davao city: a sleep-deprived coffee snob’s guide to surviving the humidity

okay, i’ve been in davao for exactly three days and i’m already convinced the city runs on caffeine and humidity. first thing i did after dropping my bag at that guesthouse with the weirdly plush carpet? hunt for a proper espresso. i’m not talking about that instant nescafe garbage; i’m after a proper third wave joint where they weigh the beans to the tenth of a gram and the barista apologizes if the crema isn’t symmetrical. i found a place called ‘kate’s caffeine den’ on some backstreet near the market. the owner, a guy with a permanent espresso mustache, told me they source their beans from the mountains of mindanao, which is kinda cool because you get this earthy, almost chocolatey vibe that pairs weirdly well with the tropical heat.

someone told me that the espresso at that tiny hole-in-the-wall on magsaysay street is so strong it’ll make you see ghosts, so of course i had to try it. i think it was called ‘black lung coffee co.’? the barista was actually an ex-pat from melbourne who refused to serve anything less than 95% arabica and gave me a lecture on why robusta is basically the devil’s brew. i sipped my double ristretto while a local played acoustic guitar and a chicken wandered in - that’s not a joke, a chicken literally strutted past the counter. the shot was intense, like a punch to the palate, and yeah, maybe i did see a ghost or two.

i just checked the weather app and it’s sitting at a steady 24°c with 82% humidity, hope that’s your jam. the heat feels like a wet blanket that never leaves. but i love it. it makes the coffee taste sharper, or maybe i’m just dehydrated.

if you get bored, cagayan de oro is just a short drive away, but i’m not here for day trips. i’m here for the local coffee scene. i spent an afternoon at the coffee museum downtown - don’t laugh, it’s a thing. they had an exhibit on the history of barako coffee from batangas and how it was basically the fuel of the philippine revolution. i mean, who knew caffeine could be so political? the guide said that in the 1800s, the spanish monks refused to let locals drink coffee because it made them too rebellious. i tried a sip of a century-old recipe that tasted basically like dirt and cigars, but hey, it’s history. check out their website for more.

here’s a map of where i’ve been stumbling around:

i’m not gonna lie, some of these cafes are tourist traps. someone on a local facebook group warned me that ‘coffee galaxy’ over by the mall charges like 200 pesos for a flat white and it’s just beans they bought from the supermarket. i went anyway, because i’m a masochist. the barista wore a shirt that said ‘i ❤️ single origin’ but the espresso machine looked like it survived the war. the latte art was a sad blob that resembled a flattened platypus. i ordered a pour over, they brought out a contraption that looked like a chemistry set. the result? decent, but nothing to write home about. i’d skip it unless you’re desperate.

on the brighter side, i discovered a little spot called ‘buku b’ near the river. they roast their own beans right behind the counter, and the smell hits you like a warm hug. the barista let me sniff a bag of ethiopian yirgacheffe and i swear i tasted blueberry and jasmine before i even brewed it. they have this thing called ‘davao drip’ - a slow pour over that takes like 5 minutes but the result is clean, bright, and perfect for the humid afternoon. i paired it with a piece of pandesal from the bakery next door and it was heaven. if you’re around, definitely check it out. here’s what people say on yelp.

the weather’s been playing tricks too. i had a day where the sky turned this insane gray, the clouds reflected on the rio, and i felt like i was in a carl jung dream. i caught a pic because i couldn’t believe it:

later that week, i needed a break from the coffee intensity and headed to the beach. it’s about an hour out of town, a stretch of black volcanic sand that’s usually empty except for a few kids playing soccer and stray dogs looking for shade. i grabbed a coconut and sat under one of those straw umbrellas, the kind that look like they belong on a postcard. the water was warm, the waves gentle, and i actually managed to nap without dreaming about espresso shots. perfect.

maybe it’s the humidity messing with my head, but everything feels both hyper real and dreamy at the same time. like, i’ll be staring at a cup of pour over and see the steam rise in slow motion, and i’ll think about how the beans traveled from a farm on the slopes of mt. apo to my mug, and that’s kind of spiritual. then a street vendor starts blaring reggae and the moment’s gone.

one more coffee saga: i heard through the grapevine that there’s a secret pop-up cafe that only opens on full moon nights in an abandoned warehouse near the port. you have to know the password, which changes weekly. i finally got the password from a guy who sells coconut water (he also doubles as a performance artist). the pop-up was called ‘la luna cafe’ and they served a special blend of sumatran beans fermented in banana leaves. the coffee was funky, in a good way - like a tropical fruit party in my mouth. the whole place was lit by fairy lights and there was a dj spinning vinyl records. it felt like a clandestine meeting of coffee cultists. someone posted about it on tripadvisor but the review was flagged as ‘opinionated’ - i guess they didn’t like the vibe.

anyway, i’m still here, still sipping, still sweating. davao’s got this weird charm that sticks to you like the humidity. i’ll probably leave a piece of my heart in the form of a coffee ground. but for now, i’ve got another cup to chase.

ps: i almost forgot to mention the view of the river that reminded me of a valley with water - i snapped this picture on my morning jog:

davao city: a sleep-deprived coffee snob’s guide to surviving the humidity

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About the author: Grace Miller

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