Saddam Hussein is dead. I don't want to make light of this occasion, but I also can't resist telling this story. So you remember that game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon? The idea was that you could link any actor to any other actor via a movie containing Kevin Bacon. Well, I don't want to promote Six Degrees of the Llama, but if you are reading this blog, and you happen to know the super-tippy-top-secret identity of the Llama, and in fact you personally know yours truly, then you my friend are just two degrees away from Saddam Hussein. Why? Cause many moons ago the Llama met, and had a lovely, if unsuspecting, conversation with Saddam Hussein's aunt. Or mother-in-law. It is unclear. To wit:
In 2004 I was working with my father on a research consulting project for an NGO. The work required us to conduct field research in Peru, Bolivia, and Paraguay, but in order to get to Paraguay from Peru one has to fly thru Argentina. Since we had family in Buenos Aires--and the NGO had a branch office where we could conduct some archival research--we decided to make a week-long stopover in BA.
At the time, my great uncle was serving as the Bolivian ambassador to Argentina. (The Llama may be but a humble camelid, but his ancestors roll deep.) He was on his way out, though--a new Bolivian president, Carlos Mesa, had come into office a few months earlier and had finally gotten around to appointing my uncle's successor.
Having heard of his upcoming departure, the diplomatic community organized a farewell cocktail party. It was held in the Buenos Aires Jockey Club, possibly the most pretentious building I've been in since I visited the offices of Cravath, Swaine, and Moore in New York. At least the Club didn't vaguely smell of sulfur, nor did it have the feeling that Darth Vader had just been chilling in the reception area. Wait, did I ever tell you about how Cravath has a budding human rights defense practice?
But I digress. Anyways, the day of the reception my father and I went to my uncle's apartment beforehand, where we met two aunts who would also be attending the reception. We arrived at the club fairly early, were given a brief tour of the premises, and then headed back to the main room. There were a couple of folks in the room already, so my uncle said hello and I kind of hung back with my dad.
The first forty-five minutes or so were uneventful. I basically talked with my dad and aunts, and occasionally went up to the random dignitary, introduced myself as Ambassador [Llama]'s nephew, made some chit-chat, then tracked down the family again.
In the course of the reception, though, I noticed that while most of the attendees were speaking in groups of three or more, two older women were not speaking to anyone else. One was short and had reddish-brown hair. The other one was very tall, fairly large, and had jet-black hair, the kind you only see when you are blind, or when you dye it with industrial strength, uh, hair dye. She also had a very large head.
I started paying attention to them, and continued to observe that they didn't approach anyone, and no one approached them. I thought that was weird, so I went over to talk to them.
"Hi. I'm Ambassador [Llama]'s nephew. I just thought I'd come over and say hello."
"Oooh, look at you, you're so cute," said that black-haired lady.
"He's so cute!" said the red-haired one, in slightlty less intelligible Spanish.
"Well, thank you. How nice of you to come to the reception. I'm sure that my uncle will be pleased to see you."
"Yes, this is nice," said the black-haired one.
"Very nice. This reception is nice," said the red-haired one.
"Uh, yes. May I ask where you are from?"
"We're from Jordan," they said in unison.
"Oh, wow. I understand you have a new king."
"You know about Jordan!"
"He knows about Jordan!"
Whereas before they had been fairly reserved and awkward, the two women simultaneously grabbed me by each arm and unleashed upon me a stream of praise (for my "knowing about Jordan") and information (about Jordan). It seemed as if no one had talked to them about their country in years. I explained to them that I had recently taken a course on Middle Eastern history and that I had read about the recent ascension King Abdullah, how he was a young king, and how he was pushing modernizing economic reforms.
They loved every minute of it. For every half-true fact that I spouted, their praise, and their attention to me only increased. Which was tough, cause they were really paying attention to me.
And I was right...kind of. Actually, I really had no idea what I was talking about. King Abdullah was young, but he had recently assumed power... five years ago. He was all about modernization, but he was also all about torture.
As I started to internally question my own expertise on the subject, though, and as the ladies continued to talk my ear off, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was my dad, who was with my two aunts. All three of them were staring at me. My dad was laughing. I kept my eye on him and he kept on laughing, and then did that thing he does with his thumb and forefinger--Ali G does it when he says "booyakashah"--whenever he thinks something is either really worrisome or really funny.
Eventually, after promising that I would visit Jordan... someday... I was able to escape the All-Jordanian Fan Club. I walked back to my dad and asked him what was up.
"How was your conversation, hijo?"
"It was... nice. Those ladies are from Jordan."
"Jordan, huh?"
"Yes, they are very excited about Jordan."
"Yeah, well you know why no one's talking to them."
"Uh, no."
"Well, see that tall one, the one with the black hair?" The whole punchline has kind of been ruined by the wind-up, but rest assured that I was pretty surprised when my dad told me that I had just had a long, wonderful conversation with Saddam Hussein's aunt. Or mother-in-law, he wasn't sure. But he and my aunts were quite sure that she rolled with the big H, in a family way.
Anyway, there's not really a rousing end to this story. At the end, we all left the reception, and I don't remember saying bye to my Ba'athist friends. We weren't penpals, and though I don't think they forgot me immediately, I'm sure that the memory of me faded when someone showed them a map or article on Jordan, which I am sure has happened (probably) once in the past two years.
I will say, though, that I have spent a long time trying to find out exactly why my Ba'athist mystery lady was. Was she Saddam's aunt? Or was she his mother-in-law? I guess the punchline was that after a little research, I realized that it was possible--though unlikely--that she was Saddam Hussein's aunt and mother-in-law, 'cause Saddam's first wife--he is reported to have had three--was actually his first cousin. Ole.
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