STRANDED AGAIN, THIS TIME IN GHANA


Our American Airlines L-1011 had stopped en route from Sao
Paulo to Frankfurt to make a scheduled stopover in Ghana. We
deplaned, went through customs, and stood quietly as
uniformed guards opened up our bags and strew our panties and
other intimate effects over the bare wooden tables in the
open-air "Adouane."

I loved it. It was rough, and it smelled of mud and diesel.
Around us, impossibly green palm trees rustled as parrots
landed and monkeys screamed down at us for introducing our
imperialistically pale skins into their midst.

The heavy-set customs agent with three stars on his olive drabs
handed my suitcase to his assistant, a thin young man with no
stars, but an AK-47. Although I had gold lame bras and pair
after pair of thigh-high stockings and high-heeled pumps, they
seemed relatively uninterested in the contents of my bags.
They were looking for something else. I was glad about that.
But, it gave me a chance to reflect upon the fact that I probably
shouldn't mix my cabaret act with my job as sales rep. But it
relieves the monotony, and it gives me a reason to stay in
shape.

The warm air felt like primordial ooze.

There were tepid puddles of muddy water in the road, strange
accumulations of water in buckets and in the lids of cans that
were scattered around the periphery of the open-air customs
area. In the distance, I could see the windows of the control
tower. They mirrored the sky, which looked all too much like
the face of Zeus swooping down to pluck up Ganymede.

Mirrors everywhere and none of them real. Just as well, since
the reflections bothered me. They didn't seem to reflect nature
as it was before that mirror, but the mirror was instigated by
some sort of unrepresentable presence that provoked a delirious
effect.

Delirium? Hallucination? I doubted it. I for one, was inclined to
believe what I saw in the mirror. A spider monkey hopped up on
the edge of a galvanized trough. It perched on the edge. I could
see the reflection in the water, but it was not of a spider
monkey. It was the head of a woman, the face blurred, the
head shaved, a number tattooed on her bald pate. Nervously, I
looked into the hatbox I carried containing my cabaret act
headgear. I was Carmen Miranda on acid, a critic had once
said. I looked back at the spider monkey and the water mirror
at its feet. The image had changed slightly. The woman now
had a feathery boa around her neck.

"Je voudrais fumir une cigarrette, si'l vous plait," I said.

The customs agent's assistant reached for the AK-47 as started
groping in my handbag for a pack of Salems.

"That's okay -- I'm trying to quit." Not worth it, I thought. My
head was beginning to hurt. The truth was, I was tired, a little
hungover, and more than a little punchy from the night before. A
guy who said he wanted to place a big order with my company
-- 2 containers of titanium dioxide pigment for his paint factories
in Ecuador -- roughed me up after dinner.

He couldn't handle the cognitive disjunction between me as
sales rep and me as diva. We were in my hotel room (error #1)
and I was talking to him about the fact that many times, the
men who were attracted to my cabaret act were ones who were
uncomfortable with their own sexuality (error #2). It was easier
to fixate on me than on a real drag queen, I explained, although
god knows, I was a poor imitation of a real cross-dresser. I
explained that sometimes I considered myself merely a
stopping point along the road of homoerotic sexual awakening
(error #3).

He beat the shit out of me.

He got away with it, too. After all, we were in a country with
significant anti-American sentiment and I was afraid to make
waves. I blamed myself for it anyway. I was a typical
American. I inspired hatred. I probably deserved it. Still, the
red marks were turning to bruises, the other scuffs and rubs
were fading. Did I mention he was an American, too?

Sao Paulo -- Ghana -- Frankfurt.

Strange connections, strange delay. The air smelled like life
squeezed from a green, slimy tube. The fact was, truth had
become some sort of behavior, not perceived fact, or a
confirmable sequence of events. The airplane was not small,
but I was far away. I was looking at myself reflected in the dark
RayBans of the customs agent. I was the subject of my own
narrative in this strange stopover land, and I didn't know quite
what persona to invent. In the mirror of his eyes, my bruises
spilled over into the air around me, my confusion spiked up
around me like pipecleaner pompoms. I was thin, very thin.
Sadness had no quarter here.

I heard the roar of jet engines, I looked up, and the American
Airlines L-1011 was taxing down the runway. Without me. I
looked at the customs agent. His three stars glinted in the
thick, surreal light.

"Don't worry. It happens all the time. You must pay a fine for
missing the plane, though. You will stay in our hotel." He
seemed cheerful. I felt resigned to my fate, and hence
somewhat indifferent.

I watched the enormous silver bird taxi toward me. The nose
was huge. The distance between the passengers and me was
vast.

"Do you have entertainment at your hotel?" I asked. "I do a
cabaret act..."

I would need a few days to heal, though. The bruises were
deep. They were in places that my costume revealed.

I saw the customs agent look toward his assistant, his harsh
expression turning soft, doglike, devoted.

"It doesn't matter -- I could start tonight," I said. I wondered if I
had brought in enough aspirin or Alleve. The aesthetic issues of
bruises? Costuming could remedy that. Beside, I expected
more bruises would come shortly.

It didn't much matter anyway, did it?