Last Saturday night was a dazed and confused event for me. Somewhere in Pasig City, a faux rainforest houses a forlorn collection of zoo creatures. They must have woken up cranky the next morning after a boisterous night of Pasayaw loudspeakers disturbed their sleep.
It was very surprising for me to have discovered how Samar country folks dance with remarkable ease and jovial confidence which is really infectious. You should get a look at the men, how they were. It was like a heady mixture of male athleticism, spontaneity, naughtiness and even goofiness. While on the curvier side of things, the women effortlessly sway their hips like they were born to do just that. Not a muscle in their body was flexed, tense or even tucked. They looked so coy and naïve, commanding yet easy going, wholesome and seductive at the same time. It is not so much like la pasionata attitude in Latin dances, where violence and romance and sex mingled so seamlessly. It was distinctively Pilipino in ambiance. The mood was festive and everybody moves like bees in spring harvest and floats like breezy butterflies on rice fields. A snack of Lemon square and doy pack juice and of course, Red Horse extra strong adds fuel for an outgoing behaviour.
So, there I was trying hard to keep in time with the polymelodic beat of rondalla while consciously toning down a neo-filipino cultural dance haughty stance by softening my frame and shoulders and plastering a nervous smile to onlookers when this tall, long-legged moreno came out of nowhere. And out of nowhere I mean the disc jockey set that he was steering. There was an awkward hand shake before anything moves. Then the music begins. His giant strides were quite a threat and sent me to panic during the first seconds. Thank goodness for extensions training back in the Dansa days. My gluts trembled in shock when I have to power and speed dance a lacuracha combination. Because if I don't I would most certainly end up smothered against his chest as he was quite so tall and fast-moving. He must have enjoyed the cruelty of cornering me against the monobloc tables and chairs while watching me patter away like a flustered old maid virgin. Pahabol is supposed to go both ways, the man chases the woman and the woman chases the man. It's a common bucolic style of courting through dance. One-two-three step-ball-change shouldn't be so challenging. Since when did folk dancing become so difficult and uneasy like doing a Lambada with a legitimately good-looking and legitimately heterosexual dance partner? Instead of a laidback exchange of footwork configurations, the dance morphed into a fight or flight engagement. But in my case it was wholly flight. To get away from him as quick and as far as possible lest I ended up bumping against him. He was relentless. I couldn't even look at his face for fear of losing my vertical stance, literally and figuratively. And may I remind you that we are alone on the dance floor with everybody's eyes upon us. Like how my senior high school teacher would describe it, I was sweating like a piglet from hell. I couldn't mouth “please
stop”, I was concerned about how inappropriate I would look with my nervous, and mind you, very hard nipples poking through my fitted sports-collared cotton shirt. The moments hung in the air like thick molasses poured on honey pots. I couldn't describe it more authentically bakya than that. I'd stopped feeling giddy, hell, I'd stopped feeling anything at all when my body went numb. A series of images that I can hardly consciously comprehend. I saw blurs of black sneakers and camouflage long shorts and grinning faces. Funny, how I ended up taking the lead without actual contact points and by moving backward, careful not to bump any plastic furnitures along the way. Only after I've fidget in my pocket and pulled out my sweat-damp handkerchief did he decide to signal by squeezing my left wrist with both of his hands and stopped mauling me over with his paso doble strides. I walked over to our table and coyly slouched to hide my guilty evidence. I watched him as he walked and disappeared behind a concrete column where his set waited for him. Damn, it was only later that I realized that he must have pulled a stand off and deliberately “krump” his moves so I would get intimidated. So, okay, he's the man. He definitely wants to be on top (of me?). He must have enjoyed it so much when I melted in a pathetic heap of wobbly legs and flushed chest.
