On Finding Freedom Wherever You Find Yourself
On Finding Freedom Wherever You Find Yourself
Inspired by Lycra and learning to dance in Nicaragua
Hello friends,
What has been on your mind this week?
I have been thinking a lot about my body. What it still knows, that I have forgotten. What it has always known, that I have ignored. How it is the best companion to navigate challenges.
And this led me back to my life in small-town Nicaragua, a place where I learned about dance.
Uno dos tres
When I moved to the town of Esteli in Nicaragua I was 24 years old, and, as it was 2007 and being thin was still the preoccupation of myself and many young women, I very quickly became worried about the impact of the local food on my waistline. Especially, meals of fried rice, fried beans and fried cheese, with a side portion of one lettuce leaf, one slice of tomato and one cucumber.
I would look down at my belly in despair, certain it was becoming rounder in this new country - where - between meals, I spent most of the day sitting in the office or a landrover driving on bumpy roads to even smaller more remote towns.
There was not a wide variety of fruit and vegetables in the small local supermarket, so I bought what I could - long bumpy papayas, bananas, the acidic type of pineapple, carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes. And with these ingredients, I tried to make myself ‘healthy’ meals, which were mostly miserable and left me hungry.
Then I tried running, which was dusty and awkward on the narrow streets, with the staring men and the tiny pavements. In the office, my colleagues would offer frequent comments on my weight, you look fatter today, Catriona, you look thin today, the fluctuations of my new life, noted and recorded in these daily observations. (In Nicaragua, talking about weight is quite common and putting on weight can increase your status. So saying I was fat was not as rude as might be seen in other parts of the world).
I missed going out to clubs, to bars, I missed having friends. As this was before home internet and smartphones, I didn’t have much connection to the life I had left behind in Europe. My new colleagues had responsibilities like ironing or looking after their family pig farm and little time or money to go out.
Occasionally, they took me for wild nights, where we drank shots of local rum from full bottles in nightclubs which lined the Panamericana, dancing in empty barn-like spaces to loud reggaeton and bachata soundtracks; or to a karaoke bar, where we tried to talk over the unmelodic voices of men and women singing about heartbreak.
But, mostly, when I wasn’t working, I was on my own.
Cuatro cinco seis
So I sought other adventures and in seeking, I found Fran.
Fran was the only man amongst Esteli’s jean and cowboy boot-wearing population to wear lycra.
And he wore that lycra in the form of tiny shorts, which showed off his strong thighs. And on his top half, he dressed in a thin cotton vest, which covered his own ample belly.
And I found Fran, by finding the fire station, because every night at 6 pm, on the first floor of this small town fire station, Fran taught the women of Esteli how to dance.
The dance class worked like this.
Fran stood at the front, with his back to three lines of women, all of different ages, who watched Fran’s hips move in his tiny lycra shorts, as he showed us the steps.
We did all the Latin dances you can think of - Cumbia - the country one and the commercial one, Salsa, Bachata, Reggaeton, Line Dance, a bit of Shakira and the local Nicaraguan Palo de Mayo - a fairly explicit dance where you shake and gyrate your whole body. I quickly learned that these dances were not about only about the steps, they were about my core, my hips and my belly. So, like the other women, I stared at Fran’s culo and learned to copy the way it tipped and curved.
Like every dance class, there was one prize pupil, who occupied the centre spot on the front row. And I watched this lady too, who was always there, and I saw how she translated Fran’s movements, creating circular eights, or wild shakes. And my hips, which only knew the straight lines of Scottish Ceilidh and Highland Dance, began to understand how to move in circles.
In short, Fran taught me how to shake my ass.
We danced alone, steps made for two and there was something I liked about that, in the machoism of Nicaragua, three lines of women, every day at 6 pm dancing alone, but also together. With the obvious, but not intrusive, inclusion of Fran, who would encourage us to do it ourselves and we started to believe that we can.
Sweating through the break, the women would go up to the front of the classroom, to ask him questions
¡Fran! ¡Profe! He hung a chart of healthy food, pictures of apples and water, thin American models. And he taught the basics of nutrition.
After class, he told us to stretch and we would reach our hands to take one caramel from his tin. He bought a scale so we could see what we lost. More often than not it was more than weight.
Seite ocho
When I look back to the straight lines of this small town - with its two main streets and grid-shaped structure, hanging onto the side of the Panamericana; the size of my life, very small. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to see the horizon, nowhere to escape.
I worked in a small office, with four Nicaraguan colleagues, I walked about five blocks to work each morning and as I walked, the men of Esteli would catcall, constantly. I walked to the sound of this catcalling - chelita, adios, adios chelita, guapa adios - and even when I got so frustrated that I stopped to ask them why, and did they know me and would they stop, they kept going, these same men, who saw me day after day, saying the same things, day after day and even when I bought an iPod (it is 2007), and pushed the ear plugs deep into my ears, they called and sometimes they reached their arms out and groped at my breasts, on the narrow uneven pavements.
Nicaraguan friends would tell me their stories. Of colleagues we worked with, who had done awful things in the past, stabbed them in the back or worse, but whatever had happened, they buried the grudge and the anger, they shook hands, they joked and laughed, even though they hated each other. They both knew they needed to, for the money. That power might later shift in the other person’s favour and so they kept up the act, of liking each other, of co-existing.
It was a place of small-town power, of long histories, of politics, of secrets, of taking what you could, of having the best intentions, of staying close to the past in case you needed it as leverage. All of Nicaragua is a village, people would tell me. And it was. Everyone told me their dream was to have a couple of manzanas (a few acres) of land, some cows or pigs, outside of the town, of peace.
Later in Nicaragua, I made a friend in Managua and I rode the expreso bus three hours South to dance parties and bars at the weekend. Later, in Nicaragua, I got sick and I couldn’t dance. But for that first year, I had nothing, I had no escape, no way to leave the narrow streets, the same colleagues, the long loneliness, except this, this class, where I learned to shake my culo.
So when I remember Fran, I remember freedom, in a place which was contained, I remember the abandon of moving and shaping my hips, into sexual, audacious movements, which would probably get me kicked out of nightclubs in other countries. I remember the freedom of sweating, of being in my body, in a place where both men and illness took from me.
I remember what it is to be young and to dance.
To live unclasped for a while.
Inspiration
A few nuggets of inspiration about being at ease in our bodies, especially as women living in world systems which often want us to change them:
Thank you
andAnd if you want to read more about my belly, I have another article all about it …
Travel With Me
I would love to know more about how you find freedom when life feels small and contained, or our desires are limited by culture, commitments or just getting by.
Tell me:
What are the unusual places where you have found freedom?
Has your relationship with your body changed over time?
And what is your favourite song for dancing?
So interesting to hear about your experiences working away and also how that really felt on a deep level, the restrictions as well as the expansiveness of change, the shifting rules, loneliness, power and reclamation. And thanks for including my article too!
The 2007 obsession with thinness. Ugh I feel this. Me too. I read recently that dance, specifically, has been proven to relieve the symptoms of depression. I think it topped most SSRIs in a blind study. Fascinating!