Colombian Culture 226: Dance Workshop

Last Saturday I went to a club with my housemates Carlos and Dallana. It is called Escandalo, and is basically a giant warehouse-like room with high ceilings, a bar all along one side, and lots of tables spread before a stage at one end.

Now first of all, you have to realize that the whole concept of what you do at a club is radically different here in coastal Colombia than in the U.S. In the U.S. going clubbing basically consists of consuming the maximum amount of alcohol possible, crowding onto as small a dance floor as possible with the maximum amount of smoke and minimum amount of light, and spending the next few hours grinding your genitals against as many people of the opposite sex who fit your minimum standards of attractiveness as possible.

Now most of these requirements are due to the one simple fact that no one north of the equator has any idea how to dance; thus we are forced to drown our inhibitions in alcohol and seek conditions that prevent any significant degree of movement in order to disguise the fact that we are basically just stumbling around in a drunken stupor for hours on end making erratic movements in pathetic imitation of Usher music videos that we would never admit watching. And all this while giving each other mysterious glances in subtle acknowledgement of our mutual coolness.

The main difference between our two cultures is another simple fact: people here know how to dance. They know how to dance and they don't care if you watch; in fact they're probably hoping you'll come over and join them. An occurrence that in the U.S. only happens in the movies is seen here as a friendly and common gesture. Far from cramming onto a tiny dance floor, costeños like space: you'll often see a single couple dancing alone in the middle of a walkway at the far end of the club, not a hint of self-consciousness spoiling their enjoyment.

Back to Escandalo. The place is quite large and open, unusually so for a club. Soon after we arrive they start some performances: a skinny black guy belts out a Frank Sinatra cover three octaves higher than the original while a single backup dancer (also a skinny black guy) does some, in my opinion, overly theatrical dance moves that look more like ballet flourishes than sophisticated jazz steps. After that a dance troupe does some classic hip and chest shaking in tune to some hip-hop reggaeton, with the males of the group coming dangerously close to showing up their female counterparts, despite the fact that they had neither hips nor breasts.

One thing that continues to amaze me is how unapologetically young Colombians mix the old and the new, the traditional and cutting edge. Music is no exception. After about a half hour of seeing dancers gyrate to hip-hop and electronic music that could be heard in any club in the world, the mood abruptly shifted as a live band filed into the room from the back of the club, already playing their instruments with microphones broadcasting the performance through the speakers overhead.

Now how do I explain what this music was like? I would call them a mariachi band except they weren't that high-tech. Imagine this: a big drum carried vertically on a strap, a high-pitched snare, a trumpet playing in short bursts, and...... that's it. It literally sounded like half the band was missing, like they got caught in traffic but they needed to pay their rent so, here we go! To my ears it sounded like the soundtrack to a movie consisting entirely of traffic jams - it communicated a futile urgency that grated on my nerves and gave me a headache.

But the remarkable thing was that these people loved it. Modern, attractive, sophisticated men and women who only moments before had been bumping and grinding with the best of them suddenly were transported to a past century of quaint chivalry and choreographed dance steps. And they really felt it too. You could hear the crowd singing along and see the passion in their movements, as if they were old people reliving the glory of their youth. My attempts to point this out and question my companions about it were met with quizzical incomprehension - they, of course, see no contradiction in their wonderfully nonlinear musical tastes.

I had been trying for some time to learn how to dance Colombian-style, but had had little success. In a way it wasn't fair: just when I was finally learning the secret to dancing American-style - unmerited self-confidence mixed with a willingness to look stupid - off I go to a faraway country where they require actual skill? How long was this going to take?

Normally I would have been embarrassed to practice my nascent salsa skills in a place full of people who would so quickly recognize my gringo origin, but I soon noticed a man a few tables away who also seemed to be a gringo. He was about six-foot eight, had a big nose, and limbs so long and gangly he looked like a robotic scarecrow, flailing his arms around in such clear nonsyncronization with the music it was like the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. You couldn't not look at him, in a horrific car accident kind of way.

In addition to this, he was at the club with a tiny brown Colombian woman. She was about 5'2" and couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds, which only accentuated the immensity of Mr. America - even when she stood on the chair she barely reached his shoulder. Which reminds me, apparently since there were a number of women dancing on the bar, our friend decided it would be cute if he got up on the chair and danced for a bit. You know, as if to say "look, I'm one of you!" Instead, the horrified looks of the people around me reminded me a lot of that scene when King Kong climbs the Chrysler building.

But in the end I couldn't complain. Not only did this guy provide me with entertainment, his truly awesome gringo presence was so powerful it actually caused a gringdar (gringo radar) blackout in the area, meaning I was all but invisible. I could have set myself on fire and no one would have noticed me next to the megawatts of gringo energy being discharged from every pore of this man's body. Under this cover I proceeded to dance with Dallana, who didn't seem to mind me stepping on her feet every few seconds or my knees knocking against hers or my hips going the wrong direction and throwing her off balance. Although at one point while dancing to a hip-hop song she "accidentally" hand palmed me in the face. I guess fair is fair.

Lesson learned: actual dances with actual predetermined steps are NOT only for old people.