Page 19 of Between Then and Now
Funny story: he originally went to prom with Haley because of some pact or bet or something, but I got ditched by my date, Emily didn’t have one (she was too busy with college applications to even care about going to prom at all), and Kate was with the nerdy guy who spent the whole night avoiding our table. So, Richard ended up dancing with each of us and driving us all home. We ended up spending more time at Lily’s than at our actual prom.
“Again, a little kinder, Bonbon,” Ryan says and I groan.
“Please, just call me Bon,” I say to the others.
“Bonbon is cute,” Mia interjects. “It suits you.”
“Exactly. Cute. No guy would want to date a girl named Bonbon unless he’s thirteen,” I say, and Mia chuckles in agreement.
The conversations shift to their med school life, and I chime along with a few anecdotes here and there, but I focus on my filming. When we arrive, my jaw practically hits the ground. The entire scene looks like a rainbow on steroids. Streamers and lanterns in every color imaginable flutter like confetti in a whirlwind. We hop out of the jeepney, and it feels like steppinginto a kaleidoscope. The festival’s vibrant energy wraps around us like a big, colorful hug.
Stalls line the streets, each one a treasure trove of local artistry. HandwovenIvatan(Batanes native) baskets, with intricate patterns, sit alongside delicately carved wooden figures, so detailed you can practically feel the love and care carved into every nook and cranny. There are rows of colorful textiles, shimmering in the sunlight, and vendors proudly display handmade jewelry, each piece telling a story of the island’s rich cultural heritage.
The air is filled with the mouthwatering aroma of local delicacies cooking on open grills. Skewers of marinated meat sizzle and pop, releasing savory scents that mingle with the sweet fragrance of freshly baked pastries and the tang of pickled vegetables. My stomach growls in anticipation, but I’m too busy gawking to eat just yet.
Musicians play traditional instruments, their melodies weaving through the air. Dancers in vibrant costumes move through the crowd, their movements fluid and graceful, drawing cheers and applause from onlookers. The ground beneath our feet is a patchwork of colorful mats and rugs, inviting people to sit, relax, and soak in the vibe.
Children dart through the crowd, laughing and playing games, their faces painted with bright designs. Elderly women sit in shaded corners, skillfully weaving baskets and chatting animatedly, their hands moving with practiced ease. I remember seeing these moments in sample photographs when I was studying. And now I’m here, admiring their beauty through my own lenses.
My camera is already out, capturing the riot of colors and the joyful expressions of the locals. I zoom in on a group ofdancers, their costumes a blur of bright hues as they twirl and leap. Then I pan over to a stall where an elderly man is demonstrating how to carve wooden figures. Just as I make a move to pan my camera again, I jump at the sight of Ryan covering my lens with his smile. I put my camera down and he points to a group of children playing a traditional game involving small, intricately painted stones. He grins at me, “Think you can beat me at this?”
I laugh, shaking my head, “Why do you even ask?”
We join the game, and the kids excitedly teach us the rules. It’s harder than it looks, but we’re both laughing so hard that it doesn’t matter who wins. Just as I’m finally getting the hang of the game, my eyes catch a sign for a free workshop onIvatancrafts. My inner DIY enthusiast kicks in, and I immediately drag Ryan toward one of the stalls. “Come on, let's make something!” I beg, my excitement almost childlike.
He rolls his eyes playfully but follows me. “What exactly do you want to make?”
“Anything that can fit in my luggage,” I chuckle.
We approach the stall where an elderly woman with a kind smile greets us. She shows us a variety of small, woven items, and we decide on making a tiny box. She hands us the materials and begins demonstrating the technique, her hands moving swifty and effortlessly.
Ryan watches intently, his brows furrowed in concentration. After the demonstration, he turns to me. “You got this? Or are you going to need help from the master weaver over here?” he teases.
“Master weaver? You mean the guy who tangled himself in yarn trying to knit a scarf?” I retort, grinning.
“That was one time.” He scowls. “And it was a school requirement.”
“Whatever.”
We pick up our supplies and start weaving. It’s a lot harder than it looks, I have to say. Apparently ‘DIY enthusiast’ doesn’t exactly mean 'DIY expert’. The reeds seem to have a mind of their own, slipping and twisting in ways I hadn’t anticipated. My fingers fumble as I try to mimic the precise movements of our instructor, but it feels like wrestling with a stubborn octopus.
“This is way trickier than it looks,” I mutter, squinting at my uneven weave.
Ryan, on the other hand, is surprisingly adept. His fingers move with a steady rhythm, and his box begins to take shape much faster than mine. He’s training to be a surgeon–of course his hands are precise. And his fingers are also long so he has the unfair advantage of holding the reeds firmly. He glances over at my progress and chuckles. “Need some help there?”
“Don’t get cocky, Mr. Arts and Crafts,” I retort, sticking my tongue out at him. “I’ve got this... sort of.” Ryan laughs at me, but I continue my weaving.
When we’re done, Ryan and I hold out our finished products. His box is indistinguishable from the ones the locals made. Mine, on the other hand, looks like it’s been crafted by someone who has never seen a box before. We laugh it off and pack up our crafts.
The elderly woman gives us each a small woven bracelet as a token of appreciation. Mine has a letter ‘B’ carved in one of the beads while Ryan’s has a letter ‘R’. We thank her for her hospitality and continue to wander through the festival.
“Over here, guys!” Mia calls over to us. She’s with the locals and they look like they’re having a meal. Ryan and I move closerand are immediately offered a few skewers and cups of coconut water. After we devour the incredible food, we are led to the stage where a performance will be held. Instead of sitting with the others, I roam around to film the events and take candid photos.
Toward the end, the performers invite everyone to join them in dancing again. Locals and tourists flock to the center stage, their laughter and cheers filling the air. Ryan takes a step back, slowly retreating further into the background. Spotting him, I stride over with determination.
“No, you are not going to spend your first day here being a giant killjoy,” I declare, grabbing his arm and attempting to pull him into the scene.
“No, Bonbon, I don’t dance,” he protests, standing his ground. I tug harder, but he’s too heavy for me to move. Switching tactics, I move to his back and push with my entire body weight. He budges a few inches but remains stubbornly planted, his arms crossed. “Give it a rest,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me.
