Bumpy landing
Lozada, Carlos
THE LAST WOR BUNPY LANDING Carlos Lozada Viva el Peru! The cry issues forth the instant our plane touched ground, no coincidence. Even half asleep, I expected it. Sitting up, I tug on...
...We reach a full and complete stop...
...Sitting up, I tug on the window shade...
...The pilot acknowledges this ritualistic show of gratitude, mumbling his thanks over the loudspeaker...
...Viva el Peru, carajol Some passengers even shout their allegiance to local soccer clubs—Arriba Alianzal Y dale 17!—apropos of nothing...
...They realized then that I was on to them, that I lived in the United States, that they had just insulted me and revealed their insufferable American arrogance—an arrogance I despise all the more because I can never truly share it, no matter where I live or where I earned my diplomas...
...Passport in hand—same as the U.S...
...Who the hell are you laughing at...
...They looked at me confused, I'll reminisce someday, perplexed by this slender young man speaking to them in wellbred, overeducated English...
...A smattering of cheers and applause echo the first yell...
...A couple of uneasy bounces later, the wheels of the jet settle on the runway and begin to spin furiously, squealing and dragging their way to the terminal...
...Neither language breaks through...
...my compatriots remain upright, content in their indifference to the monotone pleas of authority...
...Lima materializes before my eyes, no skyline to speak of, the coast obliterated by an eternal fog— the standard greeting from a hometown that has long ceased to feel like home, a birthplace that barely recognizes me...
...We've always been like this, I realize, as schoolchildren elbowing our way onto a school bus, as worshipers jousting for Communion...
...it would have been deliberate, meticulous, relished forever in the instant between their laughter and my reply, making up for my shame and my silence, and for a thousand similar slights, real, imagined, and forthcoming...
...The Americans become restless, anthropological novelty giving way to everyday annoyance...
...The shouts last only a few seconds, but for that eternity I feel like Tattoo on "Fantasy Island," cheering for da plane, while the Americans on board—the tourists, backpackers, and foreign investors—all morph into Mister Roarkes, smiling upon the natives with a paternalistic tenderness usually reserved for children, zoo animals, or buffoons...
...Ladies and gentlemen," the admonition crackles through some hidden loudspeaker, first in Spanish and then in broken English, "please remain seated with your seat belt on until the plane has come to a full and complete stop...
...I wrestle into the aisle...
...This is simply "how we do things," orderless, curiously herd-like in our individualism...
...Commonweal 31 June 15,2001...
...Or at least that is what I'll explain should I ever tell the story...
...No sharp retort or witty rejoinder, no probing stare...
...Except I do not speak at all...
...I hate the cheers, always have...
...They don't want to be here, either...
...My question shoots out, knee-jerk, instinctual...
...Carlos Lozada is the associate editor of Foreign Policy magazine in Washington, D.C...
...Easy enough to pretend I do not hear them, or better yet, simply to feign incomprehension of the language...
...But had I spoken, my reply would have been anything but instinctual...
...We're delaying them and they don't like it...
...They roll their eyes, gawking at the pandemonium in the aisles...
...As I watch them, a long dormant sense of pride (I might even call it patriotism, if I could remember how that feels) emerges to counter my own misgivings...
...A rotund, middle-aged man with the label "gringo tourist" all but stamped on his forehead— no doubt he's catching a connecting flight to Cuzco, where he'll snap copious shots of the Machu Picchu ruins—whispers to his wisp of a travel companion, who nods sagely...
...passport really, just burgundy instead of navy blue, and no eagle on the cover—I wait in line to visit my home, a home I'll never escape or relinquish, no matter where I live or how long I'm gone...
...They laugh together...
...I try, but it's still hard to cheer...
...Well before we reach the terminal, the Peruvian passengers crowd the aisles and begin emptying the overheads, groping for Sea World sweatshirts, liquor boxes from the Duty Free, bags from Dadeland mall— predictable loot of a first and probably last trip to South Florida...
...The big one whispers again, eliciting a chuckle from his companion...
...We're not back for two seconds before we must proclaim to the whole of humanity that we remain so very third world that a safe plane landing compels us to scream and clap in wonder...
...In a moment I disappear amid my souvenir-toting compatriots and descend into customs, far away from the obese American, who must wait in a different line for foreign visitors, doubtless a more orderly one...
Vol. 128 • June 2001 • No. 12
