By my standards, I slept remarkably well and was woken only by cat #2 lying the full length of my body and putting his paw on my face.
As it was Saturday, I decided to try the Moroccan pancakes that Anna had said I could use from her freezer. I’d read they can be eaten with butter and honey, so this is exactly what I did.
They too had a chapati-like texture and were delicious.
I needed to wash my hair, and that can be a full-day event, so I decided this would be the day to write up my remaining blog updates.
It was a chilly, overcast, day also: I hadn’t been out but I could see the low-hanging mist obscuring the mountains and feel the temperature had dropped inside.
My hair always takes a long time to dry, but I guess because of the weather on this day it took longer than usual.
Both Anna and her sister had told me there was an Afro Latin night at the place Anna and I had eaten on my first evening and my hair was still damp at the time I needed to leave, even though I’d begun the washing process around midday.
When I emerged from the flat, I also found it was raining, so I headed straight back inside to get my raincoat.
The cafe was around a 15 minute walk, but it seemed longer in the rain.
I arrived around 30 minutes into the class, which was a Salsa class: there was meant to be a free Afro-Latin social afterwards until 11pm. The flyer advertised Salsa, Bachata, Kizomba, Afro, ‘and more’. I didn’t hold up much hope of there actually being Kizomba, as in my experience in most places Urban Kiz is more popular, and often wrongly called Kizomba. But the mention of Afro in the flyer gave me reason to hope I could well be wrong.
As I already knew my food options at this place were a burger or the lamb tacos, I ordered the lamb tacos and settled in one of the few tables that was under-cover, that also had a view of the dance class.
The class was pretty empty: only the teacher and one other guy plus 3-4 women, most of whom were white, older and appeared to be beginners.
They were going through basic moves of what appeared to be Cross Body Salsa.
The teacher was a small, slight man wearing loose neutral linen trousers with a fold over waistband, and a similarly-coloured long-sleeved linen top. His hair was pulled into a little bun at the top of his head.
In the restaurant area, a group of surfer-looking types were gathering. A large table had been laid with brightly-coloured tableware and it seemed they had booked a group dinner. I think they may have been staying at the restaurant as there did appear to be accommodation on the top level.
I was sitting right next to them but only a couple made eye contact and smiled.
The waiters, however, were incredibly friendly and one in particular kept coming over to chat.
A lady I assumed was with them kept wandering around the tables, having a loud phone conversation about having to make time to find remote work. She was wearing a white lace cover-up over a strappy summer dress and large over ear headphones.
The restaurant staff had covered a raised circular area in the open air part of the restaurant with blankets and cushions as I ate, but then the rain returned – heavier than ever – and they swiftly put plastic sheets over them.
I wondered if this was meant to be a seating area for the social dancing, as the class was taking place in a large, open-sided and brightly-lit, space that had minimal seating.
Once the class finished, the teacher put on two Salsa tracks, followed by two Bachata and then two Ghetto zouk/ Urban tracks and one I think was Brazilian Zouk, or meant to be. For each he danced a kind of demo, mostly with girls I hadn’t seen in the class – including the lady in the lace cover-up who’d been on the phone.
I think she may actually have been his dance partner; for the Urban Kiz he was cradling the back of her head and they definitely seemed to have a certain level of intimacy between them.
Each dance, regardless of genre, was incredibly flamboyant – lots of cartwheeling arms and posturing.
But it was becoming evident that the version of each danced here were the ones I don’t know, or like: Cross Body rather than Cuban Salsa; Sensual Bachata rather than Dominican Bachata; Urban Kiz rather than Kizomba.
Regardless, the familiar notes of the song Ela Me Kuia drew me over to the dance space for a closer look. I stood against the doorway and watched the teacher and the only other man from the class lead Urban to it. There were a handful of men sitting down at the fringes of the room, but no one else was dancing.
I headed back to my table at the end of the song and the friendly waiter asked why I’d left. I told him they’d been playing Kizomba music but the dance they are doing is not Kizomba dance – and it’s not what I dance. He looked sympathetic but I don’t think he really understood.
For a while after that, I watched from a distance. Then I spotted a couple looking for a table. The restaurant wasn’t busy but as it was raining there was limited space that was under cover. I told them they could have my table and actually went to to pay. But the waiter inferred my movement was a desire to get closer to the dancing, picked up a chair and inserted me into the dance space.
Anna’s sister had told me her friends would be there but I couldn’t begin to guess which of the people present she knew.
Most people appeared to know each other – there was a lot of greeting with cheek kisses – but my social anxiety went against me as I’m not one to initiate conversation in such settings and no one did so with me. On the occasions where I made eye contact I made sure to smile warmly. Most people returned the smile, but that was all.
As with most Afro-Latin parties, the rotation of music was roughly 5-4 Salsa songs, followed by 3-4 Bachata songs and then 2 ‘Kizomba’ songs. I’ve used the inverted commas as there was no actual Kizomba music and very little Ghetto Zouk – most of it was pure Urban.
Which, if you know me, you know I really don’t like.
I’d have left earlier than I did if the rain hadn’t been so heavy: it was torrential for well over an hour. So instead I made the most of being invisible and people-watched.
The white older ladies from the class barely got any dances. Mostly it was a rotation of the people who knew each other dancing with each other. Everyone changed partners after one song, regardless of the genre of dance. Both men and women asked for dances.
Other than the initial eye contact, no one acknowledged my existence and no one asked me to dance – and I can’t say I was disappointed at the latter. I don’t think I’d have enjoyed the dances, had I been asked.
At around 9.30pm someone turned off the bright overhead lights, plunging the space into darkness. The only illumination came from the restaurant lights outside.
I watched a little longer: the dance styles weren’t the sort I enjoy personally but as they’re largely performance dances they are entertaining to watch and the dancers were pretty good at the Latin dances. It was evident that ‘Kizomba’ isn’t as popular here as the dance floor was consistently pretty empty during those sections. Salsa was the most popular.
But before 10pm – unheard of for me at a dance event – I’d left. The minute the rain stopped I grabbed my coat and made my exit.
No one so much as even glanced in my direction.
Tomorrow, Mary is taking me to another Afro Latin night in Agadir, so we’ll see if that’s any different given it’s in the city.
I walked home through empty, glistening, streets and was genuinely content with another evening of cat cuddles and Netflix.
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