The Ambassador

We have been invited to the American Ambassador’s house for dinner.

This apparently necessitates me trimming my beard.

Which is actually fine with me. My red brown hair has been growing at a nearly exponential rate since I last cut it (the day before my friend Donna’s wedding, three days before I began my trip). More than three months into my journey, the hair on my head has become longer than it’s been since before high school. My beard has turned into a soul-stealing monster that makes all who stare too long at it quake in fear.

This is actually not a joke. I credit a good portion of me not being robbed on this trip to the fact that I maintained a very aggressive personal appearance. It’s one of the basic rules in any situation where you might be victimized: present a hard target, and you generally won’t be messed with. My beard makes me look at least five years older, and has been described as “intimidating”.

But now, sadly, it has to go. We have no clippers on hand, so Jordan sits me down with a pair of the ubiquitous orange handled scissors that you can find literally anywhere, and starts clipping. I am convinced that I’m going to have to shave it all off in the end, because the last time Jordan cut my hair I was about twelve, and he butchered it so badly that I had to nearly shave my head.

This time goes much better. With some judicious advice from the rest of the team, Jordan clips my beard down to something almost respectable. There’s nothing we can do about my hair, but I wouldn’t have wanted to shave it down anyway. Theoretically, while on reserve status, I’m supposed to maintain a constant military standard of grooming and dress. This would involve me traveling through Japan, China, Thailand, Cambodia, India, Turkey, New Zealand, and Senegal with a military style haircut, clean shaven face, nice slacks and either a polo or button up shirt tucked in. In some of those places that would have been fine. In others I would have stood out like a sore thumb, and probably made myself a target. I’m of the school of thought that your situational awareness and safety sometimes justify bending the rules.

Unfortunately, that leaves me in the position of meeting the U.S. Ambassador to Senegal in a pair of khaki trousers that I picked up at a market for twenty Turkish lira and one of my worn out hiking button ups.

Ambassador Lukens’ house is more or less right across the street from the Embassy, with a fancy plaque identifying it and a Senegalese security guard checking names at the door. The rest of the team and I present our passports at the door and I wonder where the Marines are. Theoretically, U.S. Marines are responsible for the safety of the Ambassador and the Embassy, but often that job is subcontracted out to locals or private security. I guess it was the former in Senegal.

We are greeted by the Ambassador and his wife. My training kicks in immediately and I’m “Sir” and “Ma’am” left and right. I almost missed it.

Jordan and the team are the highlight of the night. The Canadian Ambassador has also showed up. At dinner, Mrs. Lukens and I talk history while Jordan and the rest of the team hobnob with the two Ambassadors.

A moment comes around when I’m not talking to anyone and I sit back and watch everyone else converse. Smiling to myself, I realize that on this trip I’ve gone from sleeping in a hammock in the Cambodian wilderness to dinner with the personal representative of the President.

Hell of a ride.

-Doug