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 go to Colombia.
Needless to say, it was hot in Taganga, Colombia. It wasn’t so much an oppressive, humid heat as a constant, perpetual characteristic of the place. One would sweat just sitting still, swatting flies away from one's food or waiting for a cooling breeze. It feels good in a way, sweating profusely like that, like a ritual cleansing. A heat like that is only bearable at the beach with the ocean a few meters away.
I went to Colombia for only two reasons. One reason was to go to the supposed virginal Colombian Caribbean coast and the other was to dance. Aside from their undeserved reputation for 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, but toward the end of my two-week trip, I was homesick for Mexico. Compared to the spicy food and biting wit of Mexico, calm, bland Colombia was boring me. I headed to the beach as planned. I hoped that in a small coastal town like Taganga, I would find a quaint salsa bar and a nice Colombian 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 artisans. Artisans are easy people to meet and reside in most backpacker-friendly towns around Latin America. They are usually hippies who like to hang out, meet new people and have a good time. Taganga was small with one main pedestrian street that extended about eight blocks along the beach. My first night in Taganga, my first dinner in a street-side café, I found the artisans selling jewelry on the sidewalk. As I had suspected, conversations were easy and talk of going out was immediate.
I met Yury, a Jesus-look-a-like hippy from Bogotá, Diego a quirky young kid from Medellìn, Andres from Bogotá and his Canadian girlfriend Krista. Krista was volunteering there 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 didn't say much because no self-respecting Colombian man would answer "no". Krista 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 was one of those super hippies. All he could talk about was spiritual, new-agey crap. He was the type that couldn’t joke around, so all my attempts at fun, flirty banter fell flat. 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 came 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 hallucinogens, the Mayan calendar, minimalism and Carlos Castaneda. I only mention all this because Yury had sort of attached himself to me and was destined to be me 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 uninhibited movement and rhythm.
The night we went out, Yury, Andres, Krista and I went to the beach to smoke a little weed and to drink a little before going out. Krista 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 dropped this information, "Oh by the way, I love to dance, but I am not an expert or anything. I mean, I know the salsa steps, but turns and stuff are not really my thing. I just like to move to the music." My heart dropped. I had heard this before. It was a blanketed way of saying, "I don't know how to salsa dance." All I wanted to do was dance and I was paired up with someone who liked the music, but didn’t know the moves. 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.
Intrigued by Diego’s confidence, I went out with them to a bar called El Garaje which was actually an old, small parking lot transformed into a cool little bar. The dance floor was under the thatched roof of a palapa and there were 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 thatch-roofed hut 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 his or her own style and not everybody can synchronize. Diego and I, however, fit perfectly together. All I wanted to do in Colombia was dance until my feet hurt, dance until the sun came up, and 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 in every sense of the word. Salsa dancing is so provocative. 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, and the small of her back. When the man turns, the woman's hands always have to be ready to be 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 bare back as he came full circle. Salsa songs are also so long that just when you think you have had enough, when the song slows to almost a whisper, the horns start up again into yet another crescendo. It was intense, intoxicating all that energy of all those bodies on the dance floor, in Colombia no less, where everyone knew how to dance.
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. At one point, a traditional Afro-Colombian Cumbia song came on, drums beating with typical call and response lyrics. Everyone started clapping and singing and swinging his or her 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 felt bad for Yury, but only a little. He couldn’t dance, which was obvious when danced with Krista for one song. He had also tried to entice me during a random Reggae-song break. I had to say no. I had to rest up, drink water and be ready for when the salsa tunes started up again. When it did, Diego would give me a cute little bow and offer me his hand. Diego gave me what I had come to Colombia for. It may be bitchy, but I couldn’t waste one drop of that energy, of the intensity on bopping around to a reggae song.
That night was unbelievable, physically, energetically and spiritually. It was one of those nights where sensuality was intrinsic in every moment. That night was a testament to how Latin America, its men, its culture, its way of being makes me feel like a woman. It almost doesn’t matter what a woman looks like. It’s femininity, feminine prowess and our innate sensuality that is valued, respected. In Latin America, I feel beautiful and not just because I am a white girl in a brown land, but because I am curvaceous, clever and confident. I love Latin America and I love its men, so much so, that I don’t know if I could ever go back to white boys again.
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