J. Money Dances the Curacha

"Do you like to go to a disco?" asks Jairene, my friend Michael's older sister, who joined us for a night out.  

"Maybe," I replied in Tagalog, sure that what she meant by 'disco' might differ from the imagery usually conjured by the term.  In any case, we wouldn't be going until later because, she informed me, twelve o' clock was the good time to go.

First, it was off to see some live music, because I hadn't since I'd left Manila, and I was jonesing.  We headed to 'the boulevard', a street running along the ocean that is peppered with karaoke restaurant/bars and a couple establishments that are just for drinking and dancing (though these weren't the discos she was talking about).  The band ended up sucking pretty hard, so after drinking our way through six or seven songs, we decided karaoke would be a better idea, paid our bill and moved on to the next place.

Greenhouse was the name of the bar, and as we entered, we were greeted by the host, a slim transvestite in a jean skirt and a black spaghetti-strap tank.  There wasn't really anyone else in the place, save for a few of the host's friends who, due to the dim-lighting, could have been of either sex, though they were all dressed as women.  I'm a big fan of calling things as I see them, and certainly quite comfortable with my own sexuality, so I don't usually censor my own speech.  In this case, however, I decided that there probably weren't many positive outcomes to commenting, "you make a pretty good girl, for a boy," and so I kept it to myself.

Sufficiently late and moderately under the influence, we eventually decided to check out the 'disco.'  Really, it was a PA system set up in an empty lot to celebrate the festival of San Ysidro.  (Just as in Spain, each little community here has its patron saint--or several of them--and so during the summer it seems there's always some saint being celebrated.)  There were tables and chairs set up around the perimeter of a dirt dance floor, multi-colored lights strewn to and fro overhead, and the crowd spilled outside onto the road.  I ran into my cousin Tupe and his friends, and we quickly commandeered one of the tables.  "Is there beer here?" I ask one of his friends.

"No, but there's this," he says, producing two bottles of gin, "you want?"

"Eeeh.  Is there Sprite or something?"

There wasn't, but we tracked some down, and soon I was well on my way to donning my liquid dancing shoes.  The music alternated between cha chas and waltzes and top 40 club hits.  I'm pretty picky when it comes to songs I'll dance to, but being abroad increases my tolerance for shitty music. Tonight, mediocre remixes of Lady Gaga were enough to get my back up off the wall; I may have even danced to an Akon song, but I wouldn't admit that in court.

Part of the tradition of San Ysidro is a dance called the Curacha (no, not the cucaracha), some kind of a waltzy thing in 3/4 where people dance in pairs, inspiring bystanders to throw money onto a rice sack lain on the middle of the dance floor, which is later gathered and--well, I really have no idea what they do with that money.  I successfully resisted several waves of peer pressure; I try to avoid making an ass of myself as much as possible, and so when the lights came up and the song came on, I clung steadfastly to my seat, no doubt to the disappointment of everyone else who hoped to see the white boy ridicule himself in the spotlight.

Finally, they resorted to calling me by name.  Actually, it was by last name, and being in Waray, I didn't understand much else of the invocation, but as far as I knew, there were only two Afables there, so reluctantly I agreed that if Tupe would do it, I'd do it too.  Sure, he says, and we both walk onto the dance floor, me led by an older lady who, when I protest that I don't know how, suggests that I just follow her, as though I wasn't dance-challenged.  At the last minute though, Tupe dashes back to the safety of the table, and I'm left stranded on the dance floor, crudely trying to match my steps to my partner's and imitating the flamenco-apple-picky-thing she's doing with her hands.

The crowd apparently got a kick out it, at least, and they were eager to throw money on the ol' sack.  Some of them would shake the bills in front of the dancers before tossing them on the sack, and as I was there dancing, with money dangling in my face, I thought, "gee, I really don't think I would like to be a stripper."