Almost twenty-four years ago, I was hanging out in a hotel lounge in the company of a couple of college-age acquaintances. There were a few other patrons around us. A white tent stood on the hotel lawn – not unlike one that might have been erected for a wedding reception – and I observed a man exit it. Dressed in a red, untucked, casual shirt, he wore a straw hat and dark sunglasses. I probably would not have paid him any further attention but for some news that had been circulating in the days prior.
These events unfolded in Uganda, and I had traveled there on business to meet with two of our organization’s interns. As I first entered the country, I saw news reports about this man traveling there to attend the sixth anniversary celebration of the coronation of the Kingdom of Toro's nine-year-old boy king. (I know, right? Nothing like a toddler on a throne.) In fact, as I recall, we arrived in-country on the same day, but he traveled on a much nicer plane, brought along a 250-person entourage, and, no doubt, had access to as many packets of pretzels as he wanted.
I gave these headlines no further thought until my colleagues and I were looking for a place to wait for our ride and have a cold Coca Cola. The hotel seemed a good choice, although as we entered the property, it was evident that security was high. Vehicles were being searched, and metal detectors were in use. I began to see a number of Libyan license plates on vehicles around us. Then I began to see a number of Libyan men in dark suits and ties. I can’t say how I knew for sure they were Libyans. I could try to convince you that I have amazing multi-cultural acuity, but it was really more of an assumption. I knew for sure they weren’t fellow North Cackalackians. And besides, two plus two equals Libyans.
Following the man’s exiting of the tent onto the hotel lawn, the lounge patrons, including my friends and I, were approached by one of the “suits,” who asked if we would like to meet the man, only he didn’t say, “the man.” He said “Gaddafi.” Based on my knowledge that Gaddafi was in-country for the coronation anniversary celebration, and having a general knowledge of his appearance, I had already suspected it was him standing near the white tent, adorned in quasi-tropical attire.
I can’t say that meeting Gaddafi could be classified as covetable, but the opportunity to do so was too surreal to bypass. Who would believe it? Everyone agreed to meet him, although, for security purposes, we had to leave our bags and cameras behind. We walked as a group toward the tent, and there he was, Muammar (some say Moammar) Gaddafi. His odd facial features were unmistakable, and he was flanked by his bodyguards. Not just your run of the mill bodyguards, mind you; these were full-figured gals wearing camo military garb.
We each took a turn shaking Gaddafi’s hand. When he asked one of my young associates where she was from, she said, “America.” As it turned out, the three of us were the only Americans on the premises; the other “white folks” who had been in the lounge with us were European. I wasn’t sure what the Libyan response would be to Americans, but nothing further was said about it. Gaddafi actually seemed very cordial, and when we were all asked to gather around him for a group photo, he put his arm around one of my friends. Afterwards, the group disbanded, and that was the end of the Gaddafi meet and greet.
On my way home from Uganda, I flew through London and spent a few sight-seeing days there. I had been there previously, but one place I had never visited was Madame Tussaud’s wax museum. As I toured the place and looked upon the likenesses of various historical figures, celebrities, and members of Britain’s royal family, I entered a room full of life-size world leaders. There was George W. Bush, Fidel Castro, Yasser Arafat, and yes, Muammar Gaddafi. As I gazed upon his paraffin features, I thought to myself, “Just saw him yesterday.”
Gaddafi’s aides had taken our addresses and promised to mail us copies of the group photo – again, a bit of a cringe-worthy thought. Did I really want the Libyans to have my address? Then again, were Libyans going to descend upon my rural hometown in the Blue Ridge Mountains? All things considered, the chances seemed low. Did I really want my photo taken with Gaddafi? That was not something I had ever dreamt of, and it certainly didn’t equate to posing roadside as a child with the “Indian chief” donning a feathered headdress during a vacation to Cherokee, North Carolina. Still, a copy of the photo would be a conversation piece, for sure, and proof of this strange encounter and any future retelling of it, like now, for example.
A few weeks later, the horrible events of 9/11 transpired at home. Although the Gaddafi-led Libyan government did not play a role, it had, in decades past, funded terrorist attacks against the United States. Suffice it to say, I never received a copy of the photo. And maybe that’s for the best; otherwise, it might have been circulated and compared to Jane Fonda’s infamous “Hanoi Jane” photos with the North Vietnamese. Okay, I admit that’s quite an exaggeration. I have been to Hanoi, but I’m no Jane Fonda. I don’t even like aerobic exercise.
Fast forward to 2009. Gaddafi traveled to New York that year and spoke at the United Nations. At one point, he mentioned his “American friends.” Upon hearing this, another work colleague reached out to ask me, tongue in cheek, if Gaddafi was referring to me.
Two years after that, the Libyan Civil War resulted in Gaddafi’s ousting, and he was captured and killed. Another surreal moment. Surreal to know that, for one fleeting moment in time, I had encountered this man, who had been a world leader for almost half a century and was now assassinated. His corpse was put on public display in the freezer of a local market, a bit reminiscent of his wax likeness on display at Madame Tussaud’s but in a much less favorable manner. That’s how this whacky world sometimes goes. And that’s the strange but true story of me and “Mo.”