Life is a song, and life is a dance, so stick with me here as I explain how a near-death experience in Argentine Patagonia led to a Salsa Bootcamp in Burnaby, BC.    It starts with this Danish guy named Martin, making a bundle in finance, and taking off to South America to vagabond for as long as possible.  Together, we were getting lost climbing Cerro Lopez, oblivious to the fact that a tourist had gone astray, fallen, and died less than a week before on the very same mountain.  Martin was bantering on about the merits of Salsa.  

Perhaps you are just as clueless about Salsa dancing as we were about climbing Cerro Lopez.  Certainly all I knew then was that it was hot and sexy and involved a whole-lot-of-booty shaking, but if you were to ask me the difference between the Salsa and the Tango, or the Tango and the Mambo, or the Mambo and the Lambada, I would ask you to stop your line of questioning because it is going nowhere. 

So I'm gripping solid ice with my fingertips, ascending higher into the peaks with no exit strategy whatsoever, and Martin tells me that Salsa is his ticket to South America.  Wherever he is, no matter how small the town, no matter how much of a dumb gringo he might appear to be, he'll find the Salsa club, strut his moves, and before he knows it, he's being showered with hospitality, food, drink, and friendship.   He also makes careful note that he has got exceptionally close to some of the most beautiful women on the planet.   Now Martin, if he forgives me, looks like an accountant, albeit one who lives life voraciously and knows how to dance.   As he passed me a stick to grab onto (so as to avoid falling into a 200m crevice), I remember making a mental note to investigate this Salsa thing, and also, not to get myself killed in the ice sheet peaks of Patagonia.

A month later, I was in Salvador, Brazil during its weekly Tuesday night mini-Carnival.  The hookers were particularly aggressive, the drummers were banging their beat wildly through the streets, and sly-eyed street kids had their eyes on anything that might be of value, including disposable cameras.   Fortunately, I was in a group that included a 6 ft 6 Israeli paratrooper, otherwise I might have run into trouble with the guy who tried, unsuccessfully, to mug me that morning over a cup of milk (I told him to piss off, he threatened me with his "AIDS", these things happen).    Salvador's cobblestone streets were getting a little sticky, a combination of the humidity and the urine, so we ducked into a club with a cover charge that was small enough to be negligible, but large enough to keep the thieves at bay.   A 6-piece Peruvian band was cranking out upbeat Salsa music, and a mixed crowd of tourists and locals were shaking their hips in choreographed unison.  I hit the floor awkwardly, coupling up with various dance partners as they expertly moved their feet to ensure I didn't crush them. At one point, the couples broke away and followed some basic moves, and suddenly the dance floor looked like a Broadway musical.   Amazingly, these steps were not rehearsed, and these people did not know each other.  It was just a natural celebration of life through dance, and it sucked not knowing how to join in.

Now Salsa is the mutt of dances, made up of various styles and influence over decades of musical crossbreeding.   Amongst its genes; The Brazilian Son, The Mambo, Cha-Cha, Guaracha, Changuí, Lukumí, Palo Montel, Rumba, Yambu, Abakua, Comparsa, and a few strands of Swing for good measure.  The name was first coined in the 1950's, because the music was "saucy" (salsa, like taco's and...) and the dance somewhat saucy too.    The rhythms are Afro-Caribbean and Cuban, and while there is debate if the music originated in Cuba or Puerto Rico, nobody denies that it spread rapidly, gripping the Latin world's hottest dancers like a fashionista revolution.  But this was no fad, no Macarena.  The constant evolution and integration of different styles has made Salsa more accessible and far more exciting than two old men with cheesy arm movements.    The dance itself follows an 8 beat pattern, in which couples rub each other up in all sorts of wonderful ways, executing stylish turns and twists like a human mating dance.   Nowadays, Salsa has become a worldwide phenomenon, and these days you'll find Salsa clubs or themed nights just about everywhere, because, as I was quickly to learn, in the end, its fun, and its hot.     But I'm forward breaking ahead of myself.  Better break back. 

Vancouver has a thriving Salsa community, and when I heard about an upcoming International Salsa Congress, it seemed a cosmic kick in my ass to follow up on that mental note and take action.   Especially seeing as the Congress, which if you think about it, sounds far sexier than a Convention, would be offering a Salsa Bootcamp of intense full-day workshops.   I put on my two left shoes (for my two left feet) and headed to the Burnaby Hilton, determined to prove that I am blessed with natural rhythm and style, of which of course I have neither.   There were about 20 of us in the class, a few more women than men, and we started with the Basics.  I quickly learnt that despite Salsa being a couple's dance, it's great for singles as there is more partner swapping than a Vegas swingers convention.   It is, after all, about the dance, and dancing with multiple partners is both fun and harmless.  It is also common for women to ask men to dance, and on behalf of floor-gazing geeks everywhere, I can testify that is only a good thing.   

To the Basics - the forward break, the back break, the side break - urged on with the fact that the Basics form the foundation on which all else is built.  Every few minutes, the women move clockwise, couples swap, and there's all sorts of sheepish nerves as I pull myself close to a complete stranger, place my hand on her back, and pray that I don't have any errant nose-hairs or stubborn tooth spinach.   "This is better than speed dating," says Delores, clearly enjoying herself.   The instructor Patrick is a complete pro, patient and clear, and the hour vanishes with forward, back, forward, back, 1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8, feel the music, shake your hips, flow with your body, form a good frame, lead with conviction, make a shelf, make a window, excellent, you're doing great, left foot, right foot, cross body lead - and all sorts of other stuff that would make sense if you ever had a Salsa lesson. 

The Basics Class was followed by a Partnering Class, followed by a Single Turns Class, followed by Cross Body Leads and Musicality Class.   In a Gonzo poll taken amongst the beginners, it was determined that all the instructors were gorgeous. Dancers tend to be.    Something about the posture, the poise, the confidence with the physicality.   Nina tells the girls her 3 Golden Rules of Following (Don't extend your arms, Don't compact your arms, Don't put your elbows back) but I'm horrified to discover that it's all about the guy leading, setting the rhythm, and initiating the moves.   I'm trying to focus on my feet, but now I've lost the beat, and I'm supposed to know with conviction what to do next?   Whoa.    "Truth is, it's much harder for guys to learn to Salsa than girls," says Ran, the owner/promoter of citysalsavibe.com and the Salsa Congress.  "We have to lead with the music, the steps, the tempo...difficult enough if we weren't so close to a beautiful woman.  You know, half our brain isn't working, we have to make all these decisions...it's no wonder women pick it up so much quicker!"    

But after a few hours I'm starting to get something, a feeling that maybe I'll be able to hit those Salsa bars in Central America with a little ace up my puny gringo sleeve.  That's when an instructor named Diego tells us that Salsa has developed distinct regional styles, and that the forward-break I've just learnt is not practiced at all in Latin America.  There's LA Style, New York Style, Miami Style...I felt like I was studying to be a pastry chef only to get a job in butchery.   In Latin America, they follow the Columbian, or Cumbia style, which always steps back and to the side.   Fortunately, the styles are similar enough if you know your basics, and after an hour of practicing my Cumbia step, I felt confident enough to know what a complete idiot I'd look like if I ever tried my moves out in practice.   Further proof came later that night, when I looked like a complete idiot trying out my moves in practice. 

The Congress offers intermediate and advanced workshops too, with top instructors flying in from all over North America.   The evenings have shows and dances - imagine 20-piece bands busting out grooves while ballrooms shimmy with stunningly dressed women wearing stilettos.   North America's Salsa Godfather, Albert Torres, proved a relaxed host, clearly enthusiastic about the power of Salsa to transform lives.   He tells a packed Crystal Ballroom about Jordanian dancers winning prizes in Israeli competitions, about one dancer's battle with cancer, and how Salsa gave her the  will to live.  Through his efforts, ESPN are now broadcasting Salsa competitions into the homes of America.   In the lobby, a dozen local dancers are raising money for their friend Ja's bone marrow operation - a procedure that will cost some $200,000, and save her life.  Not surprisingly, the girls all look like FHM centerfolds, so they cleverly put together a dreamy photo calendar of their portraits, as if the male Salsa community needed any more distraction! (the next day I managed to snag a dance with one Viktoria, and it reminded me of the time I parachuted - there were all these things I was supposed to check and remember, but when the time came, I was a quivering bowl of human jelly.  I think I stood on her feet three times before she politely excused herself).

Like skydiving, Salsa is far more than just a hobby. It's a fully formed sub-culture, a lifestyle, with fanatic devotees and daily converts.   On stage, a 13-year-old kid from Edmonton dazzles the audience with his moves, and several attractive couples perform outstanding routines to standing ovations.    From all appearances, these couples look completely in love, and it was inspiring to watch how these young, sexy and in-love dancers interact on stage.  I was ready and gung-ho to put my new moves to the challenge.    I asked a girl to dance, told her I was a beginner, focused on frame, on leading with conviction.   She took it in stride, although it's clearly more fun for both partners to dance with someone who knows what they're doing.  Unlike modern dance clubs, where songs flow into each other, Salsa tunes end clearly so that dancers can swap partners or take a break.   I danced with a few different women, some beginners, some not, and as much fun as it was, I wished I knew how to do more!  Fortunately, the community was clearly inclusive, enthusiastically embracing today's clumsy beginners so that they might become next year's advanced floorstoppers. It left me confident that I was ready to try my moves at the Hot Jazz Club on Saturday nights, or the Law Court parties on Fridays.   One of the guys who performed earlier that evening tells stands next to me in awe watching a dancer from New York.  "I can't believe it, he's my idol," he says to me, as the guy spins his partner about fifty thousand times in succession before executing a perfect exit.  The humility was refreshing.

And so, after another day of Basics, Turns and Partnering, a class of Shines (solo moves) from Josie and Jose (it was getting hot in that room I can tell you), my Bootcamp ended and I had to run off and readjust my audio rhythms at an embarrassingly stale, dumb old Who concert.   My feet were shot (how women dance all night in stiletto heels must be akin to Chinese foot binding) but I still strut a few moves for the ladies and get their instant approval.     "The Bootcamp gives you an overall feel, but it's no substitute for practice, practice, practice, and time," says Patrick, one of the instructors.    Next time I'm waiting at the airport for that plane to take off, you know what I'll be doing.  

October 11, 2006
Vancouver

Special thanks to event producer Anne Whitmore, for bringing the Gonzo to the Vancouver International Salsa Congress.   And for wearing that black dress...holy moly!