Sudando en Taganga, Colombia

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.