“Un, deux, trois, ma-zur-ka… un, deux, trois, ma-zur-ka… un, deux, trois, ma-zur-ka”
I mutter it again, willing my feet to cooperate. I stare at the floor and shuffle from one foot to another.
“Non, non, non! Ne regardes pas tes pieds!”
“Shit”
I look up and the face of an unknown woman at least three times my age stares back at me. She is in my arms, but really I am in hers. She is teaching me to dance the mazurka.
In the “leading” position, it’s my job to lead my partner with my right hand on her back. But my hand is sitting limply on her back because I need to concentrate on saying “un, deux, trois, ma-zur-ka,” and on the unusual proximity of this older woman. She cackles out a few more pointers in a lively French which I don’t understand so I nod vigorously and say “oui”.
My dance partner probably has decades of experience. Obviously she can maintain this dance without my help. But she is teaching me to lead her. It’s such a strange thing—to be led to lead. I feel like a lion cub being taught to hunt—whose mother pretends to roar in pain at the cub’s weak bites so that one day he can hunt on his own.
Around me a few youngsters whirl with contented ease. Their faces are covered in dirt and their pants are hand-made from burlap sacks. Like a lot of participants at “Le Grand Bal de L’Europe” they have been coming here since they learned to walk. Folk music is in their blood, folk dance is in their soul.
But nobody is showing off on this dance floor. Expert couples in dance flats spin circles around old love-birds in flip-flops. Rug-rats run wildly underneath, their unpredictable movements seem to embody the savage energy of untamed fiddle music. Hoots and hollers in a mish-mash of European languages blend with the carefree drone of the hurdy-gurdy. And then there are people like me, who are just beginning their dance journey. These people are watching at the sideline until an old woman grabs their hand and starts chanting “un, deux, trois, mazurka…”.
Night creeps over Gennetines but the dark pastures of rural France are lit up by the warm glow of kindled spirits. The dancing continues late in to the night. It’s 3:00am now—time for “Le Boeuf”. I watch a rough assembly of amateur musicians gather in the centre of the dance floor for an improvised jam. Dancing during “Le Boeuf” is primal and frenetic. It is entirely different from the tame circle and square dances popular during the day.
Exhausted and sweaty, the dancers head to their tents as the sky turns lighter. When I arrived at Gennetines, a guy told me “It’s kind of a strange place sometimes, but I love it”. I agree. Thank you, strange woman, for trying to teach me the Mazurka.
