Memoirs of a Worker

A Close Encounter at The Hilton Hotel

I appreciate all of you for reading about my work experiences. This one was exciting, but not an experience I would like to do over again. I hope you all enjoy.

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During my traveling years as a contract employee with the State Department, I was always appreciative of Conrad Hilton for his insight in placing hotels around the world in the locations he did. I stayed in several Hilton hotels in different locals scattered throughout the world. The hotel that sticks out most in my mind is the Hilton Hotel in Khartoum, Sudan.

You couldn’t ask for a better location for a hotel than at the convergence of the Blue and White Nile, in Khartoum. The mighty Blue and White Niles stretches for thousands of miles and meets together in Khartoum. It was impressive to be there.

The Blue Nile starts in the highlands of Ethiopia, winds through the mighty Blue Nile Gorge, which is like a mini Grand Canyon, and finally makes its way to Khartoum where it meets up and joins the White Nile.

The Hilton hotels that I have stayed in have been clean, had excellent cuisine, and generally a nice place to hang out, and for the most part safe.

Late one Saturday night I was awakened by what sounded like banging on the wall from the room next to mine. I think furniture was being rearranged and lots of noise from people yelling. After loads of interruptions from the neighboring room, I was finally able to drift back to sleep.

Bright and early Sunday morning I got ready for work. I checked the clock to see that it was time to meet the crew at the breakfast table, down on the main floor. I opened the door at exactly the same instant Muammar Gadhafi stepped out of his room (which unbeknown to me adjoined mine) and headed down the hall past my room to the elevator, with two of his bodyguards.

I knew instantly who he was. When you work more or less for the State Department, you learn real fast who the rogues in the world are.

He was dressed in a white suit, his shirt was open at the neck, his face was deeply lined, the hair of his head was black and semi long and he had on a pair of sunglasses. I had heard through the State Department that Gadhafi was a drug addict and that was the reason for the 24/7 use of sunglasses. How true that is I don’t know.

When the bodyguards saw me they immediately shoved their AK 47’s into my chest and neck. My hands went up in the air while they marched me back into my room. Once in my room I caught the door with my foot and slammed it shut.

I was visibly shaken. I had never had anyone do that to me before. I walked to the window and waited until I saw Mr. Gadhafi exit the building and get into a white stretch limo and speed off. Then I opened my door again and ventured out into the hallway. I notice two Libyan security guards at the end of the hallway behind a pile of sandbags. I turned and looked and noticed two other security guards at the opposite end of the hallway. I made my way to the elevator and couldn’t wait until the doors opened and I could disappear.

On the main floor of the hotel, I noticed a host of people dressed in military uniforms seated in the restaurant. I was later told by the hotel staff that those people were Gadhafi’s personal bodyguards. An interesting thing I noticed was that about half of the bodyguards were women. All of those women were tall, large boned specimens, and they all packed guns (notice the multiple).

In many third world nations, when you leave the hotel you have to turn your key in at the front desk or to the key lady situated on each floor, whatever the case may be. I dropped off my key and told the clerk my experience that morning and asked if he could move me to a different room on a different floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “All of the rooms are full or we would surely move you.”

“Why is Gadhafi here?”

The man looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “We had a revolution here a few years ago,” he spoke in a hushed voice. “He is here to help celebrate the over throw of the legitimate government. It’s a big thing for him since he helped finance the rebels.”

I mentioned my experience to some of the embassy personnel. They acted like having Gadhafi in Khartoum was old news.

“It sure would have been nice if you would have shared this information with us,” I commented to the Admin Officer.

The man shrugged and acted like I was wasting his time. “Sorry. I didn’t think it was relevant that you should know,” he replied in a superior tone.

“You didn’t think it relevant?” I shouted. “I could have been killed.”

“But you weren’t, were you! I suggest you keep a low profile once you get back to the hotel. In the meantime, I have work to do. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

I wanted to throttle the guy, but since I’m not much of a violent man, I refrained. (Sometimes I talk pretty big, but my follow up is lacking.) It’s good to have a little breather time to cool off and review the whole situation before making some decisions.

When I got back to the hotel Sunday evening, I noticed an ambulance parked at the main entrance, with two ambulance workers wheeling a gurney past me with a dead man on it. I was sickened when I saw the vacant gaze of the bloodied, bullet ridden corpse.  There was no sheet or blanket to cover the body as they wheeled him through the hotel lobby and out to the ambulance.

At the front desk I questioned the clerk, “What’s going on?”

The man leaned forward, looked around and then whispered in a worried, almost panicked voice, as he handed me my key. “Be very careful. Be very, very careful. I don’t want any more shootings. Once you get to your room,” he paused and looked around, “don’t come out!”

I was nervous as I pushed floor twelve in the elevator. The elevator pinged and stopped at my floor and the door opened. It was then that I had a great idea. I removed my key from my pocket and held my arm straight out with the key dangling in my hand, and inched my way out the elevator door.

From both ends of the hallway I heard guns cock. I tried to not make eye contact with those holding the guns on me. Then I had this thought, “If you’re going to get shot, you probably ought to know who pulled the trigger,” so I glanced ahead to see two guns leveled right at me. I didn’t make any sudden movements and kept both arms exposed the entire time as I walked to my room.

By the time I got to my door, perspiration was dripping off of me. My room was about ten doors down the hall, but that distance felt like a mile. It was a relief to open the door and step into relative safety. For dinner that night and for the next two nights, I called room service.

Mr. Gadhafi and entourage stayed at the hotel for three long days, so I went through the same ordeal each evening when I finished work and went to my room. I’m grateful to report that there was just the one incident with someone getting shot. Once Gadhafi left, the tension that was visibly noticeable with the hotel patrons and staff left. I slept better each night after that.

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