remembering panama
It's 90 degrees out, maybe 85, as the humid air cools into the cast of night. The bomp, bomp, bomp of reggaeton is one million decibels and the disco is a writhing mass of bodies, singing along, "Mami yo quiero bailaaaar" and waving their arms, bumping into one another in the most strategic ways. Maruquel leads me into the crowd, her short fat body already jiggling in anticipation of a dance. She turns, narrows shrewish eyes at me. "Cuidese mami. Nunca sabe. Take care of yourself, you don't know what could happen." Then we are in, like swimmers overtaken by a wave. The smells of sweat and alcohol pull me in, force me to move my body. I am like a ghost in this dark, undulating room. Jorge, the son of the friend whose friend works with Maruquel (that's how we know each other here) is not close enough to me... The music makes nearness both easy and hard, the one two-and one two-and over and over as a constant pulse that pulls together and drives apart.
Next to me, some dark bronze beach blonde has slid her lithe body all along that of a small hairy man; they're dancing, must be colombianos say the looks of Maruquel, those dirty colombianos. Jorge is dancing with his sister again, I swear that I'm not jealous. An old man comes by, we dance, I feel awkward but the music is flowing forward and forward and I can't go back.
At some point I step over a ledge and I am the same as the beat, the beat is me. A bachata comes on, slower and spiderlike. Jorge's sister comes to remind me how to dance it- step step lift, step step lift. She's pretty, dancing close, but this is Panama, not quite gregarious Panama, party but don't ever ask or know Panama. I focus on the steps, their repetitive motions, and I am inside the music. "Tu vida es mi vida, your life is my life," croons the singer, and I look over and it is a room of people draped over other people, except for me, Jorge's sister, and Maruquel, almost a matriarch but for the greedy wishful look on her face. I look at Jorge- he's dancing with some lovely girl but I don't think he cares; he just loves the feel of the jam packed hall.
More reggaeton, more, then more. We are in a circle, squished into what is for practical purposes a line, doing as the song says, come on "mueve las pompas, move your ass" and we do, we keep it moving moving moving. I feel like I'm drunk because the room seems to be swirling around with some unnameable energy that I've never felt before.
I look at Jorge, he sees me. We are all swaying and hopping and being crazy; I almost fight my way to the scratched wooden bar to con my way into some liquor but I remember that Jorge doesn't drink. I can't be the only drunk one in my imagined party of two. Merengue, classic, can be simple, can be hard. Maruquel tells me to dance with Jorge, and he obliges kindly. A quick one two one two and our grip is very close and my hand is clasped in his. I know there is nothing to be had here, but I am la rakataka; I will make this my party, and I will take this country as part of me, even this boy. I will take him and wrap him around my mind mirroring my hand and his, and he will become part of Panama, and I will become part of a night, just this tropical night.
Next to me, some dark bronze beach blonde has slid her lithe body all along that of a small hairy man; they're dancing, must be colombianos say the looks of Maruquel, those dirty colombianos. Jorge is dancing with his sister again, I swear that I'm not jealous. An old man comes by, we dance, I feel awkward but the music is flowing forward and forward and I can't go back.
At some point I step over a ledge and I am the same as the beat, the beat is me. A bachata comes on, slower and spiderlike. Jorge's sister comes to remind me how to dance it- step step lift, step step lift. She's pretty, dancing close, but this is Panama, not quite gregarious Panama, party but don't ever ask or know Panama. I focus on the steps, their repetitive motions, and I am inside the music. "Tu vida es mi vida, your life is my life," croons the singer, and I look over and it is a room of people draped over other people, except for me, Jorge's sister, and Maruquel, almost a matriarch but for the greedy wishful look on her face. I look at Jorge- he's dancing with some lovely girl but I don't think he cares; he just loves the feel of the jam packed hall.
More reggaeton, more, then more. We are in a circle, squished into what is for practical purposes a line, doing as the song says, come on "mueve las pompas, move your ass" and we do, we keep it moving moving moving. I feel like I'm drunk because the room seems to be swirling around with some unnameable energy that I've never felt before.
I look at Jorge, he sees me. We are all swaying and hopping and being crazy; I almost fight my way to the scratched wooden bar to con my way into some liquor but I remember that Jorge doesn't drink. I can't be the only drunk one in my imagined party of two. Merengue, classic, can be simple, can be hard. Maruquel tells me to dance with Jorge, and he obliges kindly. A quick one two one two and our grip is very close and my hand is clasped in his. I know there is nothing to be had here, but I am la rakataka; I will make this my party, and I will take this country as part of me, even this boy. I will take him and wrap him around my mind mirroring my hand and his, and he will become part of Panama, and I will become part of a night, just this tropical night.