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On (eventually) becoming a returned PCV

I went to a village called Eshowe this week and next to a bar at the backpacker met an older American couple, both of them former Peace Corps Volunteers.

They had served from '82-84, then again in the 90s, then again, sometime later, returned as Peace Corps staff. Each time they went to a new country.

We sat down at a table, they bought me dinner, and I dished out South African travel tips. I was surprised to learn how different their experience volunteering had been from mine. Women on their remote Pacific Island went topless, Americans included. Contact with the outside world came once every three months, when a cargo ship unloaded goods, mail, and SPAM. They didn't have satellite phones, much less smartphones.

Of course there were common points, too--transport, language, close encounters with enormous dangerous wildlife. For me, that was key. I was able to listen to their long, varied adventure stories and not get bored, because at root what they were telling was the same story as mine.

This is not me rationalizing Posh Corps South Africa--I'm at peace with my phone. No. Rather, this is me gearing up for my eventual return to America.

At the end of the night, I asked what advice they had for going back. Keep meeting other former PCVs, they said. You'll keep learning surprising differences, and you'll keep finding the same common points.

It worked for me that night. Thirty years later, it's still working for them.

#PeaceCorps #RPCV #returningtoamerica

Reverse Culture Shock, Part One

Los Angeles International Airport, 2:04pm. I walk down the gangway to Immigration and Obama's mug welcomes me to the United States of America. Customs Officer asks, "Where have you been?" I say, "In Ethiopia." "For how long?" "For two years, I was in the Peace Corps." She slaps a sticker on my customs form. I am to report to the Full Inspection line. In the Inspection line, I assess my belongings. Nothing illegal, but some things may be suspect. Maybe the animal-skinned machete. Or the fresh shiro powder. Or the green Kafa coffee. I decide on a strategy: Declare your spices. They don't care about spices, just living stuff. I tell the officer I have spices. He asks me which kind. I tell him cardamom, cinnamon, that kind. He waves me on through. Life is just a game. Outside LAX, a breezy 65 degrees. I can smell the sea. I switch to Domestic. Clerks are friendly and want to help. I don't have to pay to check my bags. Everything is electronic and computerized. Things are going great. I even step right through the back-scatter without protest. We have given up on personal liberties. We would rather App that. In the American Eagle departures lounge, way out on the tarmac, I learn that some people fly the 120 miles between Los Angeles and San Diego rather than drive. It is my first clue about the upcoming Carmageddon.

In Reno, it is way too easy to step into a brand new VW Jetta and drive away. I feel like I'm stealing or that cop cars are going to run me down and tell me there's been a huge misunderstanding, but in a few terrified minutes of driving I am at my hotel room, checking in, and the desert is being hosed with nonexistent water to turn it into a lush garden beside the highway. I eat a Subway sandwich, foot-long and stuffed full of good stuff. That night, I am overwhelmed by all the comfort, all the luxury. It feels like a dream, so vivid I can't sleep. I think I fall asleep at 3:30am. I wake up at 5:30 am and peek out the window at the early rays of sunlight morning. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The roads, black tar. I burn up through the mountains to a campground outside of Truckee. Driving feels like normal again, like I stepped into an old body of mine. I drive fast. I listen to NPR. I blast the A/C just because. At the campground, I gotta urinate real bad. The bathroom is being cleaned, but the lady's not inside. I go inside, try to un-prop the door. "Hey!" A shrill voice. "That's closed! You can't use that. I just sprayed harmful chemicals all over." She shoots me a disgusted look, at the Boy Who Doesn't Follow the Rules.

I book it out of there. Would rather sleep in my car, my own private Jetta. Am hungry. Want milkshake. Googled "Best Milkshake in Truckee" before departing Ethiopia, but that burger joint is closed until noon. I park on the street and use my debit card to pay for an hour of parking while I check out the train station. I use the payphone to cancel my campground reservation. Inside the train station visitors center, there's a computer with Internet that charges $1.00 per 5 minutes, which is basically telling me to "F Off! You Smartphone-less scumbag!" I don't have a phone. I don't have a laptop. I am nothing in America. I am a nobody without these devices to track my every move. The train lady is kind and waves me off when I try to pay my $3.00. I walk across the street into a breakfast cafe and eat a huge plate of French toast, scrambled eggs, and sausage. I wash it down with several cups of bottomless coffee. The waitresses are attentive and perky. A few Mom + daughter combos working the weekend shift. I am served something called an ice water. I want to cry but feel they'll get the wrong idea.

I drive away, down the road, over the mountains, to Lake Tahoe, King's Beach specifically, home of the Summer Traffic Jam. Ah how I missed traffic! How I missed the parking lot hustle! How I missed tank tops, casualwear, sandals, de facto good times. I park far away, walk to the lake with minimal valuables, leave them in a conspicuous place on the beach, and dive into the cool, clear, brilliant lake. I could live in the lake. I could stay here forever, floating on my back, looking at the sky, turning on my side and slipping through the water without a single concern aside from the utter dread that none of this is real, that I am sleepwalking, that this is one of those nightmares I had six months ago where I dream these scenarios only to end up waking up in a panic, in a pool of sweat, under a mosquito net.