The Samba Lesson

The odors overwhelm me.  Fish are frying in the kitchen while drunken men from Dona Maria’s bar stumble in and out of consciousness, reeking with alcohol and clove cigarettes.  The smell of fresh cow dung in the road fights its way into the house and battles the overpowering scent of cheap perfume.

Step 1:  Place one foot behind you and keep it straight while keeping the other in front slightly bent.

“Ela nao pode dancar,” says Nelva, the pretty fifteen-year-old girl dancing samba with me in Dona Maria’s living room. She can’t dance.  In frustration I look down at my awkward feet.  Having spent the last two weeks in Brazil teaching children about dental hygiene and disease prevention, I find the roles reversed.  The children are now teaching me.  If only they would slow down a little bit. Giggling at my efforts, I ask, “Podes dancar mais lento, por favor?” Nelva grins as she stops and turns off the music. “Danca assim, menina,” she says, grabbing my hips and beginning to demonstrate the dance in three technical steps.  Dance like this, dance like this.

Step 2:  Press the foot in front into the floor and push it slightly forward.  With this move, the weight has been transferred to the other foot.  The foot in front should be straight and the one in back should be slightly bent.

Laughter fills the room.  The sound bounces off the walls and escapes through the open window to the dirt road beyond.  With mouths wide open, sisters and friends convulse with laughter at my comical efforts to samba.  They wipe tears from their eyes and hold each other.  Some point or imitate while others call to those that have gathered outside.

Step 3: Press the foot in back into the floor and push it slightly forward.  Repeat steps 1-3 and practice often.

As my audience rocks back and forth with laughter, the colors of clothes collide and melt kaleidoscopically into each other.  Hot pink nails clutching exotic tiger-print fluff pillows contrast with rich brown skin.  Aging yellow sheets covering the maroon couch off set long, jet black hair swirling in and out of folds of flower print halter-tops and striped shorts.

My battle with samba didn’t end that night.  I didn’t master it for another two months, the night before I left, on a night when nobody was watching.  My host family had gone to the neighbor’s house to prepare the food for my farewell party.  As I gathered my clothes and put them in my backpack, I paused.  Samba music spilled out of the radio in the kitchen.  Alone, I stood in front of the dirty mirror and began to samba.  Watching my own movements, I sensed my grasp of the dance.  I felt my feet confidently move through the steps, my hips moving gracefully to the beat.  I hardly had to think about my body as I moved about the room.  I continued to dance as I packed, the footwork a sort of goodbye.   

I began my samba lessons hoping to fit in, but ultimately mastered the dance just for myself.  There, in Dona Maria’s living room, I learned to accept gentle criticism, trust others, and most of all, laugh at myself.