Dancing In Spain

As we traveled across France towards Spain a thought began to insidiously enter our minds. Why do we need 19 players for a three match series? Did that make sense? Would they really miss us if we were to somehow get lost in the Spanish crowds?

And so it came to pass that at the French-Spanish border post we left an explanatory note with the driver and we snuck off. Feeling freer than ever before,

We walked until we, purely by chance came to a large market. I think that we were drawn by the fragrances of fresh tropical fruits that we had been deprived of for far too long. Thinking as one, we walked over to where several young workers were packing and arranging and began, unasked, to help them.

To this day I can't explain why they did it but because they did, I have a soft spot for all people Spanish ever since. They accepted us to their ranks with a smiling and even charming ease. We immediately knew that we had done the right thing by leaving the bus.

Come evening, we boarded their bus and traveled, not unnoticed, to their small white homes on a farm about 40 km away.

I had learned about 50 Spanish words and so I could ask "where is the police station, the toilet and the nearest bus to town." I was a complete failure as a conversationalist but I could refer to music, singing and dancing. There was no hesitation. Out came the guitars, the castanets and the courtyard dust was stirred up by young dancers.

We tried, barefooted, to join in but we were no match for their movements, postures and proud tosses of their heads. After all they had been doing so for centuries even during the Moorish occupation. Not to mention the Gypsies who had finally found their true home after a thousand years of wandering.

Even we just sat down and drank in the intoxicating atmosphere.

We did notice that there was a continual buzz of conversation and many glances in our direction. That Friday night we found out why. Their broken English and quaint phrases told us that we would be taken to a station on the next night. We were given tickets to a centre of Spanish dancing at the end of a private narrow gauge line owned by a community of Spanish "hillbillies" who lived in the nearby mountains.

They would work all month making some really remarkable and colourful pottery. Once a month the community would travel to the big city and sell their wares there on the streets.

We duly arrived at the very rickety looking station and to the shouts of encouragement from our new friends and coworkers, we boarded the second of

the two carriages. The train was full of people obviously going to the theatre. Dress varied from formal to very casual. The conductor wore a never laundered uniform with two important buttons missing.

Unfortunately we went to the caboose area…you know that kind of covered platform at the back of the last coach form where US Presidential candidates make their campaign speeches.

As I stood there I was awestruck and in a stage of near panic. None of the rail lengths were in line. Perhaps most of the sleeper bolts were missing or the track had been laid by worker who had had too much of the Spanish hillbilly mountain dew. As a result the carriages lurched frighteningly form side to side…but no one seemed to care.

Then the steam locomotive hissed resignedly, wheezed and achingly came to a halt. And there in front of us was the theatre. Ramshackled yes but nevertheless three stories tall and blazing with lights. From inside we could hear the sounds of Spanish scale runs being practiced.

At the lowest floor, the finely dressed guests were greeted and escorted by a magnificently attired man of al least Admiral ranking.

On the middle floor, a man in a suit but not wearing a tie, nonchalantly accepted tickets and pointed vaguely at relevant doorways.

On the top floor. The ticket collector was quite oblivious of any comings and goings. His feet were on his table, his chair was tilted back against the wall and he had week old newspaper over his face.

As we sat down and the lights dimmed a strange magic overcame us. The mystical and passionate charm of the guitars, the castanets, the feet stomping and the enthusiastic "O le's" from the crowd held us tightly and we forgot about the world outside.

The dancers were alternatively beautiful and handsome and fires burned in their eyes.

The tour de force for the evening was the music "El Amor Brujo" or "Love the Magician" by de .Falla. Not just the music. Not only the accompanying dance but this time also all the dancers singing.

The moment was incredible. Emotions ran high. So high that the man next to me and I spontaneously embraced. In my broken Spanish I explained to his wife that I was from South Africa and that I had fallen in love with Spanish music.

She looked at her husband, he nodded and soon we were going down the flights of stairs to the dressing rooms. Our presence there was eloquently explained by the wife and soon we were surrounded by Spanish dancers in various stages of undress.

A program was found and the whole dance signed it with gracious comments and many good wishes.

Late that night we were back in the train. This time it no longer swayed and rattled. I was sure that it was then riding about a foot above the rail level.

Much later, at the appointed time, we stood at the border post and boarded the returning hockey bus.

Needless to say the coach was furious with us but when we explained what we had done he looked crestfallen. With a tinge of sadness he said "we only played hockey."