The Answer is... Dance

I arrived in Havana the night of its 490th anniversary. That's 490 years of occupation and revolution. No breaks.


I think of how Australians would feel after a week like that – and how drunk they'd get. Or how bloodthirsty the Americans. The Cubans have a different answer to poverty, injustice and hardship.

The answer is... dance.


No one here hides, if asked, that life is hard. But you've really got to ask. Because just by looking at their faces, their interactions, or even in passing conversation, you'd think everyone had something to celebrate. In salsa clubs, people look like they've won the lottery.

Havana Vieja is pulsing with an upbeat energy. And last night, as my dance teacher and i wiped the sweat from our faces by the dancefloor, i asked her whether maybe Cuban psychology had triumphed over stuggle because of its cultural obsession with music and dance.

“Si...”, her teeth beamed back at me.

one of the cafe's where i write these posts

If music is Cuban prozac, dance might be a triple dose.

Every night of the week, any minute of the day, Cubans burst into dance. Four year olds playing on the side walk move better than i ever will, and women have a subtle dance in their walk. There isn't a street in old havana where music can't be heard, either wafting in, or direct from, a two-, three-, seven-piece band. No matter where you look, someone seems to be moving to a salsa beat.

And when you're moving beautifully, sexily, totally... is it possible to be unhappy? Try it... you can't. You feel too good.

“No One Puts Baby in the Corner”
(patrick swayze, r.i.p.)

The misery was therefore all mine in an outdoor club called Chevere last night. There i watched miracles of sexiness and celebration performed, while i blundered and stalled my frustrated dance partners. One patted me on the head when we were done. Another would have thrown me over the railing (and looked like he could), if he hadn't also found me charming.

Just as i was sinking into a near tearful determination, Tito found me.

“Let's go...” he said.
“I'm terrible...” i answered.
“You're not” he said, seriously.

He started to move me around the dance floor, and my feet followed. I completed his turns, i followed his sequences. I got us tangled a couple times, but he just unravelled himself and repeated the move, until i got it right. Later i learned he is an instructor, and knows well how to lead beginners. The others were expecting me to writhe and jiggle about a year too early.

Later that evening, after another demoralizing effort with a sweaty german man, my teacher pointed out that with the moves we've practiced, i'm doing okay. It's just the 300 other combinations i'm getting lost on.

(She likes to simplify things, like saying that all a woman has to do is remember to step diagonally backwards on beats one and five... the rest is just following the man. How does one say “bullshit” in spanish?)

But truly, last night i feel i received my misson. I don't remember when i last wanted something in this deep gut kind of way. My heart flutters when i watch these women move, and my eyes must fill with an inspired hunger. I absorb the rich graceful joy of these dancefloors, and my body wants, and wants, and wants, to feel like that, so free.

And so my cuba story has found its plot. I am here to do just one thing... learn cuban slasa. Ideas i had yesterday about peru or india evaporated last night. I am not leaving Cuba, or even moving from Havana, until i can dance one song through without thinking about it; until my body begins to understand what this music wants.


I might be years away from contending with a Cubana. But at best, in a few weeks, i'll throw in a couple shoulder jiggles and a body roll. Failing that, at worst, my dance partner will actually feel like he's dancing, not baby sitting.

Starting tomorrow, i'll have two dance teachers every day. Maite, who is my technical director until my heart takes over. And now also a male instuctor each afternoon, who will give me a good whirl. In the evenings, when i have the energy, i'll get my ass kicked at dancefloors around town.

And if i ever feel despondent, lonely or whistful, i will remember how the bouyant Cubans with whom i now live have overcome their life's obstacles and disappointments.

The answer is... dance.

on the wall outside my casa.
in the bubble: "tequiero" (i love you)