I thought I knew what it
meant to sweat when I went to Indonesia 7 years ago. I did a jungle
trek in Bukit Lewang, Sumatra, Indonesia, to see the orangutans. I
trekked through tropical rain forest, up and down hills and in all the
pictures my skin gleams with perspiration. I could have sworn to you
that I was sweating to the point where it ceased to be salty and all
that dripped off my body was purified water. I never thought I would
sweat that much again. I never thought I would experience heat like
that, but then again, I never really thought I would come to Colombia.
Needless
to say, it is hot in Taganga, Colombia. It's not so much an opressive,
humid heat as a constant, unabiding characteristic of the place. One
sweats just sitting still, swatting flies away from one's food or
waiting for a cooling breeze. It feels good in a way, like a ritual
cleansing. A heat like this is only bearable at the beach with the
ocean only a few meters away.
I
came to Colombia for only two reasons. One reason was to come to the
Caribbean and the other was to dance. Aside from being known for their
violence and cocaine, Colombia is also known as the cradle of Cumbia,
as masters of Salsa, as a nation that dances. Colombia is a wonderful,
peaceful, undiscovered jewel in South America. The people are friendly,
warm and I hoped that in a small town like Taganga, I would find a
small salsa bar and a boy to dance with.
When
I first arrived, I went on the hunt. I was looking for Colombians my
age to shoot the shit with, to show me around and to take me out.
Immediately, en la calle, in the street, I found the artesans.
Artesans are easy people to meet. They are usually hippies who like to
hang out and have a good time. I met Yury, a Jesus-look-a-like hippy
from Bogotà, Diego a quirky young kid from Medellìn, Andres from Bogotà
and his Canadian girlfriend Crista. Crista has been volunteering here
for five months and was my guide to the locals. She said everyone was
really nice and going out dancing would not be a problem. I had asked
Yury earlier if he knew how to dance, which he of course said he did,
but that doesn't say much because no self-respecting Colombian man
would answer "no". Crista confirmed though that Yury did like to dance
and we made plans to go out the next night.
I
had my doubts about Yury from the beginning. He is one of these super
hippies. All he can talk about is spiritual, new-agey crap. He's the
type that can't joke around. For example, he asked me how old I was and
when I told him I was practically a grandma with my
28-year-old-almost-30 ass, he of course comes back with, "Age doesn't
really matter because time doesn't exist. We are just big balls of
light, blah, blah, blah." Don't get me wrong. I am just as spiritual as
the next closet hippy, but he wasn't saying anything I didn't know
already. It was the same crap about indigenous people and
hallucinagens, the Mayan calender, minimalism and Carlos Castaneda. I
only mention all this because Yury had sort of attached himself to me
and was destined to be my dance partner. The more he bored me with his
lack of humor and his philosophical mumblings, the more I began to give
up hope of having a night of uninhibited movement and rhythm.
The
night we went out, Yury, Andres, Crista and I went to the beach so they
could drink before going out. Crista and Andres were busy being all
cute and cuddly and I was stuck listening to Yury's wisdom. During the
course of his sermon, he's all, "Oh by the way, I love to damce, but I
am not an expert or anything. I mean, I know the salsa steps, but fancy
turns are not really my thing. I just like to move to the music." This
was a blanketed way of saying, "I don't know how to salsa dance." My
heart dropped and I was ready to go home, disappointed and defeated.
Just
as I was about to say my "Ciaos", however, quirky, crazy Diego showed
up wondering where we all were. He was ready to dance he said. I told
them that I was going to go home, that I didn't feel like going out.
Yury, of course, gave some crap like, "Life is for enjoying the moment,
the present." Diego just looked me straight in the eye and said, "If
you come out, I promise you the first dance." I looked the kid up and
down and gave him a look like, "Is that a threat or an honor?" He just
met my eyes again and said, "I'm from Medellìn," like it was supposed
to mean something. I later found out that it certainly did.
So, I went out with them to a bar called El Garaje which
is actually an old, small parking lot tranformed into a cool little
bar. The dance floor is under the thatched roof of a palapa and there
are trees to sit under. As we walked up to the bar one song was ending
as another one began. It was a classic, popular salsa number. Diego
turned to me and offered me his hand, dragging me onto the dance floor.
The
heat under the palapa was intense in a steamy, communal sense of the
word. There weren't many people dancing, so Diego and I had plenty of
room to move. Sometimes it's hard to find your rhythm with a new dance
partner. Everyone has their own style and Diego and I fit perfectly
together. All I wanted to do in Colombia was dance until my feet hurt,
dance until the sun came up, dance like it was my last day on Earth and
dance we did.
Within
minutes we were drenched in sweat. It was almost difficult to get
through the turns because our hands would slip, but we connected
nonetheless, missing turns, but never missing a step. It was hot. Salsa
dancing is so provacative. The woman always has to be ready to be led
through the turns. The man guides her with soft touches on the
shoulder, the arm, the small of her back. When the man turns, the
woman's hands always have to be ready to held again, to be taken. I
only noticed how wet we both were when he would turn and I would let my
hand slide along his back as he came full circle. Salsa songs are also
so long that just when you think you have a had enough, when the song
slows to almost a whisper, the horns start up again into yet another
creshendo. And all those bodies on the dance floor, especially in
Colombia, where everyone knows how to dance, has an intoxicating effect.
I
felt like a super-star, like a Latina, like I passed the test. Diego
would only dance with me. At one point some other guy asked me to
dance, but Diego immediately cut in and whispered that none of the
other girls danced as well as me. Poor Yury was left alone with Crista
and Andres. He would only get up and dance to the occasional reggae
song. I was lucky Diego showed up or it would have been a short, sad
night. At one point, a traditional Afro-Colombian Cumbia song came on,
drums beating with typìcal call and response lyrics. Everyone started
clapping and singing and swinging their hips. Dancing is an
unbelievable therapy. It is a drug unto itself. By the end of the night
I was soaked. I could not stop sweating. My skirt was practically
falling off of me because of the weight of its wetness. Diego was the
same and we would just keep giving each other slithery, slidy hugs.
I
don't think I can ever go back to living in the States. I can't give up
this heat, this machisimo, this electricity. Ladies, Latin America is
where it is at to feel like a woman, to feel like you are alive and
strong and beautiful. Latin America is passion and music and revelry. I
don't think I can ever go back to white boys again. They are just not
in touch with their passion, with their masculinity, with their base.
Here, in the heat, in the freedom of poverty, I feel at home.