Dancing in the dark

We were in Taos, Karen and I, and had just wandered up the road from the restaurant where we had just finished an exotic and delicious dinner that had starred everything from a gorgeously garlicky guacamole to a strangely newspaperish tortilla soup to ice-cream flecked with fragments of vanilla bean and, of all things, sage. There was to be Indian dancing in the back of the hotel where we had parked the car, we had been told, and we aimed single-mindedly in that direction. I was all for exploring the town, with its deserted plazas and closed shops, the colours of the brick and woodwork muted and other-worldly in the brightness of full-moon light. But Karen was better clued in to the hazards of a pueblo settlement, on the outskirts of which gambling was legal and liquor stores abundant, and insisted we could do any adventuring we wanted when it was daytime and sunlight blazed into the darkest nooks and shadows.

Any which way, I was in no fit state to explore, as much as I said I would. My resident amoeba, which I had collected during a rather spectacular trip East, was starting to protest something that I had fed it – whether it was the food or the too much of it, I was not sure and not particularly interested in at that moment. As we walked, my tummy rumbled ominously, I was starting to hurt in my middle and waves of biliousness rolled around my insides. But we made it to the small round enclosure where the dancing would take place, and sat down on the low wall surrounding it. For a while, the pain abated. The bright lanterns that lit up the ‘stage’ focussed everyone in an eerie glow, with Karen’s ordinarily marmalade-coloured hair turning an odd white-blonde.

Suddenly, there was a clamour of bells and the whisper of stiff fabric and out of the dark, into the ring of light ran a group of people. Dressed in recognisably ‘Indian’ style, with feathered headdresses, leather tunics and exquisitely beaded shoes, they sang and danced around a small fire that one of them lit in the very centre of the circle, their musical instruments simple, the sounds they made, unforgettably beautiful. Men, women, children – even one tiny boy who endeared himself to everyone, audience and dancers alike, with his antics and delightful smile – hopped, bobbed and stepped around in intricately interwoven rings, the steady drumbeat echoing through the sand beneath our feet and the blood that ran faster through our hearts.

But it was a performance that was well rehearsed and oft-performed. One of the members of the troupe – a tribe that specialised in this art form, we were told – did a very professional commentary, explaining how the dance had been created and what the movements meant. We learned about what to do just before going to war and how to show joy, when to dance for rain and where to celebrate the birth of a child. On cue, it drizzled, the raindrops evaporating off our heads and into the dry desert air within almost seconds. The dance continued through the brief shower, the clouds of dust now stamped flat into the hardening floor.

But it was more than my stomach could manage to take. A few minutes into the performance, I had bolted into the hotel to find a bathroom and emerged feeling green and fragile. I sat through until the end, Karen darting worried looks at me every now and then, neither of us enjoying the evening as much as we could have. But it was a memorable night, still more for the dance than for my predicament, and we went to sleep hearing the quick and nimble stamping of feet and the relentless thunder of the drums, seeing the glory of the intricate costumes and the charm of the small boy’s sweet smile…