It’s deja vu all over again. 44 years ago I moved to Portland, Oregon. At the time Portland was a hot bed, a hub. Young people from all over the US were moving there. Middle aged Californians were selling their overpriced houses and with the profit, buying a Portland house with cash. It was a flood of humanity that everyone assumed would end – but it never did.

The first few years I was there I assumed I would move “back home.” Back home was the East Coast. But after 2 or 3 years in Portland I stopped thinking about moving “back home.” In fact an interesting thing happened; after those 2 or 3 years I started thinking of Portland as “home.”

The next step was even more interesting. I started to resent the throngs that kept moving to Portland, ruining “our home.” In the 70s there was a popular bumper sticker in Oregon that read, “Don’t Californicate Oregon,” and I was a big proponent of that philosophy. I had my Oregon dream; the rest of you could go somewhere else (hell, came to mind).

So what does this all have to do with Dumaguete and Valencia where we now live. About a week ago were were waiting for the ferry to take us from Cebu back “home” to Dumaguete. We were tired and wanted to get home. The port was mobbed and Janet was told that one ferry was broken and so the other ferry was taking people back and forth and therefore we had to wait for the next trip. The wait would easily be an hour. I looked around at my fellow waiters – and sneered. There were back packers all over. What the hell do backpackers want to come to Dumaguete for, I wondered. There aren’t any white sand beaches where a backpacker can pitch a tent. The place, while not expensive, is not a cheap backpacker haven. And Filipinos here are pretty cleanly and even use deodorant. So what the hell are backpackers doing coming to spoil my lovely little city?

And then I spied a group of Chinese tourists. Each wheeled a piece of luggage the size of a small boat. Why would they leave the more metropolitan Cebu for our sleepy little city? Again no white sand beaches to sun bathe on. There’s not even a decent Chinese restaurant; no offence to one of our faves, Chin Loong, which can’t decide whether it’s a Chinese or Filipino restaurant.

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They all loaded on the ferry and those of us without a ticket (waiting for the next ferry run) watched them sail away. Again I sneered. I’m usually a fairly nice guy but I imagined the ferry in those choppy waters, might well, sink. Then I amended my fantasy. I didn’t want to see anything bad happen to my fellow residents of Dumaguete. Perhaps, I thought, the ferry could sink only on the side carrying the backpackers and tourists.

And then I realised it was official; Dumaguete was our home. We made it here, we are settled here and building a house. I suppose the expats that were already here when we arrived a year and a half ago can stay. But for anyone new? The place it a shithole and you don’t want to come. Stay away! You have been warned.

Now just as with Portland 44 years ago I know my fantasy will not happen. How could it, when magazines and websites declare Dumaguete to be the best place to retire in the Philippines. They should check out Portland, Oregon. I hear it’s a pretty nice place to retire.

I’m not a bad person – really I’m not. But perhaps those magazine and website writers could take a ferry ride and have just a little accident.