Third World

We moved in last night, sort of. We’re not yet, but most of our belongings are up there including the new towels we bought, five, each in a different color so there is no arguing about whose is whose and no doubt about who left theirs soggy on the bathroom floor; one blanket for each member of the family; and two bamboo floor mats, to make living on the industrial strength vinyl covering the floor a little less sticky; all bought at a linen vendor’s bankruptcy sale. We are truly living the life of immigrants. Or refugees. We did splurge a little and bought a nice teak table and chair set for the outside dining porch. Aesthetics are important too.

The delay in moving is due to the fact that first we must bomb the house. The landlords took their two dogs but left behind a few fleas. So while toxic chemicals waft around the premises we will be back in town purchasing our camping gear -- everybody will be on cots except me; I’m going with the hammock option which will provide seating during the day -- and some pots (cast iron cookware is practically free, $15 USD for a good-sized Dutch Oven), utensils, and cups. Jorge wants to buy plates from our friends the potters, who make a heavy stoneware type in a mossy green color featuring etchings of the palms and mountains from the Daintree (World Heritage rainforest) area where they live, but we would probably have to wait until next Sunday to catch them again at the market unless we make an unscheduled visit by their house. Quality, not quantity, for these refugees.

In some respects, living outside the urban areas here is a lot like living in a third world country, like life in the mountains of Belize. Vehicles are utilitarian, clothing is whatever fits, people are largely self-reliant, and living with a certain level of dirt must be tolerated, except that there is quite a bit of government intervention and most of the people look just like we do.

The last few days we’ve had a taste of what The Wet is like -- one of only two seasons around here, the other being, yeah, you guessed it, The Dry -- as an unusually long and late rainy season tapers off. It is nothing like Florida’s dramatic afternoon thunderstorms. Here there is just a steady soaking downpour that can last months; day and night, heavy, continual rain minus the thunder and lightning. The Girl From Clewiston even waxed nostalgic for South Florida’s violent summer weather. Under these conditions, forced to go shoeless, we’re experiencing what we called in Belize “Mennonite Foot,” a condition honoring our perpetually barefoot, horse-and-buggy-driving farmer friends’ permanently mud-caked, crusty-toenailed, calloused feet. (It’s okay, they’re not online.) With reports on Brisbane’s drought and Level 5 water restrictions banning practically every use of water beyond bathing, and then only if you’ve got at least three people every second Tuesday between 6:00 and 7:00 AM, I’ll gladly take the wet.

When it rains, it pours.

-- Morton Salt