(Near) Escape from America: Dumaguete, Philippines

As published at SubStack, 2/14/24:

Before your trip to the Philippines, you entertained the idea of relocating there, so what made you choose that country? Also, why did you decide to possibly leave the US for good?

-I decided to move to the Philippines for a few reasons. First I had recently turned 65, I was starting to get Social Security and I was no longer tethered to a job. (I loath the cold and snow of my home state, Connecticut. We’re about to have a snow storm tonight and tomorrow which makes me miserable because it interferes with my jogging.) To get away from this bad weather; I wanted to go to a place with a warm, tropical climate where English was widely spoken and, perhaps most importantly, where the cost of living was low. Where I was in the Philippines, Dumaguete, I could live comfortably for less than $700 per month. Well within my relatively small budget .

In the city of my birth, Bridgeport, nobody but desperate people walk downtown streets. As the late Gore Vidal so aptly said, “Only two types of people walk in Southern California: fags and criminals.” That pretty much applies to anywhere in the good old U.S. of A. I’m gettin’ out while the gettin’ is good, I thought.

I read about your $300 a month rent. That’s far better than the $500 I was paying for a room in a vermin infested house, with surly housemates. America is past its expiration date. Its middle class is not coming back. The longer you stay here, the closer you get to joining the “blue tarp people” living under the highway overpass. I had enough. Basta!

Maybe I will find a home in Southeast Asia? I was only sure of meeting real human beings. Since returning from California, I hadn’t seen real human beings in “my” hometown.

I had read that Dumaguete was “The City of Friendly People.” From this, I extrapolated the Philippines would be a friendly, welcoming country for an old, retired American. In general, it was. I was always deferred to as “sir” while there, not that I expect people to bestow honorifics on me. In the States, I’m just, “hey, you,” “buddy” or something like that.

Unfortunately I got off to a bad start in the Philippines. I arrived at the hotel I had booked and paid for up front (just $491 for a one  month stay!). The next morning I walked downtown to get money from an ATM. (The banks were so heavily guarded by private, heavily armed men that I would be very hesitant to attempt to enter.) Since my ATM card didn't work at the first few banks, I began to panic thinking I would be in the country for a month without access to cash. I ran around under the tropical sun looking for a workable ATM. Finally, I located one but when I returned to my hotel, I had a mild case of sun stroke (if sun stroke is ever mild?), so I was confined to bed for about 36 hours and unable to keep food down. To make matters worse, I slept directly under the draft of an air conditioner which irritated my vocal cords terribly, so I could barely speak for several days.  

I located a small seaside cafe/bar half a mile from my hotel, but there was one small "flaw" in the situation. To reach this bar, I had to cross a heavily traveled road. During the day and on weekends, this road was heavy with traffic, not cars so much as the ubiquitous “trikes” (modified motorbikes) that were a constant source of noise as well as a threat to pedestrians. There was no sidewalk. 

Early in my trip, I walked all over the center of town and down the promenade or boardwalk. Planning my trip, I had seen YouTube videos put out by a very intelligent young woman with a wicked sense of humor. In Dumaguete, I was sort of hoping to run into her. As an aside, I didn’t use my computer because I couldn’t plug it into my hotel’s electrical outlets. I didn’t have much battery life anyway, so I just put my computer away. To my chagrin, I watched too much TV in my hotel room, and FOX News was the only American channel available. Though I loath FOX News, I watched it anyway.

Basically I spent most of the month at the little cafe down the street, looking out over the Pacific. Two islands were visible. One was Cebu and the other was something like Isquidor. One of the young ladies who was a barista/ bartender kindly made the effort to know me and I had the satisfaction of giving these young servers good tips. This, I could not do back home. In the States, I’m sort of a Scrooge due to my lack of discretionary income.

There were a dozen interesting things I could have done in the Philippines, but I did nothing, basically. There’s an American missionary founded university I had planned to take classes at should I relocate there. I found it but didn’t even go inside. I’m not sure why.

As I said, the people were generally kind and friendly but I never felt completely comfortable. As I get older, I’m just getting set in my ways and less able to adapt to new situations and environments. Philippine society is also very extroverted; during daylight the streets are packed with “trikes” and pedestrians. There was too much noise and commotion for me. Several mornings I got out before dawn just to be in the peace and quiet. Packs of dogs roaming seemingly everywhere also made me uncomfortable. I was never bitten or threatened but I was always a bit on edge. If I had a confrontation with an aggressive dog, I as a stranger might get blamed for provoking the dog or who knows what?

On January 30th, my visa was about to expire so I needed to get to the airport to catch a short flight to Manila. I got to the Dumaguete airport 48 hours before my departure, but both airlines told me they were booked up. Seeing my distress, they put me on a motorcycle/trike/bus/taxi ride to Cebu. From there, I could fly to Manila for my departure to New York. It was a hair-raising 10-hour ride, but I did make it to Manila in time. On this ride, I met a very gracious young Filipino who made sure I got to the Cebu airport without problems. Via email, I’ve just invited him to the States if he’s inclined to make the trip.

I’m just too old and set in my ways for these sorts of adventures. I’m not satisfied in my hometown of Bridgeport, having returned here 18 months ago after 37 years of working in Sacramento, CA. I had to leave because it’s too expensive. I’m looking for places in the States with a lower cost of living, especially housing. Maybe I’ll move to Ralph Nader’s hometown of Winstead, CT. His siblings have helped to initiate a community college there. I really like the intellectual stimulation of taking college classes without the stress of working toward a degree. 

In Sacramento, I took classes at Sacramento City College. In one, I learnt about a Southwest people, either Navajo or Hopi, who possessed a language that viewed the world “backward.” Unlike us, their orientation was toward the past and not the future. When an elder was asked by an anthropologist why this was, he said, “We know the past, but how can we know the future?”

Since Ronald Reagan’s dismal administration, housing costs have risen for the poor but wages have stagnated. Though I grew up middle class, I’m just barely getting by in today’s America. I sometimes feel “my” country was stolen right from under me. It’s perhaps presumptuous to think it was ever “my” country. 

Returning to Connecticut, I wasn’t sure if my old room had been rented out or if my landlady would even let me back in. I had told her I wasn’t coming back. I can’t afford $100 a night at some hotel as I look for suitable housing. Bridgeport doesn’t even have a hotel, I discovered, so I’m lucky to be in my old room.

On a lighter note, I’m corresponding with a young Mexican-American woman who promotes living in Mexico.  I’m looking into that but the cost of living there is increasing also. 

On the flight out, our enormous Boeing 777 flew over Laos. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t spot the Mekong River. I did see the Himalayas 120 miles to the north while crossing India, but from that distance and 41,000 feet, they’re not that impressive.

I must hope one doesn’t have to perish among the roaches here in the 4th World U.S. Rust Belt. They don’t eat human flesh, or do they?

—Tom Herzog, 65-years-old

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Here’s an entirely different account of Dumaguete, from another escaped American.