I fell in love with Argentina last night. Call me a tart (and I have been this week), but I fell for the gentleness of the people of Lao within days. New Zealand took longer before the solitude and frontier-like nature of the South Island found its way under my skin. But if NZ is still developing its identity, Argentina´s intoxicity (!?) stems from a surfeit of cultural and social influences crammed into one nation.
Last night I took my first tentative steps of the tango, a bewildering contradiction of control and passion. After learning a few basic moves, I exited the dance floor and, their toes now safe, Mendocinos from 20 to 70 strutted their stuff. Apart from the 1... 2... 3... 1, 2, 3... rhythm, the defining features of the Tango are, it seems, graceful improvisation without limit, and couples´gravity-defying leans towards each other as they twirl around the room. Every pair had a distinctive style, easy to differentiate but difficult to define, each being a mix of various holds and flourishes and different levels of theatricality. I sat for 2 hours sipping Fernet and Pepsi (a bitter, black drink which puts every other in the shade of bland incipidness), enchanted.
The highlight of the evening was an Argentina samba, much slower than its Brazilian namesake. Superficially a cross between a Morris and a Line dance, dancers tote handkerchiefs that somehow, to eyes admittedly tainted by the local brew, become expressions of their honour, pride and love.
The cliche goes that Argentines are arrogant, but that they have quite a bit to be arrogant about. It´s hard to disagree.
No comments:
Post a Comment