What makes a country third world? Some places I have been pretty much scream third world. Chuuk is third world, no question. Drive around for five minutes and it is apparent. Other countries, though, can be hard to pigeon-hole. The Philippines Islands, or at least the portion I saw, are a difficult place about which to make broad, sweeping generalizations. So what are the ingredients of the third world recipe, and how do the Philippines fit?
Sure, some of the roads were ridiculous in their lack of traffic flow, street signals, and upkeep, but they did get people where they were going pretty effectively, and with much less apparent driving stress and road rage than you see in a major American city.
I was not panhandled or accosted for money a single time while I was in Cebu. I saw very few homeless people and was not once approached for a hand-out. There is a certain sense of community and pride there that seems to preclude throwing oneself on the charity of strangers. In addition, I never felt threatened or in danger, even at night. When people stared at me it was more curiosity at the goofy white boy than sizing me up or staring me down. People were friendly, helpful, and all smiles, as well as tolerant of my ignorance. Except for that bitch at the hardware store. The same could be said for very few of the large metropolitan areas in which I have visited or lived.
The majority of children in Cebu attend school. During normal school hours, there are few truants roaming the streets. Any children who are on the streets are wearing neat parochial school uniforms that vary in color and style as one moves between neighborhoods and the Catholic schools that serve them. They form in gaggles before class starts, during lunch time, and after school. When I started seeing uniformed youngsters later in the evenings and on the weekends, I asked around and found out that there are not enough teachers and desk space to teach all the school aged children at one time, so classes are also held at night and on weekends. Try getting an American teen into a classroom on a Saturday morning, much less in a uniform. Then try to imagine getting the funding to keep a school open and full of teachers at such a time.
There are neighborhoods in and around Cebu, specifically in city slums and on the outskirts, that smack of the third world. Mangy dogs roam poor streets winding past ramshackle homes. Corrugated tin, concrete blocks, and poured cement sprouting twisted snakes of rusty rebar are the building materials at hand, reminiscent of the third world the world over. Vacant lots are home to Brahma cattle. Chickens hustle around yards, and there are more goats than John Deere products. Residents deter theft with pointy wrought iron, barbed wire, and, my favorite way to gently underscore the concept of private property, broken glass set into concrete. Graffiti is all pervasive and quite clever, ranging from basic name scrawling to witty respellings of common words and phrases to symbols from the Greek alphabet and other, more esoteric signs. Take a wrong turn down an alley and you will quickly find yourself on squalor street, and the art of loitering may have been invented in the Philippines. Yet even the poorest dirt yards sprout lush flowering vegetation, some planted with extravagant care and attention to beauty.
Pollution is rampant. The sources are power stations, heavy industry, the myriad vehicles on the road, and the constant byproduct generation of millions of people consuming and bumping shoulders every day. Lots of stuff winds up in the waterways between the islands, and watching people bathe, swim, play and splash made me cringe. Think Los Angeles in the 70’s before catalytic converters and heavy EPA regulation.
Folks are clean and neat here. Even in poor neighborhoods, tattered or hand me down clothes are clean and mended. In the business and school sectors, you can practically smell the soap and shampoo coming off the folks commuting to work in jeepneys. Uniforms are crisp and tailored. Whites are brilliant white and any shoes that aren’t sandals are shined. The restaurant staff is squeaky clean, eager, friendly, and, no matter how incompetent they are, they look good in their uniforms and have the kind of genuine smile you won’t find in an American McDonald’s.
There may be no glass in the windows or central AC, but every home has a television, and they are all on at night, reminiscent of every American neighborhood, regardless of class. The idiot box is a universal common denominator among people with ready access to electricity.
Speaking of, electricity and phone service are reliable. Though the above ground wiring is a nightmare tangled bird’s nest that seems impossibly complex and sub-code, I experienced no outages or rolling blackout periods. Can’t even say that about California.
There are nice neighborhoods, too. The college section of town has hip cafes, book stores, and a wealth of restaurants. The tourist section of town has a massive hotel/casino complex of the Tahoe/Reno caliber. Upscale residential areas in the foothills have palatial homes on gated grounds with sweeping views. Mind boggling, agoraphobia inducing malls with six stories, full sized grocery stores and movie theaters, department stores, the works are as nice as anything in America, with the added bonus of pat down and metal detector security at every entrance. If you plan on going West Side Story at the mall, you’re going to have to get creative by wielding a coat rack or hot pan of brownies.
If you were to white out the people and place names in the local newspaper, it could be the daily from any developed nation in the world, with the same doses of greed, corruption, misappropriation, scandal, tragedy, crime, Angelina and Brad, tasty recipes, fluff pieces, cultural calendar, sudoku, funnies, and crossword.
Bottom line, the Philippines I saw has more in common with America or Italy than Mexico or Chuuk. It may not be first world, but it is definitely not third. I’m thinking second world, and I’m thinking I like it.