July
1993
I wasn’t properly dressed for a meeting with Minister Sinaucer, at least not compared to the line of men sitting in his office waiting room, wearing their Sunday best, for, what would probably be the only time they would ever meet with him. His time was too valuable. When I was summoned, I was in the mountains in the eastern portion of Morocco, looking for Beni Ouarain snow capes (another story). My jeans were worn and my tennis shoes were shabby.
I had worked with Moroccan Ministers before, on projects involving tourism and handicrafts, but Cultural Minister Allal Sinaucer flew above the others in the palace circle. He was known as “Mustasha” advisor to His Majesty King Hassan the Second. He knew of me from my work and my visits with King Hassan, in the states (yet, another story) and he knew I was a dedicated friend of his country. I had been given a “white card” from Minister of State, Moulay Ahmed Alaoui, who was also uncle to the king, for my work with their tourism, that permitted me access to all of the museum private collections and places of worship, typically off limits to outsiders. The exception being the mosques, other than when Ambassador Ussery escorted me through the Grand Mosque, in Casablanca, for photographic purposes. The card also got me through road blocks and other official situations quickly, simply by certifying I’m a friend of the country, sometimes with a kiss on the card or a salute. The white card gave me super power in Morocco, but once I hit JFK, I couldn’t get a discount on a cup of espresso, with it.
Nor, would that piece of paper be necessary here, or do me any good if it were. This palace official was the real deal and I was up for taking on whatever project was on his mind. I was escorted around the people waiting (did I love that, or what?) and directly into his beautifully furnished office. Minister Sinaucer was wearing an, obviously expensive, navy blue suit and just the right red tie for it. The first words I uttered were ”my apologies for my appearance, Mr. Minister. I had little notice.” I remember him saying, in his most gracious manner, “Mr. Taylor. I am in my work clothes and you are in yours. Please, have a seat and let us proceed. Would you like some tea or coffee?”, as it was already being served. I thought about kicking back and putting my feet up on his table….Just kidding
THE MISSION:
UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) was having a photographic exhibition in the lobby of the United Nations, in NYC, in three months. The purpose was to show the need for the restoration of the medinas (old cities) of Fez and Marrakech. Concerned that photographs of the decay, as large as they were, would not attract enough attention. UNESCO requested I add my museum collection of Moroccan textiles and artifacts to the exhibition. This was unprecedented, as no items, other than photographs, had been exhibited in the building. Permission for the exhibition was granted by U.N. Secretary General, Butrous Butrous Ghali, as a courtesy to King Hassan 2nd. My wife, Judi, and I had organized a number of museum exhibitions on Moroccan textiles, over the years, but the United Nations is not just another museum. It’s the parliament of man.
For exhibition purposes, this was a pinnacle.
My key to the front door was U.N. Under Secretary General, Ambassador Joseph Verner Reed. Ambassador Reed was a former ambassador to Morocco who maintained a close friendship and with King Hassan. Joseph and I met in Aspen and became close friends years before, so when I got my assignment at the U.N. he paved my way through the door all the way to the General Assembly floor. Joseph Reed has been with the United Nations many years and to walk through the lobby with him is like being with royalty. If someone in the world is worth knowing, for global benefit, Ambassador Reed knows them…and they him. When the metal detector went off as Judi walked through, the guards stepped forward. A voice said “she’s with Reed.” They stepped back and smiled while she passed. I tried to walk into the general assembly room to listen some speakers while wearing running shoes. A guard told me soft shoes were not allowed on the General Assembly floor. Another voice said “he’s with Reed.” All the guard said was “headset, sir?” The most exciting thing I received from the UN, besides the assignment, itself, was a security pass to go to places in the building where most others could not. It’s like a city behind those walls.
Blast off:
Aspen Colorado.
I had no trouble lining up volunteers to go to New York and the UN. A lot of the Aspen ski bums hung around my store. A large German fellow named Ollie, my musician friend Michael Meadows and his girlfriend, my sidekick for exploring Morocco, David Arnold and I loaded a truck with our finest Moroccan treasures and headed east. Judi was to fly in. This put five of us in a truck with a seat for three. Two guy’s, who were musicians, offered to ride in the back on top of stacks of rugs. fifteen hundred miles of guitar practice in the back of a closed truck spells hard core musicians. “knock three times on the window for a pit stop, and knock hard. Those rugs are expensive.” If one could overlook the claustrophobic aspect and the prospect of bladder explosion, the back was probably the most comfortable place to ride. I drove the whole distance. To relinquish the wheel would feel like giving up my captainship.
NYC
like no place in the world:
Seeing the New York skyline come into view (for those of us up front) excited us beyond words. I had been there many times and had even organized a couple of parties for Moroccan dignitaries there, but this was different. I was about to one man stand up the United Nations. Two things concerned me…driving a 28 ft. Ryder truck around in Manhattan, and where would we park it at night, without concern of theft. I knew only a portion of the mountain of material we brought would be used for the exhibit and the rest would be left in the truck. Navigating the truck through the city was like riding an elephant through a grocery store. Everyone hated me for it. I wasn’t to fond of them, either, but I stepped on no groceries. I talked to a local about the truck safety issue and told him one of us (namely me) would volunteer sleep in the front seat in the motel parking lot, for security. He assured me, that if they wanted the truck, my being in it wouldn’t even slow them down. I said I had a Club steering wheel lock, to which he answered, “If there is a street light near the truck, thieves remove the plate at the bottom of the pole, tap into the electricity and saw through the lock, all in a matter of minutes. Crooks, in more of a hurry, who don’t mind being sloppy, take a hack saw and saw through the steering wheel.” Thanks, that made me feel much better.”
What made me really feel better is Ambassador Reed had made arrangements to relieve my second concern, in spades. They opened the compound gate around the UN building and had me pull the truck inside and around to the side entrance. There, we parked it right next to the twenty four hour a day bomb squad truck, where the bomb squad and their dogs gathered. They were very nice gentlemen who, along with their dogs, became our friends. They even got a kick out of how some of my crew spent a couple of nights in the truck. It was that or another two hundred dollar hotel room. For the entire three week period I had the safest truck in New York, or possibly the world.
The United Nations building
The Parliament of Man
One mission….Peace
When we turned the corner and saw the row of flags in front of the building, there was a collective intake of air in the front seat. How could anything in my simple career be more exciting? Ollie was quick to point out the German flag. We were all talking at once. After the bomb squad pups made their rounds through the truck, we were told we would have to clear, even the slightest pin, through security, which couldn’t be tighter anywhere. This presented another problem. The General Assembly was to convene in two days and the exhibit, which took up a good slice of the lobby, had to be completed by then. UNESCO already had one of the walls covered with large photographs of the medinas in ruins. To take in the rugs, costumes, pottery and artifacts at the speed security demanded would take forever…plus, it would be maddening. One more time Ambassador Reed came to my rescue and introduced me to the head of security, as his friend. I was given a key to the side sliding double door and told we could work through the night. Carte Blanche at the UN. I wondered if this would help me get my high school diploma.
A couple of beautiful Moroccan costumes, complete with gold belts and exotic jewelry, on loan from a moroccan museum, were already displayed on mannequins in the exhibit area, which took up a large portion of the lobby. There was also a table covered with pottery from the different areas of Morocco.
We brought in rugs from the High and Middle Atlas mountains and antique coin silver jewelry from the Saharan tribes in hand wrought silver treasure chests. We draped antique embroideries and silk textiles over leather poufs (hassocks). We showed the finest examples of primitive Moroccan art and textiles ever assembled in this country. We had planned on including our religious artifacts, but they were being exhibited at The Bnai Brith Klutznick National Jewish Museum, in Washington D.C. at that same time (another story). It was the most fun night any of had experienced (working) and when we were through, we had created Moroccan splendor at the United Nations.
But, to not get ahead of myself…. Michael Meadows had set up a video camera to record our installation night. Later, at the room, we reviewed our performance. Everything went smoothly until it showed us bring in these two long wooden crates that were so heavy a cart was a must. It was our antique gun, daggar and sword collection and we started setting them up for display. Just as the last crate was being emptied, the video showed me jump about three feet straight up and put both hands on my temples and scream. Everyone started scrambling like the camera was in fast motion. It was no more mister nice guy for me. I was in full panic mode. It had occurred to me, the only piece of permanent art at the U.N. is a huge bronze on the patio, of a pistol with a knot tied in the end of the barrel. The whole creed of the U.N. is to feed people and abolish weapons. True, an antique flintlock could do little more damage than a hard cane but swords and daggers do not lose their effectiveness with time. A terrible newspaper headline jumped into my imagination… “The prime minister of somewhere or another was stabbed in the U.N. lobby by a hundred year old dagger….but you should see Alf’s pretty rugs.”
The guards made their rounds every thirty minutes or so. They were use to us and had done little more than waive. I knew, if they saw our arsenal had made it into the building, they would do a little more than waive. If packing them up was supposed to be a twenty minute task, we cut the time by seventeen minutes. Antique or not. etched gold or not, fragile or not, we took no time to wrap even one piece. We stuffed our death instruments in the crates like they were made of cheap plastic. Then, loading one crate on top another, we rolled them into the night and into our truck. Now, the thought that was going through my mind was, two days before my fiftieth birthday it was quite possible I had inadvertently and successfully smuggled more weapons in and out of the United Nations than any other living human…It was exhilarating.
The exhibition lasted three weeks and, in that period of time, I was privileged to escort heads of state from countries all over the world on a tour of MOROCCO AT THE U.N.
