First World Lessons

I was writing a lecture for my environmental science class last week, and had a really dumb light-bulb moment (Simpsons fans would call it a “dental plan” moment). Thailand is a third-world country. 

In a way, it’s like “no duh,” but I’m learning that the standards for these categories are somewhat fluid. I’ve gone down several internet rabbit holes reading about this. This article was the shortest and most concise. It’s fascinating. I actually saw one website call Thailand a first-world country. The terms came from Cold War alliances and are technically outdated, but the images they conjure remain.

You think “third world,” and images like this come to mind.

I think, nooo, this isn’t third world. Not here. The people here are witty and friendly, well-fed, and have multi-dimensional lives. The third world is far, far away, somewhere else, like beyond the moon, and people sit around starving and being miserable. You know what? We are far away. There are several houses that look just like these, right on our street! Our neighbors cook breakfast on on open fire out in their yard. Our house’s entire electrical system is basically a mile-long extension cord, and it’s considered a luxury that we get hot water from our kitchen sink. It’s a weird feeling to have this dawn on me. I’ve seen pictures of the “third world” my whole life, and it just looks different in person. Less scary, I guess, and so intensely beautiful. I will fully acknowledge how much of a privileged white princess I sound like when I say all of this, so go ahead and roll your eyes. It’s a learning process. 

So it was no surprise this morning when we got stuck in the mud on the way to work. And of course, it was on a section of our street where there’s no phone signal, so I couldn’t text our boss that we’d be late. 

We will be doing exactly this a little over a year from now, except the mud will be white and cold instead of brown and sticky. Sigh. However, the snow won’t make Mike-Tyson’s-face-tattoo splatters on Nick’s face when he tries to get us unstuck. 

A couple of weeks ago we had another crazy faculty Amazing Race, like we did last year. At one point, we were zipping up the river on a longtail boat. As I was mentally gushing to myself over the beautiful scenery, one of the guys (who has lived here for many years) said, “Can you believe we live here? We live here!” My thoughts exactly. It seems the sense of wonder doesn’t dull over time. 

The same guy, who is Dutch, said something later that day that I think my American friends will get a kick out of. I said something to the other American on the team, calling him “Watson.” The Dutch guy said, “Is that a thing in America, calling each other by your last names?” It was kind of adorable. I had to explain that it’s an informal thing that has sort of stemmed from sports.
 

A few months ago, someone asked me what the latest news was on our horrible ex-landlord from the Miami Vice house. We had gone back & forth with lawyers, he was legally in the wrong, but it would have cost us a lot of money to force him to admit it, so we just put off further contact until it sort of went away. He still has our money, of course. It is very similar to the stories about Trump not paying people. This guy is so Trump-- a rich, powerful narcissist. Anyway, we thought it was over. Out of the blue this weekend, I got a call from a real estate agent who has acted as a messenger between us, telling me that Mr. British Trump is willing to drop the whole thing (meaning, not coming after us for more than what he already has!) if we promise not to take any further legal action. Wow, how generous of him!

Well. Maybe it's because she caught me off guard, but... I gave her a piece of my mind about Mr. Landlord. And I gave her piece after piece for about 45 minutes. How much sleep we've lost over this. How he is in the wrong, in about 658 bullet points. How it's pocket change to him, but it's our entire net worth. I stopped to forward her e-mails where I cite Thai laws he is breaking. By the end of the conversation, I was shaking with blind rage. She said she'd see if she could talk him into giving us back any more money, but I told her I wasn't holding my breath. Unless she has good news, I never want to hear anything about him again, unless it's that he died a firey cancerous death involving spiders and hot pokers and weeping leprosy. 

I need to post this so I can scramble together today's lesson plans. School is kicking my behind. The sheer amount of work involved in teaching this many different classes is a very high bar, and it's a good day if I can barely stretch high enough to tap it. Actually hurling myself over that bar? Forget it. I am at my full capacity for what I'm capable of. It's good to know your limits, but damn. It is really, really hard.

Vietnam is in three weeks! Off to write a Kahoot.