A postcard from Cartagena: embarrassing myself trying to dance
In February I visited Cartagena, in the north of Colombia. A historic city on the Caribbean Sea. With elements of Caribbean soul and South American flair, you’re surrounded by music and dancing. A bit of a problem for me as being from the UK., I have always felt unnatural dancing to a beat.
When I moved to Colombia, I had no idea what to expect from the nightlife. If you let popular culture dictate the narrative, there would be a tendency to believe there would be an abundance of a certain white powder but a great party nevertheless.
Cartagena has a tropical charm and moves to a fiesta’s beat. If you walk the streets on a weekend, you won’t be able to avoid dancing.
The atmosphere is wonderful, until you remember you can’t dance.
I have never been much of a dancer. Back in the UK., I’m the kind of person that only dances after a few drinks and by that time, it’s not something that anyone wants to witness. Put me on a dance floor and I’m as stiff as a plank of wood, I look like one too. When I’m in full flow, I look like a crab. Back in the UK. I can get away with being a reserved dancer but not in Cartagena. Dancing runs in people’s blood.
On Saturday nights, it’s impossible not to hear music. Local corner shops called tiendas sell cheap beer and blast music out until the early hours of the morning. Walk through the streets of the old town and roads are lined with people drinking cocktails, dancing the night away.
All of this is great, but I never had any intention of dancing on a Saturday night, watching from a safe distance was good enough for me. I enjoyed relaxing on a chair on the side of the street party. Comfortable in my distance from the dancing and accessibility to more beer.
However, as the night wore on, there was a group of women dancing and one of them asked me if I would like to dance with her.
My knees started to shake, I was in a Catch 22. I had seen this girl dance all night and I couldn’t say no, but unfortunately, I also knew my dance floor capabilities. I put my beer down and headed for a dance.
Amazingly things started well, and I was happy to take a back seat and do a small shuffle, still crab-like, but letting on as little as possible. The music was flowing, and I was starting to enjoy myself.
However, my five seconds of confidence wore off and I then started to feel like I was moving on stilts. I began to get rooted to the ground and my dancing partner knew it. I suddenly felt like a stranger on the dance floor. I could feel myself starting blush. The music started to become a blur. Embarrassment had truly set in. I looked down at my feet and, as far as my footwork knowledge went, it looked like I was wading through mud. My partner also took a moment to appreciate my footwork and I wished the ground to swallow me up.
Finally, the song ended. It felt like the bell at the end of a boxing match. I had a small laugh at the state of my dancing, and retired back to my chair. Slightly humiliated, I still managed to enjoy the rest of my beer with a smile on my face.