THE PLAZA WAS alive with music, laughter, and the rhythmic stomping of feet. On the dance floor, a pair swayed and chased each other in playful steps, while the crowd cheered.
Then, as if on cue, bills fluttered down — orange and red hues of twenty- and fifty-peso notes filling the air. Children darted at the edges of the crowd, catching loose bills that missed the dancers.
For us Waraynons, it was a familiar scene. For outsiders watching the viral clip online — especially one that showed Samar Governor Sharee Ann Tan taking part — it was fodder for criticism.
Was this extravagance? A lavish party disguised as a cultural rite? Or simply a window into a tradition deeply embedded in the life of Waray-Warays?
A DANCE OLDER THAN MEMORY
For us, locals from Samar and Leyte, the Kuratsa is no mere dance. It is, in many ways, the heart of Eastern Visayas’ fiesta celebrations. Believed to have evolved from Spanish courtship dances introduced during the colonial period, it mimics the push-and-pull of courtship: the man’s eager pursuit, the woman’s playful resistance, the eventual harmony of union.
Over the centuries, the Kuratsa became more than entertainment. It turned into a social ritual — the centerpiece of weddings, town fiestas, and even birthday celebrations. To perform it is to participate in a living tradition, one that connects communities across generations.
At ‘ika sa amin na mga Waraynon, ‘pag hindi ka marunong sumayaw ng kuratsa, you are an outsider.
Cultural historian Nilo S. Oquendo once described the Kuratsa as “a courtship of the community itself — a dance where everyone is both audience and participant, each bill tossed a token of solidarity.”
THE GALA: SHOWER OF BLESSINGS
At the heart of the Kuratsa is the gala — the money shower. In earlier times, it wasn’t paper currency but goods: rice grains, pieces of cloth, or coins thrown as tokens of prosperity. By the mid-20th century, as cash became the common currency of daily life, peso bills replaced older offerings.
The act of tossing money may appear to outsiders as wasteful display, but to locals, it carries symbolic weight. Bills pinned on the dancers or thrown onto the floor are not for frivolity. They are offerings of blessing, communal giving, and in practical terms, a way of supporting the host family or the newlyweds.
Most of the time, the bills are modest: ₱20s, ₱50s, sometimes ₱100s. Rarely more. Yet their collective value can add up — enough to offset fiesta expenses or provide a newly married couple with a nest egg to begin their life together.
“Diri ini hambog,” said 68-year-old fiesta-goer Lilia from Catbalogan. “Diri pagpasikat. Amó ini an aton paagi hin pakig-usa — pagbulig. [This is not showing off. This is our way of coming together, of helping].”
WHEN TRADITION MEETS SOCIAL MEDIA
The viral video of Governor Tan performing the Kuratsa with money raining down (and flooding the floor) brought this tradition into an arena it was never designed for: the court of social media opinion.
Inside the town plaza, where nearly everyone knows the meaning of the ritual, the money shower is festive, almost sacred. Online, stripped of context, it looked different: politicians surrounded by flying bills in a region where nearly one in three people live in poverty.
The contrast is stark. According to the Philippine Statistics Authority, Eastern Visayas consistently ranks among the poorest regions in the country. The symbolism of tossing money — even in small denominations — plays differently in a digital age where images travel farther than explanations.
“Once you put tradition in front of the camera, it no longer belongs to the community alone,” observed Dr. Aileen Bautista, a cultural anthropologist. “It belongs to the wider audience, who interpret it with their own biases, their own realities.”
A MOMENT FOR REFLECTION
The controversy has sparked conversations in Samar and beyond: Should the Kuratsa’s gala continue in its current form, or should it adapt to modern realities?
Some cultural advocates insist that to tamper with the ritual risks eroding heritage. “The Kuratsa has survived colonization, war, and migration. It is resilient because it is ours,” said historian Oquendo. “To strip away the gala is to strip away the soul of the dance.”
Others believe the ritual can evolve without losing its essence. Suggestions include channeling the gala toward public causes — scholarships, church renovations, or aid for the poor — while retaining the symbolic act of giving.
“Tradition should not blind us to the needs of the present,” said youth leader Marianne R. from Tacloban. “Maybe it’s time to rethink. Instead of throwing bills, why not pledge donations for community projects in the spirit of the Kuratsa? That would keep the symbolism alive while meeting the realities of hardship.”
BETWEEN CELEBRATION AND STRUGGLE
For the Waray-Waray, the Kuratsa remains a living thread of culture — joyous, vibrant, communal. But in the age of smartphones and viral videos, the dance now carries layers of interpretation it never did before.
In one sense, the viral clip of Governor Tan did what tradition always does: it sparked conversation about identity, values, and belonging. But it also forced a reckoning. Can a dance born of abundance still resonate in a time of scarcity?
As the fiesta drums quiet down and the plaza empties, the questions linger. The Kuratsa is here to stay — of that, few doubt. Yet the money shower at its heart may need to take on new meaning, one that bridges the past with the pressing realities of the present.
For now, as bills flutter in the air over the dance floor, each note still carries with it what it always has: a wish for prosperity, a gesture of solidarity, and a reminder that even in hard times, generosity remains at the core of Waray identity.
“Perhaps, while removing the traditional ‘gala’ (throwing money) altogether may seem anathema, it should at least be practiced in moderation amid the widespread financial crisis affecting most Filipinos.”
