The Salsa Dancer of Topa Tolondra

by Ivana Vidakovic (Canada)

Making a local connection Colombia

For the reasons that some write love songs and others paint glorious works of art - I dance. I dance salsa because it’s simple at its core, an expression of emotion, a life being lived, but it can also spin off into whatever complexities arise from that celebration. You can express love through salsa, or joy, or anger, or frustration, but you must express something. You must exist, and I craved that. In the months prior to my trip, life had become a lot of back and forth. There were routines and work and an acute obsession with witnessing life through a screen as opposed to living it. In fact, I thought a lot about living, so I booked a trip to Colombia - the city of Cali - to visit my friend Maria but really, to leave behind my thoughts. Naturally, the trip had started off with a lot of filling our bellies and seeing beautiful things. I wasn’t complaining, but I would be lying if I said that I didn’t go into a sort of trance every time we passed a joint, echoing with the nostalgic voice of the salsa singer. “WEPA,” he would scream and my cheeks would spread my mouth into a grin. During the Christmas season, the city is adorned in a rainbow of lights and music seems to escape from all of its crevices. It was my friend’s cousin who put forth the idea that we should venture to the south side of the city, to a little salsa bar called Topa Tolondra. Women with hair down to their hips, wearing stilettos and Swedish men in hiking sandals stood smoking on the sidewalk. I remember thinking to myself that sensibility didn’t seem to be on anyone’s agenda that night. As we opened the door to the club, the muffled “tac-a tac-a tac-a tac” exploded into “Oiga, Mire, Vea”. There, in the cleansing Cali heat, everything was red with life. The steady beat shook on and the people, as colourful as their clothes, followed it with the sharpness so often seen in passion. Bodies, swift and precise, faces serene with focus. The tourists were laughing and with every misstep their mouths and eyes spread wider with joyful embarrassment. Maria had informed me that here you danced with anyone that offered and if you were lucky you never stopped. Sure enough, as soon as we had taken a half-sip of our beers, we were both led out to the dance floor. After a few songs, I was soaked in a mixture of my partners’ and my own sweat and as I went to sit out for a song I felt a hand reach for mine. I had seen the man dancing exclusively with one woman the whole night - she wore sneakers and her hair was short and black. The couple seemed like professionals and I was enchanted by simply observing their process, but now he was here and his hand was holding mine and my shoulders couldn’t help but to freeze stiffly at level with my ears. He sensed my nerves, smiled and paused for a moment, allowing me to readjust. I’m not one to trust easily, but I recognized something in him that made me relax. This was his journey and I was simply experiencing it along with him. The thing about being distrustful is that you rarely look at your life in the eyes and see it for what it is: presence, being fully committed to the moment. The man with the brown-grey curls allowed me that gift, even if it was just for one song. As the drummer slammed on the closing cymbal, the man took both my hands between his and bowed his head. He expressed his gratitude for the moments shared and walked away, while I stood frozen like a pin in the midst of spinning couples. I walked back to where Maria was seated with a look of confusion on her face and took a long sip of my beer. The air was hot and the beer running down my throat was cool and for once I was nowhere else, but there.