BOLIVIA : Idea Man Florman and Chewing Gum

BOLIVIA

Irving Florman’s qualifications for the job of U.S. Ambassador to Bolivia were somewhat unorthodox when Harry Truman picked him last November. He had been a Manhattan inventor (cigarette lighters, mine detectors), and a sometime Broadway lyric-writer (Chauve-Souris, 1943). But he was a faithful contributor to Democratic campaigns—and an individualist. He let it be known right from the start that he planned to run his own show in his own way.

For his presentation of credentials to Bolivia’s President Momerto Urriolagoitia (pronounced ooreo-la-goytcha), Florman decked himself put in a colorful outfit of his own devising: formal tails, the waistcoat of a dinner jacket, striped pants, a soft white shirt, black and yellow striped tie and an Ascot hat. When an aide suggested that a regular morning coat might be better, Florman cut him off sharply: “When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

Chewing Gum & Shellac. Since then no embassy aide has had any reason to doubt that the ambassador meant just what he said. Soon, irrepressible Irving Florman had taken personal charge of U.S. public relations, was busily writing signed articles for the Bolivian press, explaining world events and interpreting U.S. history in a flowery prose style. On July 4th he turned out a story on the U.S. Declaration of Independence which appeared in all Bolivian dailies. “Until Bolivians read my article,” said Florman, “they thought our Declaration was something a flock of millionaires dreamed up.” The delighted Bolivian press printed all he wrote and begged for more.

Florman did not confine himself to interpreting the U.S. to Bolivia. He also bubbled over with ideas fof improving Bolivia. Shocked at the coca-chewing habits of Bolivia’s Indians, Florman suggested that carloads of U.S. chewing gum be shipped in for distribution to the Indians, thus wean them away from narcotics. And when Florman sampled the gritty, brown fluid burping from La Paz’s water taps, he got another idea. He recommended that the Paceños pump shellac through their mains to coat over the rust in the pipes and seal up the holes.

Diplomacy in Shirtsleeves. Last week bustling Irving Florman was hard at work on his biggest project. With President Urriolagoitia’s grateful approval, Florman had stepped into the foreign-exchange negotiations between Bolivia’s chronically hard-pressed government and the big tin operators. Because the government had threatened to seize the bulk of the tinmen’s foreign exchange, the producers had threatened to cut back production. Said Florman bluntly: “If you gentlemen don’t give in and speed up production, you will be guilty of creating a grave problem for Bolivia and for U.S. security, as well as for the United Nations’ war effort.”

These were hard words for any foreign diplomat to use. They sounded even more undiplomatic coming from a U.S. representative who must always guard against charges of interference and yanqui imperialism.

But they were apparently just what was needed to turn the trick. At week’s end, after 17 days of bitter-end maneuvering, the big three of Bolivian tin—Patino, Hochschild and Aramayo—made a new deal with the government. It gave the tin operators control of approximately 40% of their foreign-exchange earnings (which had been blocked for ten weeks while the government toyed with the idea of nationalizing the tin industry). In return, the tin companies guaranteed increased production at all mines, set up a welfare and pension plan for workers.

The agreement offered a hope of peace after years of bickering. The peacemaker’s credit was due to tireless, shirtsleeve Ambassador Florman. Said President Urriolagoitia: “Ambassador Florman’s intervention was welcome, well meant and most certainly useful.”