Gabon
We have met many dignitaries in our world travels. While executives can be schooled in protocol, some naturally have the right diplomatic instincts—and others, well, don’t. One thing we’ve learned is that it’s always better to err on the side of deference than risk offending someone. This is doubly true when visiting the Republic of Gabon.
The Republic of Gabon is a small nation on Africa’s Atlantic coast, bisected by the equator. Inland, its dense jungles are home to gorillas and forest elephants. But the coast is rich with oil. For forty-two years—from 1967 until his death in 2009—Gabon was ruled by Omar Bongo, making him the sixth-longest-serving (non-royal) ruler in the history of nations, joining such illustrious company as Cuba’s Fidel Castro and North Korea’s Kim Il-sung, at fifty-two and forty-eight years in power, respectively. Bongo’s longevity was largely attributed to his shrewd deployment of the nation’s oil wealth. “What’s the fastest way to become rich in Gabon?” one resident asked. “Start an opposition party.” Bongo was more likely to buy off his rivals than have them killed, coopting them rather than alienating them. His presidential palace was rumored to have cost $800 million, and he made his way around the nation on his personal helicopter.
Scott’s Story
I traveled to Gabon in 2006 to discuss the prospect of an oil deal with Bongo’s administration. I was invited to the presidential palace to meet with the President’s daughter, who was Bongo’s chief of staff. Joining me on the trip was another oil executive from Houston.
Libreville is a steamy equatorial city and prone to downpours. A thunderstorm had just passed over the capital. Its torrential rains had flooded the usual approach to the palace, requiring us to enter the grounds through the rear gate. The guards there instructed us to walk across an expansive lawn to reach it.
The palace’s yard also served as Bongo’s helicopter landing pad. The President’s big white chopper was sitting smack in the middle of the lawn. Running from its steps all the way to the palace’s back door was a gorgeous red carpet.
It was 100 degrees out and 100 percent humidity, and we were hiking across the grounds in our suits. The wet grass was soaking through our shoes and pant legs. As we passed the helicopter, my colleague made a beeline for the red carpet. I opted to continue forward on the grass. My instinct told me that the carpet probably was not meant for two Americans, however wet our shoes might be.
Upon reaching the red carpet, my colleague waved to me, smiling, and looking smug and proud. His smile didn’t last long, though. In a matter of seconds, I heard yelling from behind us. Two presidential guards with guns drawn were shouting in French and running toward my colleague. He saw them, too, and then looked down upon the red carpet. Realizing his mistake, he quickly stepped off of it and back into the grass.
I quickened my pace, walking on through the wet grass to the palace, confident that the guards had no issue with me and wanting to avoid the altercation. When I reached the palace door, I stopped and waited for my colleague. The guards were still pointing their machine guns at him, and his hands were in the air. I wondered whether they were going to arrest him, but they ended up letting him go. He then walked rapidly across the lawn to join me, so embarrassed that his blushing face was as red and bright as the carpet he had tried to walk on.