Welcome to the Third World

I'm in the Philippines, possibly the only country in the known universe where Friendster and Y! Messenger reign supreme amongst their industry peers.

Considering there's too much to process in the short space of time I'll be here (I arrived Thursday/Friday; leave Monday/Tuesday), I've done the natural thing and fallen back on the areas in which I can easily recognize disparity: the internet and advertising.

Right now I'm in an internet cafe that's been set up in someone's hallway. (Gotta love old-school XP and Mozilla Firefox pre-tabbing.) Besides this spot, there's no internet anywhere else I've seen - not even a closed connection I can mooch off of on the long lonely nights. People communicate mainly via text-message. The mobile industry is massive here, and texting takes on political importance. When elections hit, everybody's deluged by "personal" messages from presidential incumbents.

To think back home, the only "celebrity" to ever mobile message me was Sam L. Jackson. And that was considered a forward thinking marketing campaign for the so-called new wave "third screen." Puh-lease.

And the ads? What fun. A vivid example: I logged onto Xanga today, and the central banner ad on the homepage was for a "matrimonial assistance" service called Shaadi.com.

Women are the Philippines' biggest export. They depart the country as domestic helpers, mail order brides and -- for the lucky ones -- nurses. For this reason, all my island-bound cousins are studying nursing. It appears to be the easiest way for an educated person to leave the country.

For those who seek glamour in the profession, it's soothing to know that HappySlip -- who's practically a local celebrity amongst rabid YouTubers in Quezon City -- pays for her vlogging habit with a nursing degree. (Everyone here loves you, Christine!)

The long car ride from Manila to Quezon is colored with billboards that pretty much obscure the landscape. Open space is fast paved-over with high-rise condominiums by a company that calls itself "truly Filipino." The fruit of its productivity are virtually indistinguishable from homes I've seen in El Cerrito or Walnut Creek.

The most expensive cafes and restaurants boast European or American origin, though I have never heard of any of them.

As for the jeepneys, most are airbrushed over with religious messages in graffiti-style print. Refurbished army vehicles, now posing as buses, marked "GOD IS GOOD" or "Nothing is impossible with God" whiz topsy-turvy around kids playing basketball on the street. "How's my driving?" some bumpers ask -- a question immediately followed by a number too long for my brain to process.

It's odd to think this is where my parents came from. "Welcome to the Third World," my aunt said playfully.

This happened shortly after I asked her why the public toilet we were standing in didn't have flushers. "And what's that bucket of water for?" I added. She sure got a kick out of me.

It's Just Culture, Man.

If you talk to maybe most any first-gen Southeast Asian, what you'll find is that rice is a big deal. No. It's not just a staple; it's a really big deal. There are songs about it.

I concluded yesterday that Filipinos in particular are weird about rice. I don't excuse myself from that statement. When I first tasted rice outside my parents' house, I was appalled by its strange consistency. The rice I grew up with is stubby, and not quite sticky but sticky enough to squeeze into airtight balls if you like to eat with your fingers.

It took some time to learn that rice has many faces, only one of which I came to know intimately - the kind that comes with the little red medal. The use of the red medal is actually a splendid sales tactic, considering I'd push my otherwise indifferent parents to patronize whatever brand it was so I could tear the medal off the rice bag for use in various games of pretend, like pinning it to the clothes of Angela the Olympic Winner or attaching it to very valuable wills for discovery by Angela the Sexy Spy. Don't ask when.

But I digress. For the last few weeks I've been working with a new marketing trainee that I happen to know really well. In fact, together we wiled away our Fil-Am centric youths battling imaginary foes in swamp-side Vallejo.

Yesterday I took him to an Indian restaurant and he sat staring at his rice for over 10 minutes because it was so long and dry. "Where do they find it?" he asked, perplexed. He didn't look up at me the whole time.

"India," I answered. This was probably not the best or most accurate answer but under the circumstances it did neither harm nor good.

He picked at it. "They put spices in here," he observed softly. "There's ... a flavour."

"It is good with yogurt," I said mechanically. At that point I disengaged myself from the conversation and began eating my curry. I wish I'd known that hours later I'd again be condemned to more rice-talk.

Me to my parents as I dug through the rice cooker, less than 4 hours later: "Dude. Why do you guys make rice that's half brown and half white?"

Mom: "What do you mean?"

Me, teasing: "It's, like, both brown and white. Can you not make up your minds?"

Mom started to laugh. "We have to mix so your daddy will eat it," she said. "This way at least it's still half-healthy."

I carried my rice-laden plate to the kitchen table, where my pops gave me that smug look and said, "See, Angel, if it's all brown, it's ..." He seemed to be at a loss. "Terrible."

"Terrible? Is that the best you can do?" I said. Really. He's normally devastating on the rapier-wit scale. It's a point of pride, even. Possibly the rice thing draws less-than-rational sentiments.

He started to laugh. "You have to put some white in so it's edible," he replied finally.

I didn't pursue this realm of logic further. But today at the office I mentioned the exchange to my trainee, sans ending, and he just looked at me strangely and said, "Half brown, half white? I bet that tastes hella good. Isn't it healthier too?"