During my times in Cairo and Alexandria, I grew increasingly frustrated by the lack of cooperation from local officials. I had been hired by USAID to develop economic forecasts that would be used by the Egyptian government to procure World Bank financing. To do my job properly I needed detailed population statistics for specific regions of the country. Although I knew they existed, I was told by one bureaucrat after another that the information was not available for public consumption. I kept pointing out that I was not the public, that I was working for them, in the strictest confidence, and that I had to obtain those statistics if they expected me to compile a report that would ultimately bring billions of dollars into their country. This sort of appeal-cum-threat had worked for me in Asia and Latin America; however, it seemed to have no impact in Egypt.
The officials in Cairo and Alexandria who were assigned as my counterparts, and therefore were supposed to expedite my work, showed me around their cities. We visited spice markets and smoky cafes where turban-wrapped men played dominoes and puffed on bubbling hookahs, strolled along the Nile and the Mediterranean, gawked at precious jewels and priceless antiquities in ancient palaces, and consumed gallons of tea. But whenever I reminded them that I was waiting for the population statistics, they reiterated the difficulties while soliciting my patience. "Things take a great deal of time here," they would say. Or "This is not like America, we are a very old country, camels walk slowly." When I offered to bribe them—legally, of course, by paying excessive amounts for people to work overtime, with the officials pocketing the difference—they merely shook their heads and offered me another cup of tea.
Finally, in utter frustration, I decided to go above my counterparts' heads. It was a drastic step—one I had always avoided before because of the risk of antagonizing people I relied on—but this was a situation that had turned desperate.
I arranged a meeting with a man at the top of the government, someone who had served in several ministries and now was a personal adviser to President Sadat. He had a long formal name, but I was told to simply refer to him as Dr. Asim. He had graduated from Harvard Business School, was intimately familiar with organizations like the World Bank and USAID, and had a reputation for getting things done. For my part, I understood that his assistance would not be cheap; I was prepared to bribe him generously.
I was delivered to a modern high-rise office building and then escorted by a burly security officer into an elevator and to the top floor. A dour-faced, tall, thin Egyptian man in a black suit showed us into a tiny room with a couple of couches and in perfect British- accented English informed us that there would be a very short wait. The security officer, who spoke no English, sat down across from me. We waited. I read an old copy of TIME from a pile of magazines on the table between our couches. The security officer dozed. I read a National Geographic. We waited for nearly two hours. Tea was never offered.
There was no doubt in my mind that Dr. Asim was serving notice of his importance— and, judging from the lack of tea, his displeasure that I would try to bypass the normal channels; although seething, I prepared myself to offer an even bigger bribe.
At last, the tall, thin Egyptian reappeared. Without apologies, he ushered me down a long corridor to a massive wooden door that would have suited King Tut's tomb far better than this contemporary building. He opened it. I was shocked by the vastness of the room; it was opulent enough to please the most egotistic pharaoh, decorated in a combination of ancient Egyptian and modern Park Avenue. Antique papyrus scrolls vied with Picasso vases. Modern designer furniture rested on Persian carpets.
Dr. Asim was hunched over a colossal desk, dressed in a dark blue suit and gold tie. His face was pudgy and soft, like a melon. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, the kind I associate with Benjamin Franklin. He did not bother to look up when I walked in. The tall, thin man bowed out. I stood near the doorway waiting as the Dr. apparently finished some paperwork. Finally he raised his eyes. "Sit," he said indicating a chair in front of his desk and then returned to his work.
I felt confused and slighted. I might have transgressed, but this was overkill. Had he forgotten that I represented a prestigious consulting firm hired to help his country?
After what felt to me like a very long time, he straightened and peered at me over the tops of his glasses. He seemed to measure me as one might an insect caught scurrying across the dinner table. Then, in an effort that appeared to summon all his energy, he reached across his desk and held out his hand. I had to stand to shake it.
My confusion turned to anger. I suppressed it and forced a smile. Trying to adhere to local etiquette, I thanked him profusely for agreeing to meet with me.
He ignored my niceties and, without the exchange of greetings that are customary in Egypt, bluntly asked me what I wanted.
There could be no doubt that a polished diplomat was insulting me. Openly, flagrantly. I was tempted to walk out. Instead, I took myself back to the Engineers Club atop Boston's Prudential Tower and then to George Rich in MAIN'S boardroom. Suddenly I felt vindicated. My revenge for his insolence was the knowledge that I was an EHM on assignment to exploit him and his country. I could suffer his little victories knowing that my side would win the Big One; this battle might be his, but the war would be mine. I relaxed into my chair and my smile turned genuine. "Population data."
"I beg your pardon."
"I need population data." I explained my dilemma in the briefest language. "So, you see," I ended, "unless your people cooperate with me, your country won't get all that money your president is requesting."
He slammed his fist down on his desk and stood up. His girth reflected that of his office. His chair rolled back across the floor until it bumped against the wall. "I don't give a damn about your billions," he said, his voice surprisingly low and controlled, given the histrionics of his actions. "Young man—for you can't be as old as my youngest son— what gives you the right to march in here and make demands?" He waved a spongy hand to forestall my answer. "Let me tell you a thing or two. I've lived in your country. I know all about your fancy cities, cars, and homes. I know what you think of us." Placing his
hands on his desk, he leaned across it and glared at me. "Do you know how many people at Harvard asked me if I rode a camel? At Harvard! Amazing, your stupidity. The myopia of your country. We Egyptians have been around thousands of years, tens of thousands. We will be around when all of you are dust." He retrieved his chair and sat back down, emitting a loud sigh as he did so, and turned his attention once again to the papers on his desk.
I sat there staring at him, forcing myself to recall those moments in the boardroom. I also journeyed back to meetings in Indonesia where—because I spoke their language and my hosts did not realize it—I overheard government officials denigrating me, while smiling politely and offering me their finest teas. I steeled myself. I would beat him at his game.
Eventually he looked at me across the tops of those spectacles. He waved me away. "Go."
"But..."
He slammed his fist down once again. This time he remained seated. "Always remember," he said with that disorienting calm, "you are an infidel dog." His eyes held mine, unflinching, a trait from Harvard I supposed. "Infidel dog." He spoke the words excruciatingly slowly. "Now, go. You'll get your population data if Sadat and Allah will it."
Several days later the information was delivered. It arrived unceremoniously, in a soiled manila folder, handed to me by a courier who had ridden through the dust and gas fumes on a motorbike. There was no note attached, nothing to explain where it had come from or why, but it was all there, everything I needed. And I never paid anyone for it.
As I pored over the dozens of pages of boring numbers, I wondered why it had been such a big deal. Was there a logical reason for withholding these statistics? The only explanation that came to mind was the Egyptian fear of an Israeli air strike. But I could not see how population projections could help Israel. They already possessed, I was certain, all the information they needed to guide their planes and missiles; bombs did not care whether a specific suburb would increase by an additional 100,000 or 110,000 people during the next twenty years. Then I recalled Dr. Asim's words.
I was an infidel dog. The Egyptians knew something that only a few of my countrymen comprehended: We used data like the projections Dr. Asim had provided to me for empire building. EHM economic reports were far better weapons than Crusader swords had ever been. Israeli bombs served their purpose, delivering havoc, raining down fear, and compelling government officials to capitulate. But people like me were the real danger. We were the ones who took advantage of the havoc, channeled the fear, and made sure that those who capitulated honored their articles of surrender—and hopefully learned their lessons well enough to avoid future bombings. Ultimately we had to be pampered because we sat at the top ol the heap. Men like Dr. Asim had no choice but to give in or loose their jobs. And he detested me for it.