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Tales of sorcery are woven throughout Siquijor’s culture. Magic seems to be grounded in the roots of the trees and glint on the ripples of the surrounding ocean. The meandering pace of the island is enchanting and I feel miraculously at home on an island that radiates mystery. There is a sense of quiet community on these streets that reminds me of the innocence of childhood. I walked around differently back then, present in the moment, connected with the people and scenery. This wonder returned in Siquijor; streets that were alien felt nostalgic. By the end of the trip we were in the loop. News travelled as swiftly and nimbly as the tuk tuks. The same anticipation that pulses through school corridors rippled through the island. The words on everyone’s lips were of the disco that would take place on our final night and we were filled with a childlike excitement for the sense of unknown, for infinite possibilities. I was under Siquijor’s spell. Actions that were reckless felt assured. The crowd at the alfresco disco were friends to be made and I dove head first into making connections. A secret garden seemed to hold the whole population of Siquijor, and though the performers put on a wild show, my real interest was in the faces in the crowd. Swept up by an eagerness to assimilate, we left the party and zoomed into the night. We clung to the backs of our local friends in pursuit of a beach party, twisting down jungle paths until we reached sand shrouded in darkness. The only noise the waves. No music, no lights, no beach party. For the first time I was wary whilst studying the faces of the strangers in front of me. Had we gone too far off road? Had I sunk too deep into trusting the charm of the island? We made a circle in the sand and any suspicion faded away as we played “I have never…” into the night. Though on the other side of the world, the scene mirrored my early days at university - we were a group of kids giddy at the prospect of new friendships. Suddenly, however, the words “I have never left this island” snapped me out of my trance. I realised that the biggest goal for our new friends was to leave Siquijor and walk the soil of somewhere new. The scales fell from my eyes. My time on this island was momentarily drained of authenticity as I saw myself clearly as a tourist. I had travelled here on the tails of privilege, not magic. An experience with a healer the day before flashed into my mind. A man in an 80’s tracksuit who somehow plugged into my desires and fears. At the time I was captivated. Now I felt doubtful, even duped, like a child visiting Santa who notices his beard is fake. While the guys whisked us back to our B&B I felt how starkly different our perspectives on Siquijor were and how impossible it would be for us to experience it in the same way. The curtain had been pulled back on my time here, my mystical dreams shattered. Privilege had enabled me to visit this island and its wonders. It was a trip that highlighted my agency in this world. For them it felt restricting, like a trap that seemed impossible to escape. As the boat bobbed away the next morning and Siquijor faded into the horizon, I envisioned the island rising from the sea, just as legend states it did, and reflected on the feeling Siquijor had aroused in me. Though it does not transcend a world which turns on an axis of wealth, the sense of community on Siquijor is a magic that is rare in modern society. I felt honoured to live among that unity, if only for a few days. The magic of my childhood had returned in its mystical atmosphere, an innocence that is sacred and for a short while, healed the disillusion of adulthood.