sea, a mountain retreat, a sail boat or his own little business, a ski shop, a book store, an art gallery. Whatever the fantasy ,when he lives with it, life takes on an idyllic quality, childlike, where pressure is removed and one works at his own pace. Because of the satisfaction of devoting himself to something where the wish and the will converge, time loses all significance and energy comes from some core that is infinite, and not only replaces itself, but expands geometrically as it is used, so that the more one works, the more energy there is available to continue. It is the focal point of all creativity, and is such a personal thing that it becomes as much a part of the man as the lines in the palm of his hand. It both determines his personality, and is determined by his personality. It is both the cause and a symptom of his problems and his pleasures.

Scratch any Foreign Service officer, they say, and you'll find a writer, and I was no exception. My dream, my fantasy, my innermost desire was to be a writer. (Notice I did not say to write; I said to be a writer.) I had visions of me sitting in my studio in a little whitewashed village on the coast of Spain, maybe Calpe where I went with Thais during that last week of summer, tapping out the story of my life. Whenever I enjoyed a particularly good moment I always thought that someday I could bring it all back in my literary undertakings. I took the attitude that life was just like making vino fino de Jerez. These wines are called vinos de crianza. That is to say that they are "bred." Each year the new harvest is added to the madre, mother, of a previous crop, and the new wine takes on all of the flavor, bouquet and color of the madre. Experience, I thought, was the madre of my future writing. If I lived intensely, enjoyed every moment to the fullest, and experienced as much of life as was possible I would have the madre for a full literary adventure in later years. So I lived. I had it all. Women. Sports cars. Brooks Brothers suits.

Every Dionysian delight went into the creating of my madre, but I knew that someday I would retreat to my Apollonian paradise, put away the three button suits and pull on a pair of old jeans and a warm sweater, then sit down at the typewriter and make stories out of the madre that had been aging in me.

My dream included a whole round of other literati with whom I would while away the evening hours in a local cafe talking about our work, the meaning of life, and style. Together we would live a self fulfilling life with our entire existence devoted to art. Ah, art! There is the real safe haven from anxiety, the place where there is everlasting peace, happiness and satisfaction.

The stories I would write! I had them all plotted out in my head. I knew exactly where I was going with my story line and what the settings would be. I would tell all about the wonderful years in Spain, the women I had known, the wonderful sensation of discovering a country that I loved very much. I would tell about spending nights in the Cafe Gijon with my friend Henri Fulton, the expatriate director of theater, and what it was like to fall in love with and be loved by a woman who was the best of all possible worlds; American, oriental and seasoned in Europe. Could there possibly be more?

I was certain that I would reach the time when experiencing those things from which the madre was being made would no longer be important. I would cease to live for the future. I knew that someday I would live in the present, the now, and the now would be formed like the past from the madre.

* * * * *

In July of 1972, with a complete lapse of what ever sanity I had, I resigned from the Foreign Service, and took Yvette and the children along with our maid, Betty, from Ecuador to Cuernavaca where I was going to write a book, or so I said. I thought that the time had come to start living in the now, and through my friends Maggie and Ken we found and rented a small house on a narrow cobbled street that ran past the old colonial Palacio de Cortez, just off the main Plaza in Cuernavaca. From the street it looked like any of the dilapidated buildings that are characteristic of small Mexican villages, but inside it was a comfortable, and artistically decorated townhouse with a high beamed ceiling in the living room, a fireplace and tasteful furniture. Across the back of the house was a thatched roofed terrace that opened onto a small swimming pool set in a lush, verdant garden surrounded by jacaranda trees. Separate from the house, along side the pool, there was an independent studio with its own bedroom and bath.

It was an ideal place for a writer, and I thought that I could fulfill my old fantasy that I had carried with me for years. But when I sat down at the typewriter to tell about those years in Spain nothing would come out. I didn't want to write about Spain, I wanted to be in Spain. There were no words that could compare with the pleasure of walking down the Paseo de la Castellana on a Spring day, and stopping in a cafe for a cafe cortado and 103 Brandy then casually reading the Paris Herald Tribune. Nor could words tell what it was like to while away an afternoon in the Prado Museum with Goya, Velazquez and El Greco. The pains and pleasures of Spain were too great to write about.

In those days in Spain I had no fantasies about living in Spain. I was living out a fantasy. I was like a child in never-never land. I took one day at a time and lived it to its fullest. There was no past, no future, only now and the now was very sweet. Then, because I had committed myself to write, and to write about Spain, I decided that I would pick out one day and try to tell what it had been like, and after that I would tell about another day, and another until that last day that I sailed from Algeciras and looked back with a heart full of memories as the Rock of Gibraltar grew smaller and smaller.

If things had been bad between Yvette and me in Quito, they seemed like wedded bliss compared to the way they went in Cuernavaca. She went into a terrible depression and stayed in bed till noon. I set up my typewriter in the studio and began writing, but nothing came out the way that I felt it, and I became frustrated. The more frustrated I became, the more I drank, and the more I drank the more I took it out on Yvette. The more I took it out on her the more depressed she became, and so it went in a terrible downward spiral that neither of us could stop until finally I was in the depths of a black depression myself. The madre that I had relied upon, and had worked so hard to create, had turned to vinegar, and rather than coming out as a mellow, full bodied, well aged wine it was bitter and acid tasting. I realized that I wanted more to experience life that to write about it. I liked the excitement and material things, the Brooks Brothers suits, the sports cars, the money in the bank that went with my job as an FSO. My identity crumbled. I was no longer Peter Tristan Stuart Foreign Service officer, First Secretary of Embassy. I was Pete Stuart, unemployed, troubled with alcohol, lonely, fearful of the future, longing for the past and unable to cope with the present. I lived in three dimensions at once and they were all painful. I gagged; I trembled; I suffered from insomnia; I slept in the studio and dropped out of sex completely. Yvette called me a maricon, then one night as I sat alone under the stars in the garden I had a terrible gagging spell, and I knew that my fantasy was not would noat come to fruition. I was paralyzed by fear, and I didn't know whether it was the fear or whether it was the truth that I didn't have anything to say that kept me from sitting at my typewriter. I began spending more of my time sitting under the thatched roof sipping martinis and watching the torrential summer rain storms than I did at the typewriter. In my mind, after my second or third martini, I made up entire novels with complicated plots of intrigue, lust and power, but very little was ever put on paper.

When I resigned I thought that with the savings that we had accumulated, together with Yvette's income from her family, we could live a long time while I struggled with my writing. But it became clear to me within a very short time that Yvtte was not meant to be the wife of a struggling artist, and that she was not meant to live in a small Mexican village. I knew that I would have to return to the States to find a job since as a foreigner I could not work in Mexico; I was terrified at the thought of going home alone to trudge the streets of Washington D.C., Los Angeles or San Francisco.

Taking the car one morning I drove from Cuernavaca to Mexico City, up Avenida de los Insurgentes to Colonia Condesa past my old apartment where I had lived as a single FSO when I first arrived on assignment in Mexico. Then almost by rote I followed my old route to the American Embassy, and on the Calle Danubio I stopped in front of the building where in my last year of college I had lived with the "Danubio Gang." Without thinking I put the car in gear and headed toward the Colonia Santa Maria to the Calle Cipres where I had lived in the student's pension with the bullfighters. I was unaware of the traffic. I was in a trance, and I was overwhelmed with feelings of sadness, futility and fear. With all of the work that I had done I realized that I didn't know how to do anything. I was not a carpenter, plumber or electrician as my father had been. I could not build a house. I could not farm, or build a mill the way my grandfather had earned his living. I could not do anything except interfere in the lives of other people. I was a diplomat, and I could tell people to go to hell in such a way that they looked forward to the trip, and that did not seem to me to be a very marketable skill. I very much wanted to go to the bar of the Maria Isabel Hotel next door to the embassy and get a drink, but for the first time in my life the thought entered my mind that if I started drinking, I might not ever be able to stop, and that I might commit suicide; it scared the shit out of me. I stopped at an Eastern Airlines office and bought a ticket to the States.

Many years later I would wonder if that attempt to live out a fantasy failed because of my drinking, because Yvette loved money, property and prestige as much, maybe more, than I did, or because I really didn't have anything to say. In any case the experiment failed.

It late September of 1972 I flew to Washington, D.C. determined to find work, hopefully, even, to get reappointed to the Foreign Service. I had two friends with whom I had served overseas who now lived in Washington: Arthur Silver who had been with me in both Somalia and Pakistan, and Fernando Cruz from Ecuador, so I had places where I could freeload a bed, be off the streets, and have some company.

It was a bittersweet experience to be back in Washington - more bitter than sweet. I loved seeing all of my old friends, but everyday I was reminded that I was now a nobody. I could not even get into the State Department building without calling someone to come to the entrance to meet me - I no longer had a pass. Summer was hanging on and it was hot and muggy weather. I had no car, so I had to take taxis, busses or walk wherever I went. When I did manage to get an appointment to see someone I showered at home and put on fresh clothes, but by the time I got to the place I was going I felt like melted jello. It was not long before I was discouraged.

Finally, by October the weather cooled down, I called Yvette and asked her to come to Washington. I said that all of our friends wanted to see her. She agreed, but when I met her at the airport I could see by the set of jaw and mouth when she walked off the plane that she was furious - in a rage. She stayed that way for the entire week that she was there. Nothing I said or did was right in so far as she was concerned. This was not unusual though; I was just one of most people who failed to measuure up to Yvette's expectations. Within a few days she returned to Mexico. I had managed the cancellation of the Vietnam assignment back in 1966 because my mother learned that she had cancer and required radiation therapy. The treatment had worked, and the cancer had gone into remisssion, but now I learned from a phone conversation that she was having a recurrance of the symptoms. When Yvette returned to Mexico I went to California to see my mother before going back to Cuernavaca myself.

When I walked out of the Los Angeles Airport my mother was there to meet me, and after hugging and kissing me all she asked was "Are you sorry you quit your job?"

"Yes," I replied feeling like a helpless little boy.

"Don't worry," she said. "You'll find another one."

We drove home to the house where I had grown up; to Mary Street where I had fallen in love with Barbara Ellis, played hide and seek, kick-the-can and touch football; to the street where what ever dreams I had of conquering the world were spawned. I walked around the neighborhood visiting with old friends, and I bought my gin in the drugstore where I had worked as a soda jerk when I was still in junior high school. I had absolutely no idea where to even begin looking for work. My mother suggested that I start by looking in the help wanted ads of the Los Angeles Times. From her own experience she must have known that I was terrified. I was forty-three years old, alcoholic, no ties anywhere in the States except Washington, D.C., and with her in La Crescenta, but she was gentle with me. There were no recriminations, no urging that I stop drinking or asking of questions that couldn't be answered. After a few days of her home cooking I found the courage and strength to at least look at the help wanted ads in the paper for a job.

I made several trips to Los Angeles to follow up on ads. I was over qualified (Too old?); I had an interesting background, but it didn't quite fit their needs (Irresponsible?). What I had left of any self confidence ebbed out of me like the tide, and I felt like I might be pulled out to sea with it. I didn't know it but I had crashed and burned in Mexico City; but by the Grace of God, and, for reasons that transcend understanding, I hadn't died.

I returned to Mexico in time for Thanksgiving, and we spent Sean's first birthday in Cuernavaca. While we were sitting under the thatched roof of the terrace sipping our drinks Yvette said, "Pete , I'm moving to Mexico City."

I took a long swallow of my drink. "Why?" I asked, not really wanting to look at the reality of why she wanted to leave. "Because I don't want to spend my life sitting in this stinking pueblo watching you destroy yourself," she replied. Her voice had an edge of anger in it, and she blinked her eyes to hold back the tears.

"I think it's more that you don't want to sit in this stinking pueblo, as y ou put it, than it is concern about whether or not I destroy myself," I replied not sure that I knew which was more important to her.

Our accumulated savings was invested in a penthouse apartment in Mexico City, and I realized that there was no room in the apartment, like the studio in Cuernavaca, where I could hide. There was no place for me to escape her anger, her contempt her di sappointment. No place where I could be by myself to lick my wounds, feel sorry for myself, and drink martinis to ease the pain of my pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization.

Fearing that this might be my mother's last Christmas we spent Christmas in California, and then returned to Mexico. Shortly thereafter I went back to California to look after my mother who had to have surgery for her cancer condition. When she came out of the hospital I stayed on to take care of her, and I followed the want ads in the Los Angeles Times. Finally, one day, I saw an ad for an Agent for the State of Nevada Gaming Control Board, the agency that regulates the gambling casinos in Nevada. I sent my resume, and after my mother recovered enough to care for herself I followed up by flying to Las Vegas to talk to the Agent-in-Charge. He liked me; I liked him, and he hired me to start July 1, 1973.

With the security of the job in my pocket I then went to visit my first wife, Marsha, and the children in Salt Lake City before returning to LA. I was back in LA a couple of days when I received a phone call from Henri Fulton who invited me to London, and in late March of 1973 I took off for London to visit with Henri and ostensibly look for work. While in London I flew down to Rome to visit with Foreign Service friends, and again ostensibly to look for work with the UN/FAO. All of this was cover though. I was in a panic. I was drinking heavily and daily. In May of 1973 I returned to Mexico City; Yvette and I had a brief reunion, and in June I left for Las Vegas to start my new job with the State of Nevada Gaming Control Board. Yvette led me to believe that eventually, she and the children would join me.

CHAPTER 24

Las Vegas was the last place in the world that I ever thought I would end up. Everything about Las Vegas, the garish vulgarity and superficiality of the place, was offensive to my innermost being. The worst part was that people assumed that I was a "Vegas kind of guy." The sort of person who is always looking to turn a fast and easy buck; the "marathon men" who spend hours, days in the casinos trying to get rick quick and easy; the sharp, cynical pit bosses and craps dealers, who date the hookers, and cocktail waitresses who are always on the make, catering to egos and exploiting the poor saps who came to "Vegas" for an ego trip or to satisfy their lust and greed. Las Vegas, to me, was the absolute essence of everything negative, vulgar and shallow about American culture, and an anathema to everything I believed about myself. Nevertheless, I was glad to be off the streets and working.

I found myself a studio apartment in a swinging singles complex and went into a "white knuckle" period of trying to control my drinking by sheer will. I was truly scared to death that I might go down the tubes, and many times I got on my knees and prayed to God that He, She, It "not let me go." I missed Christine and Yvette, and I was unable to sleep at night. I would drink enough to fall asleep (pass out), but I would awaken at two o'clock unable to get back to sleep.

What I wanted to do during those wee hours of the morning was drink, but I started working on a book about my Quito experience. Rather than see myself as a failure I created the illusion that I was a writer and an artist.

As an Agent for the Gaming Control Board, I was commissioned as a Peace Officer, and I was required to carry a badge which took the place of my diplomatic passport as a symbol of my identity. While I did not like it, just as I was grateful to be working rather than walking the streets, I was grateful to have something to prove that I was somebody, and not just a free floating drifter of which there are many in Las Vegas. Even though the badge did not have the same symbolism of the power and prestige of the Department of State of the United States of America, as the diplomatic passport did, it did represent considerable power. The Gaming Control Board is a powerful organization in the State of Nevada. It is the stately equivalent of the CIA and the FBI, and I felt a certain pride in working for them to investigate and control all of those "bad guys" who are in the gambling business, and who have lust and greed as their motivating forces.

Within a few months I was beginning to adjust to all of the changes which had occurred in my life, and while I was far from happy, joyous and free, I was managing, and I didn't drink too much. I met a nice woman who was a Cuban refugee whom I started dating, then another woman who turned out to be what in those days people called a "Woman's Libber," and who's thinking was hardly compatible with my experience. The whole women's movement was new, and alien to me, but I have since come to understand and accept what women are trying to accomplish. I even had a reunion with Jackie, the "baby sitter" from Mexico who was then living in Houston. First, I went to see her, then she came to Las Vegas.

I kept in touch with several of my Foreign Service friends who called me on the telephone from Washington in the mornings, and one morning, after I had been in Las Vegas for about six months, I received a call from Tom Blacka, my old boss from Madrid and Pakistan. "Pete," he said, "how are you doing old buddy?"

"I'm doing fine, Tom," I lied. "How about you?"

"I'm going crazy working in Washington," he said. "This is the biggest hardship post in the world. Listen, Pete , I just had a call from a guy who wants someone to work down in Mexico City for the foundation that discovered the dwarf wheat."

"CIMYT," I said.

"Right, CIMYT," he said. "Centro de something or other. You know I don't speak Spanish."

"Centro de Investigaciones de Maiz y Trigo," I said. "They're out in Chapingo. I worked with them when I was in the embassy in Mexico. We gave them a few million dollars."

"Well, this guy who called me, his name was Jackson, wants somebody to head up his admin department, and I thought of you. Are you interested?"

"You bet," I said. I could feel the adrenalin pumping into me. "What do I have to do?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I'll call him back and give him your phone number. He'll call you if he's interested."

"I'd rather call him, Tom," I said, "because I really am interested."

"Don't worry, Pete ," he said. "I'll see that he calls you, and I'll take care of you. If he hasn't called you within a couple of days, you call me back."

I hung up the phone feeling that for the first time in months something was going right in my life. Two days later Jackson did call me and asked me to come down to Mexico City to talk to him. I called Yvette, and she said she would meet me at the airport. I told her that wouldn't be necessary, and that I would just get a taxi since the Mexico City traffic is horrendous.

A week later I arranged for a few days off from my job with the Board and flew to Mexico City, and it was a strange sensation to walk into the apartment and see all of the paintings, books, artifacts that I had not seen, forgotten about, over the past six months. Many of the art works were mine before we married, and much of the stuff I had acquired on my trips around Spain with Thais. Yvette was cold but barely cordial considering what had happened to us, and was moderately enthusiastic about my up coming job interview. I told her a little bit about my new job in Las Vegas, and when I showed her my badge she waved her hand as if to dismiss me. "You're playing sheriff," she said.

"I'm not playing anything, Yvette," I replied, hurt but understanding where she was coming from. "I'm just trying to survive and earn a living. I was hoping that if this job doesn't come through that you might come up to Las Vegas and see what the place is like."

"Pete , what would I do in Las Vegas with a bunch of prostitutes and gamblers," she snarled.

"Oh, I don't know, Yvttee, cook, shop, go on picnics and camping trips together. Just the ordinary things that other people do," I replied without much conviction.

"Pete , you know I have always live a certain way, and why should I live otherwise?" She frequently had trouble with her verb tenses.

"I guess there's no reason, Yvette," I replied. "I think I'll go to bed. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow." I wanted a drink, but I knew I had better not start drinking or I would be in no shape for the interview, and I went to bed.

The next morning I was up early. I showered, shaved and dressed in my best FSO outfit. I put on a grey three piece, three button Brooks Brothers suit, with a blue oxford cloth, button down collar shirt, and a nice conservative regimental stripped tie. I looked as though I wanted this job as much as I needed it. I drove out to Chapingo, on the outskirts of Mexico City, in Yvonne's car, and a flood of memories hit me.

The last time I had driven to Chapingo was in a chauffeur driven embassy car during a visit to Mexico by LBJ just before I met Yvette. I had been one of the embassy Control Officers for the party and had escorted Ladybird, the Secretary of State, and several other members of the delegation on an official visit to an American aid financed project.

CIMYT was a private international foundation dedicated to agricultural research, and was supported by contributions from the U.S. and other donors. I had been on top of the world, and I hadn't known it.

I reached the gate, stopped, and told the guard that I had an appointment with Mr. Jackson. I was admitted and drove to the main administration building. Jackson was an easy going Iowa wheat farmer turned wheat breeder, the main effort to which CIMYT scientists dedicated themselves. I was given a tour of the facility, and in the privacy of his office we talked.

"Pete , I'm very much impressed with you, and your credentials," he said. "But there is something I have to tell you. I'm not really free to hire whom ever I want for this job. You see we sent out the word to all of the donors that this position was open, and we got your name as well as several others as recommended candidates. I like you, and if I had my own way I would hire you, but that's not the case. We're under a lot of pressure from the Mexican government to "Mexicanize" the foundation, put more Mexicans in key jobs, and that includes the job that I've talked to you about."

"Then you're just going through the motions in interviewing me," I said, "Trying to please the donors by giving their candidates what appears to be a shot at the job, right?"

He looked at me with a pained expression. "If you ever accused me of that, I would deny it, but I'm afraid you're right. I'm really and truly very sorry to have to tell you this."

"I'm sorry too, Mr. Jackson, because I really wanted this job. You see my wife and family live here in Mexico, and this job would have solved a lot of my problems. If it makes you feel any better I can say that I understand your problem. I've lived and worked here in the embassy, and I know the Mexican government. I just hope the man you're getting is honest and competent. There's a lot of money involved in running this operation, I know because I used to sign the checks for the U.S. grants to you when I was in the embassy."

He stood up and offered me his hand. "I know that, Pete , and again I want to say that I'm sorry. I'm sure that you'll find a good job. You've got an impressive resume. Thanks for coming out to see me."

I left his office, resisted the temptation to go to the bar of the Maria Isabel Hotel, and went back to the apartment. That night Yvette told me that she wanted a divorce.

CHAPTER 25

Once back in Las Vegas I engaged an attorney and Yvette and I were divorced. I threw myself totally into writing the novel about Quito. I thought if I could keep writing I wouldn't end up on skid row. If I could just continue to carry that image of myself as an artist, a writer I would make it through one day at a time, but inside I was shattered. I was lonely; I missed my children, and my work in the Foreign Service. I was hanging on to what ever semblance of sanity I had left by my fingernails. I even missed Yvette, and there were times when I felt so empty that I thought my chest had been ripped open with a knife.

I was back from Mexico about a month when my sister called me one night to tell me that my mother had died. She had been ill for sometime, and was really tired of fighting the battle, and though I grieved her loss, I knew that she was ready to go on to something better. I flew out California for her funeral, and my sister and I arranged for the sale of the house on Mary Street. I don't think I have ever felt so alone, helpless and rootless as when I returned to Las Vegas from that sad journey to California. If it had not been for my writing I think I would have crawled into a bottle and never come out, but something kept me going. Some force greater than I was kept me pounding away on the typewriter every morning from about three AM until seven when I would get ready to go to work at the Gaming Control Board. It was as though the words came from beyond the edge of the page, and somehow, I believed, if I wrote enough of them, the ones that would explain my desperate predicament would start coming up.

In August I had the most pleasant experience of my life in Vegas when Clarice came to vist me. Clarice was the almost ex-wife of a Foreign Service colleague who had decided that he loved his secretary more than he loved Clarice. Although Clarice lived in Washington, D. C. she had filed for a divorce in California, and I drove out to LA to meet her on the day she went to court. Together we drove back to Las Vegas where we played tennis, shopped, cooked, talked about writing and took a few side trips. I fell in love with her and I was sad to see her return to Washington, D.C..

In September of 1974 I had a first draft of the novel completed, and through Vince Gianini, a friend I had made on the Gaming Board, I arranged to send the manuscript to a friend of his in New York who had contacts in publishing, and who was also connected with a large family owned shipping company that operated in Latin America. About a month after sending the package to him he called me on the telephone from New York.

"I like your book," he said, "but I'm actually calling you about something else. I wonder if you would be interested in coming up to New York to talk to us about doing some work down in South America."

"I sure would be interested," I replied. "What did you have in mind?"

"Why don't you catch a plane and come on back here where we can talk face to face," he said. "Do you have the money for your ticket?"

"Sure," I said. "When would you like me to come?" "As soon as you can," he replied. "Today is Wednesday. Can you make it next Monday?"

"I'll be there," I replied.

I hung up the phone and once again I had the feeling that, at last, something good was happening in my life; I was ready for it.

I again arranged for time off from the Board and flew to Washington where I saw Clarice over the weekend then went on to New York on Mon day morning where I met with the Vice President of Finance of the Provident Line, a family owned shipping company, who straight away offered me a job as finance manager for their Latin American operations. He had read my book, he said, and he knew that I was the man for the job. I was flabbergasted! Who ever heard of a draft novel serving as a resume for a position as a Finance Manager! A month later I shipped my household effects and and car to Panama, then I flew to New York and started work with them. I was to be headquartered in Panama, but I first had to become familiar with the Company's Head Office operations, and I was soon back in the old New York routine of two martini lu nches. I stayed in New York a month, then flew to San Francisco to observe the company's operations there.

On Thanksgiving day of 1974 I arrived in Panama and began setting up my own operation. I hired, Isaac Levin, an associate and friend from my days in the embassy in Mexico as my right hand man, and on New Year's day Isaac and I travelled together to Lima, Peru to conduct a study of the Line's Agent operations at Puerto Callao. We made an in-depth review of all activities and this study was enough to convince us that our job was going to be a rough one. The agent was ripping off the shipping line for thousands of dollars, and if this was an example of the way all agents operated throughout South America, we were going to have to get control of things fast or the line would go broke. We finished the study and flew back to Panama to write our report before going up to New York to present our findings to the owners.

On the basis of the Peru study, and our observations of Provident Line' s Agent in Panama, it became clear to both Isaac and me that the company was in serious financial difficulty.

The Line had been recently acquired by a wealthy New York family with long standing ties to the shipping industry, but with very little experience in Latin America.

Before the family acquired it, the Line had been a part of a landmark institution in Latin America. In the days when Grace operated the Line the Agents were a part of the company, so that transactions between the Line and the Agents were in the nature of intra-company dealings. However, in the process of dissolving their South American holdings Grace had spun off the agency operations to independent business men, and had sold the line as a separate entity. Accordingly, the relationship between the Line and the Agents had been radically altered. It was no longer an intra-company relationship, but one of arms length dealings between the old, well established Latin American oligarchy and a family of upstart newcomers to the South American scene.

All of the accounting and internal control procedures were left over from the intra-company days of the W.R. Grace relationship, so the line was at the mercy of the Agents, and anyone who has done business in South America knows that the Latin's notion of business ethics is considerably different from the traditional North American concept. Banking, commerce and industry in Latin America are generally in the hands of the old landed aristocratic families, and their attitude is one of me first, viva yo, caveat emptor.

As the picture of the financial and internal operations came in to focus for me I felt an overwhelming sense of panic. The challenge of the job seemed way beyond what I felt I was up to handling, and both Isaac and I began to doubt the wisdom of our decision to take it on. Then, in one of those occurrences in life that are beyond explanation, I received a phone call from the Director of the USAID Mission in Panama who asked if I might be interested in taking on a consulting job to the Government of Panama. The pay would be twice what I was getting with the shipping company, and I would have full diplomatic privileges and immunity!

I consulted with Isaac about the offer, and he encouraged me to take it, and said that if I did take it he would return to Mexico. Although he a was a Mexican, and a tough minded and experienced professional with many years of experience, the job with the shipping line was beyond what he wanted to take on. Especially, he said, he did not want to do it if I decided to leave.

The next day the Directorand I had lunch together and he described the consulting job to me

. In an attempt to pacify a restless landless peasantry, the Government of Panama was carrying out a land reform program, and as a part of this reform they had initiated a cooperative movement with the hopes of strengthening the economic infrastructure of the agricultural sector. A National Federation of Agricultural Co-ops had been organized to make quantity purchase of agricultural inputs, seeds, fertilizer, pesticides, which in turn were to be sold to the smaller farmer co-ops at subsidized prices. The subsidy was to be provided by a ten million dollar grant from AID, and one of the conditions of the grant was that the Federation had to accept the services of an expatriate financial advisor. Less euphemistically put, the advisor was to be a watchdog over the grant funds that were to be given to the Federation as seed capital. I was to be that advisor.

The job appealed to my idealism, and it would give me some hands on experience in the area of land reform, a subject that had been of interest to me ever since my college days. The following day I met with Jose Castro, the newly appointed head of the Federation, and the man who would be my Panamanian counterpart. We hit it off straight away since Jose did not speak much English, and he was pleased that his "watchdog" from the AID Mission would speak Spanish and had some experience in Latin America.

The truth of the matter was that Jose did not have much to say about who AID selected as the Financial Advisor. As a condition to receiving the ten million dollar grant he had to accept who ever AID proposed, but it made our relative positions just that much easier if we could get along, and understood one another.

We both knew that my job was really one of a "spy" in the midst of his organization that would soon be dealing with hugh amounts of money and making big purchases of agricultural inputs. Jose had come to his job by appointment by Panama's strongman, General Omar Torrijos, because of his reputation for integrity and honesty earned at a major international bank. I recognized the sensitivity of my position, but I was comfortable with Jose and his background. I signed a contract that afternoon, and in the evening I was invited to a reception at the American Ambassador's residence.

GO TO CHAPTER 26

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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