Hyderabad, Dubai, Atlanta & LaGuardia

How a 36-hour journey home tested my reverse culture-shock

Seven friends and I were 8000 miles from home, in the Indian city of Hyderabad. A far cry from our industrial midwestern US city. Surrounded by palm trees, tuk-tuks, and a cacophony of honking cars. Soaking in every moment of enrichment and culture shock.

I devoured bowl after bowl of Biryani. Sat for a session of Henna design. Watched traditional dancers on a lake boat cruise. Marveled at the beauty of rows and rows of women’s kurtas and purchased a few brightly-colored new outfits for myself.

As the week drew to a close, we prepared ourselves to return to the United States. We knew that we had a long layover in Dubai. Preemptively dreading a twelve-hour break, yet also fascinated by Dubai's culture, we prepared our suitcases and our energy reserves for the successive flights and layovers.

After a four-hour flight, we disembarked from the airplane at the Dubai International Airport, in search of some adventurous activities to pass our time. We figured the best bang for our buck would be a hop-on-hop-off bus tour, hitting all major sites in a short period, with ample opportunity to make it back through security for the long flight to Atlanta.

Our bus drove around the Burj Khalifa, which is the tallest building in the world. We marveled at the Atlantis hotel and the luxury visible from the outside, and the unique architecture of the Palm Jumeirah island (man-made and palm-shaped). My jaw dropped as our bus passed the Mall of the Emirates, and our driver matter-of-factly stated, “There is a ski slope in that mall.”

A ski slope? In the middle of the desert? In a mall?!

What hit especially deep, however, was the tour guide’s explanation of the laborers and their wages. Flanking either side of the burgeoning architectural projects were lines of thin-appearing men working tirelessly in the sun. Our guide candidly declared, “Many of the men are migrant laborers from Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, or India. They work long hours in the sun for little wages and return to their homes in worker camps.”

My heart dropped in my chest. Suddenly, I became hyperaware of a connection between Hyderabad and Dubai. My traveling companions and I had gawked at the splendor of a Hyderabad palace, only moments later to pass by rows of slums consisting of sticks and tarps. The familiar feeling of shock and awe settled in as I passed by the rows of men working outside the Burj Khalifa.

It was a roller coaster of emotions. Initial wonder, mentally capturing the beauty of architecture and the lavish lifestyle of the patrons. Imagining what it would feel like to spend a night at the Atlantis or to hit the ski slope in the mall. Followed by the whiplash of sorrow and feelings of injustice, observing others living in slums and laboring for hours in the sun. All clouded under an umbrella of guilt, due to an initial knee-jerk reaction to engage in hierarchical rankings, whether intentional or not.

Momentarily forgetting the genuine smiles of those living in poverty for the superficial allure of the wealthy and elite.

These conflicting feelings settled uncomfortably into my psyche as we departed Dubai. It was a beautiful city. A land of rich culture and extravagant buildings, and beautiful people. Yet somehow, in the aftermath of the disparity witnessed in Hyderabad, all of the gold and splendor of Dubai just felt… empty. An ornate treasure chest with no riches inside.

We boarded our flight to Atlanta. We landed and felt immediately crestfallen as we realized that there were issues with our connecting flight home. Our group of eight would have to split off into factions; for some reason, they overbooked and could only take one person directly home.

We looked around anxiously at one another. We were all kind people and didn’t want to inconvenience anyone else on the trip. It was time to prioritize arrivals. Who needed to be home the soonest?

One of the ladies needed to get home for work- she had first dibs. One of the guys practically begged for the next flight home- he had a ring waiting at home and dinner plans to propose to his girlfriend. Another was just over it and decided to join the soon-to-be-engaged guy on a planes, trains, and automobiles-esque journey to fly two hours away from home and then grab a rental car.

The rest of us would have to wait.

I considered the situation at hand. This was certainly an example of “first world problems.” I reminded myself of this when I glanced in the Atlanta airport bathroom mirror and saw how oily my hair appeared. “It could certainly be worse,” I thought, as I submerged my head under the public sink to wash my hair. It felt like a new low in personal hygiene. Yet, I was so grateful for running, clean, accessible water.

Sure, it had probably been closer to 28 hours of travel at that time. I was sleep deprived, exhausted, and ready to curl up on a chair at the gate, on the ground, practically anywhere to take a long nap. But I tried to remind myself that one way or another, I was safe and would be home soon.

I was trying to maintain a level of gratitude and calm, yet I was mostly over it. Restlessness and impatience were overcoming my mind. It felt like a never-ending voyage. My four remaining friends and I flew to LaGuardia— our third layover of the trip— and I exhaled a sigh of relief, realizing that in less than two hours we would be home.

I dragged my tired body to the back of the aircraft, hoping and praying that I could get some sleep on the last leg of the flight. No such luck. It was such a level of exhaustion that even sleep eluded me. Wired but tired. So, so tired.

I wasn’t the best version of myself. Nearing 36 hours of travel. I felt convicted and guilty. I was drained and cranky. I felt like I needed to change my clothes, brush my teeth, and pass out.

As the airplane landed and we disembarked, I saw one of my especially outgoing friends laughing and excitedly chatting with the others. I assumed she was excited to be home. Our remaining group left towards the baggage claim as my friend disclosed the origin of her upbeat mood.

“I think that was Montel Williams on our flight! I thought it was him, so I approached him to ask. I had to ask to make sure. He looked to the left, then the right, and quietly responded, ‘Yes’. Seemed he wanted to go unnoticed. He just walked away.”

I looked at my friend’s sweet smile, spreading across her face. Listened to her candor and her giggles. Despite feeling travel-weary and broken down, her amusement and optimism helped spark a sudden burst of energy.

Almost home. It was a tough trip, a challenging trip. Highs and lows, delays and detours. But full of lessons that I could learn in no other way.

The Uber pulled into my driveway. Home. I washed the 36 hours of travel away, curled up into cozy pajamas. Hoped for some sweet dreams and a day or two in bed to recover.

My racing thoughts began to quiet as my weary bones sank into the familiar contours of my bed. Immediately, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for warmth and comfort, for the looming possibility of sleep after a day and a half of travel. This gratitude was mixed with a low-lying sadness, the visions of the smiles of the people living in the slums reflected in the towering spires that took calloused hands and weary hearts to build.

I closed my eyes with visions of India and Dubai dancing in my head. Laughing silently at the absurdity of my friend trying to make an acquaintance with former talk-show host Montel Williams on the way home from the LaGuardia Airport. Wondering how my friend’s engagement went and if the other made it home in time for work. Hoping and praying that I wouldn’t forget what it felt like to see the hard-working laborers toiling in the Dubai sun, or the families and children in tattered clothing running through the streets of Hyderabad.

I felt everything slowly slip away from my consciousness— the heavy reverse culture shock chased by a profound appreciation for all of my experiences and blessings.

And slept for 36 hours more.