We were warned by Peace Corps that it would happen. Coming home, they said, would be much
more of an adjustment than going to Zambia. You wouldn’t have the luxury of a 3-month “training period”
where people would teach you cultural norms. And quite frankly, after living abroad for so long (29
months to be exact) without stepping foot on American soil, some of the things that
people do just wouldn’t make sense.
Even in your home culture . . .
After two short overnight flights crossing several time
zones bordered by a 14-hour layover in Korea, I knew conditions were ripe for
an emotional meltdown. Well, it
happened in the Kauai airport shortly after arriving in paradise . . . over the
subject of cell phones.
Rewind to the last four countries we’ve been to: Zambia,
Malawi, Ethiopia, and Thailand. My
nifty little 9-key Nokia phone worked in all those places without problem. In fact, within hours of being in each
new country, I could pick up $2 pre-paid simcard at any convenience store or
market stall with one of the local networks and start contacting anyone I
needed. No models to choose from,
data plans to select, setting up online user accounts or billing options. Register your card at the shop with a
valid ID (sometimes), put in your fingernail-sized card that you just bought
and go! No problem.
Now fast-forward to the perceived luck Scott and I had of
getting to Kauai 5 hours EARLIER than expected because there was room on a
standby flight. All we wanted to
do after nearly 48 hours of continual travel was find our friends Chris and
Yuki’s house and crash. Problem
was, both of our drivers’ licenses had expired while in Zambia, and I had my
renewed one mailed to their house.
They didn’t know we were going to arrive 5 hours over to meet us at the
airport with license in hand so we could actually rent a car. Another culture shock as this was the
first place you actually needed a
driver’s license to get where you wanted to go. No tuk-tuks or taxis just waiting to pick people up.
Problem with calling our friends to tell them we arrived
early was . . . phone didn’t work at all.
No network signal on my cheap multinational ZamPhone, and no convenience
stores to buy a $2 simcard. God
bless America. I was going to ask
fellow passengers if I could borrow a phone for a second to make a quick call,
but by the time we got out of the “no cell” area, people were dispersed and
busy with their baggage pickup and hotel and rental car shuttles. I lugged out the computer hoping for a
wireless network like they had in all the other airports we were in, but of
course there was none. God bless
America. How were we going to get
a hold of our friends, who had out-of-state cell phones as many Americans
do? Why a pay phone of
course. Never mind we had no
American change, and knew a non-local call would be expensive. The airport information lady politely
informed us that there were no longer pay phones in the airport. She was happy to let me use her
landline to make a local call, but unfortunately the number I had wasn’t
local. That’s when the meltdown happened.
I laid on the bench of the now-empty airport as all my other
fellow passengers had grabbed their rental cars to explore paradise, and let
Scott try to figure out how the heck to reach our friends. After a few minutes trying the TSA
people and a few other employees, no luck. No employees would let us borrow their cell phone, probably
as a matter of national security or something. So . . . we did all we could think of and took the shuttle
to the rental car place, knowing we’d be stuck until our friends delivered my
license.
Luckily, the car rental agency wasn’t as strict as the TSA
and would let us make a call to a long-distance cell phone so I could actually
get a driver’s license and get some real sleep. We got a hold of Yuki, who was so excited we were there, but
was not expecting us that early and had some obligations, and said she would
call when she was able pick us up.
“Can I just call you at the number that you texted us a few
days ago?” she asked
“No, that’s our Thailand phone.”
“Oh, then how will you know when I’m coming?”
“Um . . . just call the rental car 1-800 number and hope you
can get through?”
What did we do
before cell phones?
After what seemed like hours of sitting on the bench
watching tourist after tourist getting their wheels for paradise, the another
sales agent said, “well what are you waiting for?”
“My driver’s license.”
“Oh, that’s important.”
“Could I at least start the car rental paperwork now?”
“No, we have to see your license first.”
When Yuki finally got through to the 1-800 number and
arrived at the car rental place, she gave me the magic envelope with my brand
new license that I renewed online through WA state. I gave it to the lady still stuck to the original letter,
neglecting to explain that I had less than 4 solid hours of sleep in the last
48 hours and also that I hadn’t driven a single vehicle for the past 29 months.
“Just pick any compact car from the parking lot. The keys are in the door.”
And it was as easy as that. Aloha and welcome back to the USA.
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