To The Third World We Go

Creative non-fiction

By Arch Ramesh

We are going to the third world!

Why? Vacations, jobs, adventures.

It’s cheap, it’s so cheap.

There are beaches you know, white sandy beaches lapping the Indian ocean; marmalade sunsets dripping into horizons; emerald canopies venerating the skies.

Don’t forget, it’s warm; oh, so warm! Who wants to spend winters in freezing Frankfurt when you can spend it in balmy Bali?

But it’s so dirty, so polluted, so chaotic, so..so…so unlike The West. Why aren’t there more English signs in Jakarta? Why is there so much traffic congestion in Ho Chi Minh? Why don’t more people speak English in Vientiane? Why are there children begging for money in Mumbai? Why is the tap water undrinkable in Colombo? Why are there so many mosquitos in Phuket? Why, why, why can’t the third world be more like the first world?

The third world, the term a hangover from the war that was never about them, when not being for something meant you were the enemy. What is the third world? Undeveloped, underdeveloped, uncivilized, under-civilized, underperforming. Who sets the rules? Who defines the standards? The same ones who deemed themselves daring explorers, who came to pillage, who stayed to oppress, who ruled and stole, and now they come in search of answers.

To the third world we go – or what’s left of it after imperious colonizing – in search of ancient secrets: Buddhist enlightenment, yoga sutras, and ayurvedic remedies are just a seventeen-hour flight away. We go to heal ourselves from the world we inhabit every day in The West; worlds that won’t let us sleep. We run from the Western world, where for all its development, and because of it, wars are planned in clandestine gatherings with lobbyists. The Western world where guns are made and disappear into the sand like footsteps, often ending up in the very world we deem to be above. We believe we are above the fray, that we in the first world know the best, have the best. Yet we yearn to leave.

We go to the third world to rest. To heal, to suture, to breathe life back into ourselves, as if we were the living dead back home.

But the third world hasn’t stayed the same. It’s moved past its history, seeking but not waiting for reparations for the damage done. Before the visitors came, the businesses came. The snarky yellow M of the unmistakable sign of American capitalism greets you at the Penang airport, the foodie capital of Malaysia. A city borne from British imperialism, where South Indians were brought to labor, and where the aromas of Hokkein, Indian, and Nyonya influences swirl into the damp air, one can’t be too far from a Big Mac. A smoky Char Kway Teow, a zesty Laksa, a fiery Roti Canai are all well and good, but is it clean? Why is it so spicy?! This is for the ones who complain about Delhi bellies and Bali bellies, for whom a cone of plain fries is the comfort food they are desperate for this far from home. Sausages for breakfast, salads for lunch, pizza for dinner, thank you very much. We can never be too far from the green awning of a Starbucks, be it in Mumbai or Kuala Lumpur, where chai tea lattes are sold in the land where masala chai is tradition.

But lest you feel bad for the third world-ians, wondering how families survive on less than one makes in a day in the West, know that they have understood the game. It’s a question of survival, after all. The game is played on their turf but not always on their terms, but they have learned the rules of the capitalist game. And they will play.

Balding old men sit outside cafes alone in Phnom Penh donning UK and US flags: Harry’s Bar, Brexit Pub, Crown Restaurant. Next door, under neon signs, young girls sit wearing skintight dresses, sparkly boots and bored looks – Cowgirl Bar, Secrets Club, Pussycat Lounge. A few more doors down, a luxurious boutique hotel scolds “No sex tourism allowed”. Tale as old as time: what is sold, what is bought, what is lost?

The third world-ians will monetize the colonizing gaze: markets full of trinkets emblazoned with names and totems of places that were visited, that will fill up five-bedroom suburban homes where owners will regale their friends with tales of exotic travels. “Oh, but the temples in Bagan are so stunning,” they tell their wide-eyed friends who wonder how they could possibly be safe in those parts of the world their governments warn them against.

“Exercise increased caution to Laos due to civil unrest. Some areas have increased risk.”

“Exercise increased caution to the Philippines due to crime, terrorism, civil unrest, and kidnapping.”

Despite the warnings, some come anyway. Some are running away. “I left Southampton three years ago, was in Thailand without a work visa and now in Cambodia; can’t go back”, a tattooed bartender shares with wide-eyed tourists on their one-week vacation from their vapid corporate jobs. Some have left abusive relationships, others broken marriages. Office administrators and shop floor managers back home, victims of class warfare, are now living like royalty in the third world where they stretch their dollars and pounds and pensions like accordions. They come to retire in the sun. They tan and tan and tan, white skin turning beet red and then a sandy brown; turning shades they find uncomfortable when in their neighborhoods back home. These shades of brown were once considered uncivilized and are now considered dangerous when on the wrong people. Brown people who are still unwelcome as immigrants in The West, where people leave to go to the East where they find their sanctuaries. Why is this exchange so uneven?

What would the third world be without the white gaze, without the white savior? We colonize again, returning to the places our ancestors left after the raids and massacres to find something, perhaps knowing all along that for all the progress we have made, we have lost so much. To the third world we go, perhaps for different reasons this time, but still again to serve the needs of The West, to find again all that we have lost, taking from the very people we have taken from before.

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As an immigrant with a hyphenated identity, Arch likes exploring questions about belonging, identity, and transience through stories. She’s been published in Jaggery Lit, Matador Network, Thrive Global and Culterate. Her essay Somewhere in Between was runners-up in The Preservation Foundation’s 2021 non-fiction contest.