During an even earlier presidential election, while the authorities in the region where I was deployed adhered to their instructions reasonably faithfully, actually, frankly, matters could have been an awful lot worse.
The governor of the region where I was based at the time was a lot more helpful, or rather, a lot less unhelpful, than he might have been, had he chosen to interpret his instructions absolutely faithfully or literally.
Thus, after the election, after the results had been promulgated, after our 'preliminary report' (which condemned the election) had been issued (the final report was usually issued a few months later), but a day or so prior to my own departure from that region (for a few days of being debriefed in the capital, along with other colleagues who had been deployed in other regions, plus those who had been based in Minsk throughout, before flying home), I called to the governor, to say farewell and to thank him, and brought a bottle of whisky as a thank you gift for him.
In all of these countries, the governor's office is invariably to be found in a large, lavishly furnished, representational building, built in the sort of classical architectural style preferred by officialdom (and found all the way across the lands ruled by the nineteenth century Russian Empire, and indeed, in the Habsburg Empire, as well).
The office was large, well appointed (mirrors, marble, comfortable chairs, massive mahogany desks, parquet flooring in a herring bone pattern) and dominated by an absolutely enormous portrait of the president which dwarfed that part of the room.
Accepting my thanks and the bottle of whisky, the governor (who had studied history, and enjoyed talking about history with me, because he knew I had studied it, and taught it, and that I loved it, too), glanced at the portrait, then back at me, and remarked: "He (the capitalisation of the letter 'h' of the pronoun was obvious from the pronunciation) doesn't drink and He doesn't like us to drink. But, He is not here, and what He doesn't know won't hurt Him, or upset Him" - by now, the whisky had been poured into two glasses, and, as he lifted one, he gave a toast, "so, prost", and then added, a little wistfully, a slightly melancholic note to his voice: "Look: When all this is over, and maybe when I have retired, come back to visit us sometime, in summer, and we can go picnicking and mushroom hunting and barbecuing in the forest, and drink (here he raised his glass again) and talk about history."