Swine Flu

Not long after I arrived in Mexico, the country began terrorizing the rest of the world with swine flu. It seemed to start somewhere in the south of the country and people began getting sick all over Mexico and the United States before cases popped up in Europe and Asia. It was a pandemic of global proportions: people were panicking, pigs were achy and running high fevers, SPAM stock was plummeting and I was right in the middle of it all.

Was I scared? Of course not. Those of us who live in the Third World are used to adversity and exotic diseases. I spit up in the face of malaria and yellow fever in Africa. I braved hypothermia by setting foot in Minnesota. Usually, the worst aspect of these faddish diseases is the quickness with which they infect the media. Just a day after the first pig sneezed, the Internet and the 24-hour news-tainment networks were predicting the downfall of western society.

Naturally, everyone assumed poor, chaotic Mexico would not act quickly enough to stem the impact. “Do you think the government will be able to contain the contagion?” asked my mother. “When pigs fly,” answered my father. Well, swine flu. Schools and restaurants were quickly closed; all public gatherings banned. People walked the streets hiding behind doctor’s masks and they washed hands excessively. When it was all over, a couple hundred people had gotten sick and – except for a few – gotten better again.

The government had effectively quashed the menace through quick, coordinated action across various sectors. They solicited help and were receptive to outside experts. They spent money where it was needed and didn’t skimp on the cost. In almost no time at all the narco-traffickers and corrupt policemen and soldiers were able to resume their deadly drug war without the fear of insalubrious viral infections. ¡Viva Mexico!

Un beso,

Lainey

Toys

One advantage to growing up in the third world is that the range of toys I get to play with far outshines those of single-culture babies. In my toy chest I have everything from the technologically advanced to the downright primitive. But more than a mere curiosity, this variety of playthings is quite instructive and provides a window into the psyches of the cultures they represent.

Take my African dolls, for example. They are simple and stuffed. They represent the people that are likely to buy them – the mothers of the children who are likely to play with them. They are familiar, round, soft, black. They wear brightly colored African prints and have braided hair. They are easy to make, reflecting the technology available to the artisan – for that is what the doll maker is, an artisan. He or she learned a skill, honed it, and then used it to earn a living. And no matter how talented or clever or successful the doll maker is, it will never be more than a modest living. These dolls are not merely African - they are Africa.

Now, consider the most popular distraction for Mexican niños. Here you can see my mentor Naomi with my cousin Sebastian donning the face coverings of the fabled heroes of the lucha libre ring. These masked men are the south-of-the-border counterparts to the titans of American mythology like Batman and the Lone Ranger, except they’re real guys. Oh, I forgot to mention another important distinction: they don’t fight evil or stop crimes, they just fight each other. It is their job to fight. They show up to work, beat each other up, go out for tacos together on their lunch break, then beat each other up some more for the rest of the afternoon. To grow up in Mexico is to dress as your favorite wrestler and throw your weaker siblings mercilessly off the couch and into the emergency room.

Of course, I far prefer an overt mano-a-mano pounding to the diabolically subtle violence perpetrated by this Goes-Down-on-Her-Knees Barbie from the United States. Plastic, vapid, curvaceous, dyed hair a color not found in nature and manufactured by a mega corporation which is probably a subsidiary of a make-up/laxative/plastic surgery conglomerate. She has accessories and spin-off products which bear her name and image; she stars in movies and books; she has a 1-800 number for you to call if the tiny bottle of suntan lotion is inexplicably missing from your Beach Barbie box set. She’s so American she could be President (if she weren’t a woman, that is).
I don’t know, maybe I’m reading way too much into what these toys say about the societies that produced them. All this crap was probably made in China anyway.

Un beso,
Lainey

Cross-country

Being American is an important part of who I am but I had never really spent any time in the United States. Before heading out to my next post, I decided to get to know my countrymen and learn what it is that makes them tick. What better way to do that than a cross-country road trip to explore the burgs and metropolises and meet the hicks and socialites that make up this great nation?

My path led me through Appalachia and into Memphis where I spent a couple nights marinating in barbeque sauce and blues. My traveling companions found a much needed respite on Beale street where the road is closed to cars and opened to pedestrians, live music, and rib joints. The sippy cup station on my stroller was employed as a beer holder and my sister was overcome with emotion by the “Cinderella” coaches pulled by horses throughout the city.

We continued to Arkansas and happened to pass through Hope, boyhood home of Hillary Clinton’s husband. I stopped to pay my respects and soak up some success. This will be a cute little picture when I am president one day and the press corps asks me for anecdotes about how I became interested in the executive office. I first got the idea that a girl could be president by watching the 2008 primary race. I just hope I am not the first girl to do it. The following day we passed Crawford, Texas but we did not stop as there was nothing of interest to see there.
Peering out the car window I was able to see the world go by me backwards and I saw that everything began to look the same – Starbucks, CVS, Taco Bell, KFC then we would pass an outlet mall and the whole series would start over again – Starbucks, CVS, Taco Bell, KFC. I had the sensation I was in an old Flintstones cartoon where lazy animators preferred to reuse a small section of background footage rather than delving into the creativity for which they were supposedly hired. The effect was that when Fred ran through his house he passed the same side table with a vase of flowers over and over again until he reached the front door.

I started to suspect there was a sameness of experience that was afflicting my countrymen. I looked forward to my next adventure in Mexico and the novelties that awaited me there. And I was not disappointed as I rolled across the border to an awesome site: a standing ovation of saguaro cactus, snapped to attention on the desert plain with their arms in the air, cheering my arrival. The scenery south from Tucson across the Sonora Desert was golden and rocky all the way to my destination in Hermosillo, Mexico where I finally settled into my new house after a long journey. Thank God it was wedged comfortably between an Applebee’s and a Dairy Queen – girl cannot live on tortillas alone.Un beso,
Lainey

Costa Rica

For most Americans, Costa Rica is all about beaches, rain forests, retirement properties, canopy tours, white water rafting, and one dollar Imperials. It is one of America's biggest playgrounds where tree-hugging eco-tourists happily co-exist with silver-haired golfers. But for me, the natural marvels of Costa Rica were merely backdrop for an extensive family reunion. Actually, I should probably call it a family union because the “re-“ prefix implies we've actually met before.

The casual tourist rarely learns much of substance about my mother’s motherland. For example, did you know Costa Rica has existed peacefully without an army for sixty years? Its true. And with all that lack of belligerent saber rattling, the absence of a wasteful and corrupt military-industrial complex, and the inexistence of a spiraling proliferation of heavy artillery to threaten regional stability, the poor girls there have no buff and tattooed recruits to flirt with. The closest thing to dashing, death-defying leading men are Colombian drug traffickers that have set up shop on the beaches the past few years. For the most part, it is a country full of men with dangerously normal levels of testosterone.

Costa Rica’s growing prominence could very well have broader effects on American society. For example, just a generation ago, when the patriarch of my organization was a lad in school he learned there were seven continents on the planet: Africa, Asia, Australia, Europe, Antarctica, South America, and North America. South America was defined as the land mass you imagine when you read the words “South America” and North America was an exclusive old boys club for only Canada and the United States (plus their valet, Mexico). That left poor, unimportant Central America as unclaimed as it was in the days before Columbus. After all, who would want to share their continent with Sandinistas and dengue fever?

Perhaps not surprisingly, Costa Ricans and their Central American neighbors believe they actually do reside on a continent: the continent of America, which stretches from the Arctic Circle to Tierra del Fuego. Apparently they see a oneness in all of us, a common thread which binds Gringos and Latinos together. They hold a utopian image of people from all the Americas building a great society based on shared sensibility, intelligence and values. Of course, given what they’ve learned about Alaska during the U.S. presidential election, they may vote it off the island.

Inspired by the Costa Rican example of unity, I will set off tomorrow on a road trip to discover America - the real America. After two months of living in the terrorist America (Washington D.C.) it should be a pleasant respite.

Un beso,
Lainey

Sibling Rivalry

Sibling rivalry has crept into my organization with all the jealousy and competition for attention that goes along with it. But I am sure it will not last long. I recognize that we are young and childish and such pettiness couldn’t possibly endure through our adolescent years. Therefore, I seek to dispense with the whole matter once and for all and move on to more important business. I have decided to let my readers cast their votes for who is the better sister. I will present the evidence in a fair and balanced way which promises to be as unbiased as Fox News.

First we'll deal with Naomi -- a shameless show-off.
To win votes, she relies on gimmicks and props like tiaras and fairy wings, hot pink cowboy boots and Hello Kitty panties. To her credit, she has her fans like Grandma who I suspect secretly coached her on cute dance moves. Of course, Grandma plies and grand jetes through the house all day, so maybe Naomi just picked it up on her own.


Naomi is running a smart race. Like a presidential candidate eating Philly cheese steaks on a campaign stop in the City of Brotherly Love, Naomi knows how to play to her audience. She shamelessly poses atop a horse with Grandpa even though she almost puked from fright when it took a step.

As a result, the photo shoot had to be moved for the picture with Grandma. If you look closely, you may notice that a fake horse was used.

Me, I tend to look inside and let my sweet, guileless personality shine through -- pure and unvarnished. I am endlessly enthusiastic and my jaw is constantly dropped in happy fascination of everything I see, no matter now minute. I pant like a dog when excited and constantly stick out my long, lizard-like tongue to express delight. To show voters they matter to me, I demand to be held during all waking moments.


Of course, I’m not relying solely on my inner brilliance to win this thing. My campaign manager has me courting seniors because they vote in record numbers. I’ve been out pressing the flesh and letting a lot of people kiss this baby.

I'm also paying close attention to the issues of biggest concern to the voters. According to recent polls, the electorate cares primarily about keeping their feet cool in the summer, no matter how silly they look doing it. Rest assured, when I choose a running mate, she will be qualified to address the foot issue, even if she is thoroughly inexperienced, scandal-ridden, and poorly vetted.

It is important to note that whether you vote for me or make the wrong choice this fall, my opponent and I are committed to working together to unite this organization and put an end to partisan cuteness.
Un beso,
Lainey

Saying Good-bye

In the Third World we say good-bye often. In fact, at the tender age of just seven months I am already doing it for the second time and what I’m learning is that saying good-bye is a lot like getting a diaper change. At first, it is unpleasant and you soon come to realize that the whole experience really stinks. Tears are shed and some screaming is often required to move the process along. But then a new diaper comes, super absorbent and brimming with promise and it’s exciting to imagine all the fun you are going to have filling it up. Ok, so it’s not a great analogy but I don’t exactly have a lot of life experiences to draw on.

Naomi and me with Betty and Coly, our good friends and protectors

On the one hand, constantly saying good-bye weakens friendships; makes them temporary. Sure we try to stay in touch but when's the last time any of us sent a hand-written letter in the mail or made a phone call just to say hi? We're lucky if we remember to send an e-card once a year on our closest friends' birthdays. And when we finally do see an email from a long-departed friend in our inbox, it is more likely to contain the phrase “forward this to twenty people” than “I was thinking about you today.”

But ironically, these same bonds of friendship, beaten and battered though they may be, are the very thing that helps us adapt to a new place. Because those of us in the Third World must pull up roots so often, it is the friends we make quickly upon arrival that make our new home feel so much like, well, home. If you doubt my thesis, you need look no further than the smiles on our faces as we celebrated my sister's third birthday with all her wonderful friends in Dakar.

Ok, granted, part of the excitement was at getting our first Barbie doll, an event similar in many ways to seeing a space alien. Not only did she have an other-worldly form with bulbous head and withered limbs, but Daddy’s shock and revulsion at the invasion of this creature into our home had all the leanings of a government cover-up. We’re guarding Barbie closely to make sure she does not disappear -- the memory of her existence subjected to a campaign of doubt and ridicule.

A real friend shouldn't show up at a party wearing your outfit

Friends also help us through difficult times. Our peers can better understand the tribulations we face from those who would oppress us – namely our families. In my case, my family regularly subjects me to comparisons with the odd and odious Uncle Fester for my round head, fair complexion, and inability to grown hair. I sincerely hope they never find out that I can illuminate a light bulb with my mouth or I’ll never shake the nickname.















To those of you who have been a friend to me in Africa, I thank you warmly and sincerely. Please know that I will think of you from time to time, even if I do not excel at staying in touch. But rest assured I will never send you a chain letter.

Un beso,
Lainey

Bienvenidos

Welcome to The Third World. First, I would like to thank my sister Naomi for entrusting me with the empire which she has worked so hard to build. I would also like to thank her for introducing me with a picture that makes me look like I just swallowed a live hamster. I know she loves me, but she has a subtle jealous streak which sometimes makes her do bad things to me.

In Baby Adventure Traveler, Naomi made a few amusing remarks about traveling; “what’s the deal with airplane peanuts?” and the like. I however, plan to go a bit deeper in my journals. I am introspective and I will be taking a closer look at the relationships between cultures and individuals in my search to figure out how I fit into the whole grand scheme.

Why “The Third World?”

My father’s world – that of the Gringos – is a world of individual achievement. These people hold records for the world's richest man, the world's fattest man, the world's fattest twins, and stuffing the most French fries into one's mouth. These are people that conquer the unknown and do not believe in setting limits. For them, it is better to clean up messes like foreclosure epidemics, environmental meltdown, Iraq, and four-dollar-a-gallon gas spikes than proceed with caution.

My mother's world is the world of the Latinos and for them the family is the most important unit. So important, in fact, that their desire for more children often cannot be contained to just one spouse. In this world, the ubiquitous, libidinous soap operas called telenovelas are considered reality shows. For scripted entertainment, Latinos are content to watch either a middle aged man dressed as a baby or a silicone-stuffed blonde in a tube top doing anything.

My world is the third world, the one where these two come crashing together. My third world is a confusing mix of contradictions and complements overlaid on whichever country and culture happens to play host. Africa has been a fascinating introduction to life, but to really explore this world, I have decided to move the team to Hermosillo, Mexico. Geographically, Hermosillo is right in the middle between my mother’s family in Costa Rica and my father’s in Minnesota. It is a Latino city that lies close to America, just four hours south of Tucson and nestled firmly under her cultural wing. I think it will play a lovely desert backdrop to my adventure journal. Please check back often for updates.

Un beso,
Lainey