Friday Writing Essentials : Where Do You : Dancing in Spain

While I was an exchange student in Germany and because of a sufficient skill in handling a stick and a ball, I was chosen to represent a German Students Team at a hockey tournament in Madrid, Spain.

As we travelled across France towards Spain, a thought began to creep insidiously into my mind. Why did we need 19 players for a three match series? That meant that there were eight reserve players. Did that make sense? Would they really miss a friend and me, if we should somehow get lost in the Spanish crowds, as soon as we crossed the border?

And so, after some deliberation, when we arrived at the French-Basque border post, we left a most apologetic explanatory note behind for the bus driver and we left, feeling strangely more free than ever before,

We then walked off into the Spanish crowds without any plan whatsoever. However, good fortune smiles on the adventurous. Purely by chance, we came to a large market place. Perhaps, the aromas of fresh tropical fruits drew us to the place. To products that we, coming from a sunshine country, had been deprived of for far too long. We walked over to where several young workers were unpacking these enticing farm products and arranging them in their stalls. We eagerly stepped forward and then began, without any invitation, to help them.

I still can't explain why they so readily accepted us. Their spontaneous hospitality still lives with us. For this reason, I have a soft spot for all Spanish people and all things Spanish. We knew then that, the decision to leave the bus, had been the right thing.

That evening, without any invitation to do so, we boarded the farm bus, obviously noticed by the others with some amusement and curiosity but not rejected by them in any way. We travelled to their small white plastered homes, on a farm, about 40 km away. These homes and a social complex were arranged around a large open square surrounded by trees and benches.

Before I came to Spain, I had earlier learned about 50 Spanish words and so I could ask simple but rather useless questions like "where is the police station, the toilet or the nearest bus to town?" I was, in general, a complete failure as a conversationalist but I could mention some words here and there that showed my interest in music, singing and dancing. After that, there was no holding them back. Every evening, from then on, the guitars would come out, the castanets would play and young dancers would stamp their feet and kick up dust in the courtyard.

We, the two visitors, tried, barefooted, to join in their dancing but we were no match for their movements, postures and proud tosses of their heads. After all, they had been doing what Spaniards do, for centuries. The great Spanish culture had in many ways, learned from the many foreigners that had come to their shores. There were the Romans, the Moors and the Gypsies. The latter had probably found one of their final homes in Spain, after a thousand years of wandering and had, in return, left Spain with an enviable heritage of colourful dancing. In the North, there were the Basques with a history going back many thousands of years.

After a few days, we began to notice that there was a growing buzz of excited conversation going on. The subject of all this was obviously us. There were many in our direction followed by smiles and laughter. That Friday night, we found out why. In their broken English and through the use of, to us, quaint phrases, they told us that they would take us to a station on the next night. We would be given tickets for a spectacular train ride and a performance at an old but hallowed theatre dedicated to Spanish dancing.

This theatre was located up in the hills, at the end of a private narrow gauge railway line, owned and run by a community of Spanish country folk, who lived high up in these mountains.

Some of them work in their clay studios all month, making spectacularly attractive pottery. Once a month, they would travel down to the big city where tourists would snap up their uniquely colourful wares. 

We duly arrived at the very rickety looking railway station and, to the enthusiastic cries of good cheer from our new friends and co-workers, boarded the second of the two carriages. The train was full of merry crowd of people, all obviously on their way to the theatre. Dress varied from the formal to the very casual. The conductor wore a perhaps never laundered uniform with at least two important buttons missing.

Unfortunately, we chose to watch the countryside from to the caboose area…you know that kind of covered platform at the back of the last coach. The kind of place, from where US Presidential candidates, used to make their campaign speeches in the old days.

As I stood there, I was awestruck and in a stage of near panic. None of the rail lengths were in line. Perhaps some of the sleeper bolts were missing or perhaps the track had been laid by workers who had had imbibed far too much of some Spanish wine

Because of this state of neglect, the carriages lurched frighteningly from side to side. Strangely enough, no one else seemed to care a damn. Eventually, the steam locomotive hissed resignedly, wheezed and achingly came to a halt.

In front of us was the theatre. Three stories tall and although seeming to have lost something of its erstwhile grandeur, it was ablaze with a thousand lights. From inside, we could hear the sounds of fascinating musical passages as musicians practiced their scales and tuned their instruments. 

On the lowest floor, a magnificently attired man greeted the finely dressed guests and escorted them to the correct aisles. Judging by his uniform he must have been of Admiral ranking, at least.

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

On the top floor, the ticket collector was quite oblivious of any comings and goings. His feet were on a table, his chair tilted back against the wall and a week-old newspaper covered his face. He was fast asleep and obviously did not care whether we had tickets or not.

When we sat down and the lights dimmed, a strange magic filled the theatre. The mystical and passionate charm of the guitars, the castanets, the feet stomping and the enthusiastic "o le's" from the crowd gripped us by their collective passion and we soon forgot all about the world outside.

The dancers were either beautiful or dashingly handsome but in all cases, we saw the fires burned in their eyes. The tour de force for the evening was the opera "El Amor Brujo" or "Love the Magician", written by de Falla. That night, the performance had not only the music and not just the dancing. This time the performers sang as they danced. That singing part is not usually done during this ballet but that night it was and the experience was unforgettable. Whoever had arranged this particular gave us all a treat of a lifetime. 

Yes, the moment was truly 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, totally and irrevocably, in love with Spanish music.

She looked at her husband, he nodded and soon we were on our way down the many flights of stairs to the dressing rooms. While descending, the wife flamboyantly explained that we had to meet the cast and soon we were surrounded by Spanish dancers in various stages of undress. They crowded around us, expressing their great joy at hearing about appreciation from a country so far away. The whole dance group signed a program for the evening with gracious comments and many loving good wishes.

Late that night, exhausted yet thrilled, we were back on the train. This time, however, with the passion of the evening still simmering inside all of us, we no longer noticed any swaying and rattling. The ride was now so smooth and pleasurable that I was sure that we were riding in air, about a foot above the rails.

A few days later, at the previously appointed time, we stood waiting at the border post, ready to board the returning hockey bus.

The hockey coach was, of course, furious with us. He had the full right to be so. However, when we explained what had happened and what we had experienced, he looked a little crestfallen.

With a tinge of sadness, he said "you lucky bastards. We only played hockey. Just hockey."