Between Then and Now

CHAPTER TEN

Bonita

S o, apparently, our arrival is just in time for one of the island’s most colorful festivals. We are immediately invited to the festival on our first day, and I’m so thankful for it because this will be great for my film. The locals, with their infectious enthusiasm, practically drag us into the celebration.

Last night, after a quick chat and settling in, we immediately drifted off to sleep, exhausted but excited. This morning, Dr. Fernandez decides to embrace the festival vibes too. Instead of jumping into the medical mission right away, he’s joining us for the festival extravaganza today. We have the whole day to soak up the island’s magic before the real work starts tomorrow.

Some people decide to skip the festivities, opting to catch up on personal things and explore the island on their own. But Ryan, Alexa, Dr. Fernandez, John, Mia, and Tom (I think—names are still a bit of a blur) pile into the jeepney with me, ready to travel to the town proper.

“Ugh, I’m thirsty.” Just as I’m mourning that I left my water bottle, Ryan hands it to me.

“Here, you left it,” he says as I thank him. I’m halfway through drinking from my bubble gum pink water bottle with stickers all around it (Thank you, Pinterest) when John speaks up.

“Are you guys together?” he blurts out all of a sudden, pointing to me and Ryan, who are sitting across from each other. I instantly choke on my water—like, full-on coughing and gasping for air. And choking is not a good thing to happen at any time, but it’s especially worse when you’re in a small space with six doctors. All of them shuffle in their seats, ready to give me specialized attention, but thankfully, my coughing stops.

“God, no! Absolutely not.” I wave my hands in emphasized distaste, still coughing between words.

“You could dial down the disgust,” Ryan says as he chuckles and turns to the others. “But yeah, we’re not together. Just neighbors and friends for years.”

“And not even, like, best friends. I’m actually closer to his brother,” I say, which is true. Ryan is only two years older but Richard and I were always in the same classes back in school. He was actually my prom date—but not my first choice.

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 stepping into 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. Handwoven Ivatan (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 of dancers, 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 on Ivatan crafts. 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 closer and 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.

“You don’t have to dance, just at least stand there. You look like a loser at a keg party,” I say, still pushing him to no avail.

“I don’t go to keg parties,” he retorts bluntly.

“Exactly what losers who don’t get invited say,” I counter, using my back to push him this time, but my feet just skid on the floor. “Come on, dude.”

Suddenly, he makes a move to walk forward, causing me to lose balance and fall on my butt. I squeal as I hit the ground, looking up to see Ryan standing there, smirking .

“Oh, you are so gonna dance now,” I say, reaching for his hands to help me up. He obliges, his grip firm as he pulls me to my feet.

Once I’m up, I don’t let go of his hands. “You’re not getting out of this,” I warn, pulling him closer to the crowd. His reluctance is evident, but he follows me anyway.

The music swells around us, the rhythm infectious. I can hear the instruments—wooden percussion, bamboo flutes, and hand drums. A few locals make their way to us, handing us traditional clothes. I’m handed a giant headgear made of dried palm leaves, while Ryan receives a vest made of the same material. When I ask, the locals explain the headgear is called a vakul , used by women to protect against the sun and rain, while the vest is a kanayi , used by men when they go to the field to work. Ryan looks absurd wearing it over his gray button-down and khaki pants.

Alexa, Mia, John, and Maybe-Tom make their way over to us, wearing similar traditional Ivatan ensembles. We continue dancing (horribly) to the rhythm, my feet barely keeping up with the beat. As the dance progresses, the pace quickens. The dancers form a circle, holding hands and moving in unison, their steps flowing effortlessly. They pull us into the circle, and we copy their hand gestures, trying our best not to mess up the rhythm. The dancer beside me, a friendly local with a wide smile, explains that the gestures tell stories of the sea, the land, and the skies. I nod enthusiastically, even though I probably look like a confused tourist trying to follow along.

We follow their steps until we’re paired off in a dance called Sabadung . This is another type of native dance that showcases the traditional ways Ivatan men and women express affection and admiration. I face Ryan and again emulate the movements of the dancers around us. I spin, I dip, I twirl, feeling like a clumsy yet enthusiastic marionette. Ryan rolls his eyes but eventually starts to mimic my movements, albeit awkwardly. It’s endearing to see him step out of his comfort zone. But it’s also hilarious because, bless his heart, he can’t dance to save his life.

“There you go,” I cheer, beaming at him. “You’re dancing!”

“I wouldn’t call this dancing,” he grumbles, but his tone lacks conviction. There’s a lightness to his steps now, a looseness in his shoulders. “I feel like I’m in a nightmare where my feet are made of lead,” he mutters, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes my hand and twirls me, and I can’t help but laugh at how serious his face looks–brows furrowed, mouth frowning–while trying to coordinate his steps.

“Lighten up, Grump,” I say, placing my fingers on his cheeks to pull the corners of his mouth into a smile.

He snorts and catches both of my wrists in his hands, holding them gently. “Easy for you to say. Your feet actually move where you want them to,” he says, still frowning.

He twirls me again, a little too fast, and my hair whips across his face. I laugh as he steps back and sputters.

“Dramatic much?” I say, still giggling.

“Your hair is short now, but it’s still a weapon of mass destruction,” he says, glaring at me. I’m instantly reminded of that time, three or four years ago, when my long hair got tangled in his noodles while he was slurping.

“Well, maybe you should learn to keep your distance from me,” I say.

“Believe me, Bon, I try,” he replies, a hint of exasperation in his voice .

He takes my hands again and we continue dancing terribly. “You're doing great, for someone who claims to have lead feet,” I say.

Ryan shakes his head but can't hide his smile. “Thanks, I think?”

I nod. “Definitely a compliment. Besides, you’re not stepping on my toes, so that’s a win.”

He chuckles, his serious expression finally breaking into a full smile. “Well, I guess that’s something.”

We continue to dance, our movements becoming more fluid and synchronized as we get into the groove. The music changes tempo, and we adjust, laughing as we stumble through the faster parts. Toward the end, we completely give up on copying the dancers and just move embarrassingly to our own rhythm. When the song finally ends, we’re both breathless and laughing. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

“Edward Cullen is a better dancer; he even lifts Bella off her feet,” I joke, nudging him playfully as we walk toward the benches.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I bet Bella doesn’t let him eat her hair.”

“For the record, Edward is obsessed with her hair. It carries the scent,” I say, making a whiffing motion with my hands.

“That’s disgusting,” Ryan says.

“It’s romantic,” I retort with a chuckle.

“Your idea of romance is twisted,” he replies, looking at me with disgust.

“Your take on romance doesn’t count because you can’t even talk to the girl you like.”

“Wow, low blow,” he says in mock offense .

“Insult Edward Cullen one more time, Ry, and I’ll start comparing you to Jacob. And believe me, you don’t want that,” I say, wagging my finger at him.

We reach one of the benches and flop down, trying to catch our breath. I start fanning myself with my hands, but Ryan somehow pulls out a random piece of cardboard from thin air and starts fanning us both.

“Why not? You don’t think I’m muscular enough?” he flexes his arms, cardboard still in hand.

“No, because you’d look terrible in jorts,” I say.

“Jorts?” he asks.

“Oh my gosh, you are such an old man. Jean-shorts, Miller.”

Ryan bursts out laughing, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jean-shorts? Really?” I nod with a chuckle.

He pulls out his handkerchief, waving it like a white flag before handing it to me. He points to my forehead with a knowing look, so I take it and wipe away the sweat. When I hand him back his handkerchief, he uses it to wipe his own face, then he folds it back into his pocket and returns to fanning us both with the cardboard.

“I’d look amazing in jean shorts. I’d even upstage your fictional men,” he continues.

“Ry, no offense, but the only thing you’d upstage is a dad at a barbecue.”

He uses his makeshift cardboard fan to playfully swat my knee. “You’ll see me in jorts one day, and I’ll take your breath away, Bonita.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I smile sarcastically.