No Pants Dance?
Curious, a little afraid, a little hellbent on recklessness, I follow the sounds of 80´s pop that is
pulsing from the hotel room at the end of the hall. Palpable engergy issues forth from the open doorway, along with a random spray of lights, and a hellish circus of human and stereo produced noise. I can only think of two possible scenarios taking place inside that two star hotel room capable of causing such an assault on the senses:
1. A battle of two bands, playing at the same time, one headed by God, the other headed by the horned and cloven hooved beast.
2. A mothership has landed quite literally inside the room, and the newcomers are being hailed in frenzied worship by their faithful.
Either case, I have to know, I have to see, I have to partake. Reaching the open doorway, throat parched, tongue thick in my mouth from nervous anticipation. The smell of hot human sweat mixed with beer and stagnant air hit me like a truck as my eye balls sit stunned. Not by the sight of scenario 1 or 2, but simply by the dancefloor dozen in the hot grip of drunken self expression between those 15´x 20´walls splashed a lime shade of green. Those Peace Corp Volunteers are dancing with the antithesis of rhythm like an electrical current is being applied to their primary motor cortices resulting in limbs and appendages flailing this way and that.
An inebriated smile crawls across my face at the degree of both behavioral and clothing liberation. Even in that slightly blurred haze of party lust, these people still strike me as the queerest things I have seen in a fortnight. After a seconds hesitation, I dive into the frenzied cyclone of dance moves and am momentarily lost to the world and my pants. This is my kinda of party, fueled by an appetite not so much for destruction, but furious liberation. Keep doing what you do Peace Corp Bolivia, nos vemos pronto.