Despite years of dance classes, recitals followed by competitions, followed by more classes, I didn’t really learn to dance until I was 18 and traveling in South East Asia. Having landed a job in Bangkok, I stuck around the city for much longer than I originally intended, and after three months I felt the noise and pollution weighing heavily on my soul. On a whim, I bought a train ticket to the South and after several days of travel and other adventures, ended up on Kho Phangan, the island that hosts the famous Full Moon Parties. I had heard wild stories of this epic party, and spent a good week enjoying the sun with new friends and eagerly awaiting the slowly changing phases of the moon. On the night of the party, we arrived at dusk, just in time to watch the moon come over the horizon and start to rise slowly. Within the hour, the enormous stretch of beach was transformed into a throbbing mass of tourists tripping on every imaginable drug, fire throwers, tricksters and those enterprising young men selling unmarked liquor in clear plastic bottles…
It surprised me greatly how quickly I grew bored with the scenario before me. Not too long after this realization, I wandered away from the beach with one thought before me. Where were the locals? At home in bed? Doubtful, the pulsing beat of the trance music coming from the beach reverberated through your body and could be felt in running through your bones and into your fingertips. I approached a street vendor, and asked in my halting Thai if he knew where I could get a quiet drink. He appraised me for a good minute before silently pointing me down a dark alley, indicating a closed red door. Was this a really bad idea?
Nevertheless, I followed my instinct and approached the red door. Ah, I thought upon entering, here are the locals. My white skin instantly marked me as a stranger, but I hoped my friendly face and open disposition would be enough to perhaps keep me safe. I hoped with a sudden and rather desperate abandon that I wasn’t committing a terrible cultural faux pas, and settled in. As it turned out, these men and women of the island, ranging from their early twenties to late seventies, were mostly affable and peaceful people, happy to share their stories. With a mix of translators, hand drawn pictures and my back pocket dictionary, they explained to me that although the tourists think they have invented the full moon party, the people Indigenous to the island have been celebrating the phases of the moon for as long as their stories go back. When the moon is full is when the spirit is at its wildest and most open and they dance to express this. They do not require the huge speakers or colorful lights. Quite literally, as translated to me, they “dance to the music they hear in their souls”.
Soon it was time; for what, I didn’t know. We left the bar and walked in near silence. Eventually we came upon a quiet corner of the beach where the noise of the party was dulled by the distance, water and lush vegetation between us. And then they started to dance.
I had never before seen anything quite like it, and probably never will again. The fifty odd people gathered before me danced to a beat I couldn’t hear, and I stood awkwardly on the edge, feeling like an intrusive observer. Suddenly, a woman with white hair and a face weathered from decades of both laughter and sadness approached and took me in hand. She led me to the center of the group and indicated I should move my arms, my legs, my entire body. I followed her lead and slowly, hesitantly, like a small child taking its first steps, began to feel what I had been missing. Expressions of sorrow and frustration poured forth, commingling with release, joy and outright ecstasy. These people I barely knew accepted me into their fold, and showed me how to dance with everything I had in me. Through a haze of exhaustion I watched the sun come up. Without ceremony, people quietly disappeared in groups of twos and threes. When I finally made my way back to my bungalow, the now dried sweat that covered my entire body was a sticky reminder of the nights events.
I still love to dance, and will do so with any opportunity. Dancing with friends or strangers, I have learned that we can build communication, strengthen ties and create bonds where before there were none. Although I dearly love music and jive off the feel of a good song flowing through my veins, I try to find my own beat whenever I’m moving my body. When I dance now, I look hard for the place within me where that inexhaustible energy is stored.
It surprised me greatly how quickly I grew bored with the scenario before me. Not too long after this realization, I wandered away from the beach with one thought before me. Where were the locals? At home in bed? Doubtful, the pulsing beat of the trance music coming from the beach reverberated through your body and could be felt in running through your bones and into your fingertips. I approached a street vendor, and asked in my halting Thai if he knew where I could get a quiet drink. He appraised me for a good minute before silently pointing me down a dark alley, indicating a closed red door. Was this a really bad idea?
Nevertheless, I followed my instinct and approached the red door. Ah, I thought upon entering, here are the locals. My white skin instantly marked me as a stranger, but I hoped my friendly face and open disposition would be enough to perhaps keep me safe. I hoped with a sudden and rather desperate abandon that I wasn’t committing a terrible cultural faux pas, and settled in. As it turned out, these men and women of the island, ranging from their early twenties to late seventies, were mostly affable and peaceful people, happy to share their stories. With a mix of translators, hand drawn pictures and my back pocket dictionary, they explained to me that although the tourists think they have invented the full moon party, the people Indigenous to the island have been celebrating the phases of the moon for as long as their stories go back. When the moon is full is when the spirit is at its wildest and most open and they dance to express this. They do not require the huge speakers or colorful lights. Quite literally, as translated to me, they “dance to the music they hear in their souls”.
Soon it was time; for what, I didn’t know. We left the bar and walked in near silence. Eventually we came upon a quiet corner of the beach where the noise of the party was dulled by the distance, water and lush vegetation between us. And then they started to dance.
I had never before seen anything quite like it, and probably never will again. The fifty odd people gathered before me danced to a beat I couldn’t hear, and I stood awkwardly on the edge, feeling like an intrusive observer. Suddenly, a woman with white hair and a face weathered from decades of both laughter and sadness approached and took me in hand. She led me to the center of the group and indicated I should move my arms, my legs, my entire body. I followed her lead and slowly, hesitantly, like a small child taking its first steps, began to feel what I had been missing. Expressions of sorrow and frustration poured forth, commingling with release, joy and outright ecstasy. These people I barely knew accepted me into their fold, and showed me how to dance with everything I had in me. Through a haze of exhaustion I watched the sun come up. Without ceremony, people quietly disappeared in groups of twos and threes. When I finally made my way back to my bungalow, the now dried sweat that covered my entire body was a sticky reminder of the nights events.
I still love to dance, and will do so with any opportunity. Dancing with friends or strangers, I have learned that we can build communication, strengthen ties and create bonds where before there were none. Although I dearly love music and jive off the feel of a good song flowing through my veins, I try to find my own beat whenever I’m moving my body. When I dance now, I look hard for the place within me where that inexhaustible energy is stored.
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