Doing the Napkin Dance in Nicaragua, Even Gringos Can Do It
Generally, I regard dance circles as threats to my reputation, rings of boundless potential for embarrassment, things to be avoided at nearly all costs. Even if I want to see what is happening in the center of the circle it takes a little mental reinforcement to include myself in the audience.
After all, like a front seat at a comedy show, you might be made a participant whether you want it or not. But sometimes things - rum, weddings, and Nicaragua - allow me to overcome this sentiment.
I arrived in Nicaragua on Thursday and had a day and a half to acclimate to the weather, language and culture that I left 10 months ago. Reduced to the essentials of the local language, I was constantly sweating and fumbling with pronunciation. In such a state, I made the 30 minute bus trip to the Laguna de Apoyo, which is a volcanic crater filled with water, located outside of Granada. There are few public restaurants, one resort, and a number of small cabana oriented places to stay. Otherwise the shores of the crystal green water -perhaps sulfur- are undeveloped, providing a very tranquil, beautiful place to spend a few days and nights.
The wedding was an intimate affair of roughly 35 people. Most were immediate family of the to-be weds: Jose Luis of Nicaragua and Greisy of Honduras, who, although from neighboring countries, met in Alaska where Jose Luis studied for 5 years and Greisy lived with her mother. They now both live in Jose Luis’ native Granada where they are directors for a non-profit foundation that offers Spanish language classes and helps homeless children.
The ceremony itself lasted under an hour and was followed by toasts from parents and newly weds. After saluds were given with a non-alcoholic sparkling peach drink, bottles of Flor de Cana rum and Victoria beer began making their way into the people’s hands.
By the time a massive dinner was uncovered and served buffet style, I was feeling rather loose and didn’t blink an eye at the congregation of bugs that had gathered under the light hanging above my plate at the table. I ate everything. There was broccoli, probably from a frozen bag, but still pleasant because broccoli is not from Nicaragua. They had also prepared steak, chicken, salad, bread and a number of unidentified sauces. Of course, rum accompanied all of it: rum on the rocks, rum with water, rum with coke, rum with coke and rocks.
Dinner officially wrapped up when the band members had eaten and had returned to their instruments. I still lurked with the event photographers under the obvious excuse that I wanted to practice my Spanish, but others were dancing. And, as if to deter me more, they were setting the bar rather high. For starters, Jose Luis’ father was the definition of suave. He moved about the floor with an easy smile in his black loafers and oversized oxford. He looked like he had no bones in his body. And this was all with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in another.
Younger Pancho had more enthusiasm and energy. He created a wind rather than allowing himself to be moved by it. He would easily qualify as a back up dancer for any reggaeton stage show. Even Steve, the Alaskan boyfriend of Greisy’s mother was pulling out some tall, adroit salsa with a very steady torso and light feet.
But the real show was an Aunt of Jose Luis. La Tia Loca, “the Crazy Aunt.” I had spotted her the moment she got out of the cab in Granada. When she boarded the microbus in Granada she was in sandals, short shorts and still had her hair rolled in curlers. Then, while racing through Granada and swerving down the road to the lagoon, she deftly applied makeup. All in all, in the 24 hours that I spent around her she was always loud and laughing. When everyone was mingling, she was dancing. When everyone was dancing, she was dancing. When there was a dance circle, she was in the middle. I know this because, the whole time I was watching.
Close to 11 pm, a full five hours and seemingly countless bottles of rum later, a dance that I had been watching over and over became, well, familiar. It involved a napkin being placed on the ground and fluffed so that it roughly formed a pyramid, rather than being laid out flat. Two dancers would use it as a point of separation, a division line. During the dance, the man gets the napkin with his mouth. I’m not sure if there were rules, but Pancho always got the napkin by quickly dropping flat and popping back up as quickly as possible, somehow remaining with the rhythm and flow of the dance and the music.
I had reached the point where I felt comfortable joining the audience, but in this case I knew for certain that this would mean participation. There were no back aisles to hide in or ways to escape it. I didn’t want to escape it. I was thinking, “How many times will I go to a Nicaraguan wedding? Entonces, When in Rome”.
Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone could take a picture of me working my unorthodox and unrefined salsa- the laughter made my hands unsteady. I was too impaired to register the Aunt’s true response, but judging from people’s positive reaction the following day, every one agreed that gringos, while unable to dance, can enjoy themselves at a boda. I’m sure I didn’t do as the Nicaraguans do because I lacked a certain amount of ritmo that they seem to have in their blood. I’m sure it appeared that while clumsily salsaing I was overcome with the insurmountable urge to do a military push up and just happened to get a napkin stuck in my mouth while yelling, “Sir, yes Sir”!
But, as they say, “No me importa, that’s why I’m here.”
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