Abajo, Arriba.

by Joshua Browne (Canada)

Making a local connection Cuba

We shot across the city towards our goal, Casa de la Musica de Miramar. Lurching from lane to lane, we dodged soviet-era trucks and bicycle taxis while chatting loudly and excitedly about where we were from, and how long we were staying in Havana. The cigar touts we had been courted by all coincidentally had a brother in Vancouver, but upon hearing we were Canadian, the taxi driver just flashed a thumbs up and said seriously, “Canada es bueno, pero muy frio.” “Yes, it’s very cold there.” Beads of sweat were dripping down my neck as I watched the band attack the stage after about an hour of us sitting around at slickly lacquered tables waiting for them to appear. The singer was a compact ball of unlimited energy, rocketing back and forth across the stage. A cheer went up and she broke into song. Her voice belting and taut. The bottle of rum my friends and I had bought to share was steadily draining. Like most of the crowd, we were standing at our table dancing, and we grinned at everyone as they glanced over to see if the gringos could dance. I was looking around for a few seconds before I realized that people were no longer glancing in my direction, they were staring at me. Some of them began to clap and point to the centre of the room. I raised my eyes and the singer was standing there with her hand open, waving me towards her. She was inviting me to come up on stage. I grew up a trained dancer. I know the basics of salsa, moving feet up and down the slopes of 123 and 567, pausing briefly at the peaks of count 4 and 8. I also know what it is to dance beautifully, skillfully, and what it is to fumble around. I have a deep love for connecting with people through movement, balanced against a strong aversion to making a fool of myself, and an educated enough sense of dance to know when I am. So I was terrified. I could salsa, but I couldn’t dance the salsa. The woman beckoning me onstage had spun and flitted across the stage until it looked as though the fringe of her dress would fly off and spray the audience with tiny red cotton balls. The whole show was loud, fast, and effortless. With every Cuban between me and the stage now impatiently waving at me between fits of applause, I jogged around and clambered up the stairs to stand level with this woman who seemed more comet than mere mortal. After watching the two other contestants in the informal dance competition I had gotten myself into, it was my turn. I danced up to the centre of the stage, my eyes wide and my mouth stretched into a grin that was equal parts terror and excitement. The singer began bending and straightening her knees while rocking her hips higher and lower in succession, chanting, “Abajo, arriba. Abajo, arriba.” I followed her, and saw the skepticism on her face dissolve into joy and encouragement. The music crescendoed, and in unison we shouted, “Abajo, arriba. Abajo, arriba.” As the music got louder her hips began to move in double-time, her brown eyes continuously locked on mine as I followed along. The movements changed, and now both of us were wildly thrusting our hips with each beat of the music, our fists pumping in opposition in front of our chests. We shook faster and faster as the crowd went nuts, culminating in both of us dropping to the floor and laughing into her microphone together. The audience roared, and she encouraged them, running back and forth between the three contestants gauging the applause. She held up the hand of one of the others, a beautiful local who was much more dressed the part in a skintight leopard print dress. I had come in second, but it didn’t matter. I had done it, we had done it together, and the singer and I shared a last look of mutual admiration as I took a bow, my terrified smile replaced with a grin of unbridled joy.