Dancing through Life

 The beat was booming. The room was thrumming with the sound of the music. Something had happened to my knees, and my hips - they were moving... I was dancing!
 When I returned to the Backpackers' hostel this afternoon to find that I had lost my room key (thankfully only temporarily misplaced) and ants had infested my kitchen cupboard, my insistence in reclaiming my independence seemed a little foolish. Maybe I should have stayed and strained my welcome at Graham's for a bit longer?
 But then something very simple and quite brilliant happened. Past the computer where I sat, four obviously British girls went by on the way to the Backpackers'. I smelled opportunity in the air. This is something I've hoped for ever since I started staying in the Backpackers' - to meet and mix with other travellers my own age. I soon discovered that they were four medical students from Cardiff university on placement in a rural South African hospital nearby, and they're using their weekends productively to see some of Zululand. I don't think any of them went to a state school. There was Morgan, a tall Londoner who attended St. Paul's girls' school, no less; Courteney, with beautiful long hair and a seahorse necklace; Vicky, Welsh and teased for it, but without an accent; and Mia, the petite ginger, teased for both her hair and her height.
 I was strategically hanging around them at dinner time, waiting patiently while they debated whether to go out for dinner, before concluding correctly and inevitably that the George is the least-dead place in eShowe this Saturday night. So I had myself an invitation to join them in the Quarters restaurant behind the bar.
 It was a very good meal. Eileen the chef cooks truly great food, but it was the company more than the fish and chips which made it special. God was it nice to talk to people of my generation and from my country. We talked about Yorkshire, Hereford, London, Wales, and everyone knew where they were. The conversation was sometimes gossip about mutual acquaintances, but I never felt left out. We discussed braces, gap years, the harsh realities of a South African state hospital during a strike, HIV/AIDS, university life, Cardiff and Cambridge, rowing and netball and basketball.
 Afterwards we moved ten yards to the bar. In a moment of madness I was nearly talked into buying a cocktail, but when I said I didn't really want one, they completely accepted it. In the bar tonight was a small but select crowd - the sisters Mika and Danica running the bar, a couple of middle-aged men and drunk girls, one of whom was wearing a very pink top and dancing outrageously, and the legendary Gladys, dancing away by herself because she can't make her body stay still when the music hits her. Her dancing and Mika's encouragement inspired us to get up from the sofa and move into an open space.
 I am extremely inhibited when it comes to dancing. At first I just bent my knees in a vaguely rhythmic fashion. But gradually, as I discovered that none of the others were dancing geniuses either, and I still felt at ease, I relaxed. I found I didn't care that I'm no good at dancing. I moved because for the first time I found it more fun than sitting down. With more drinks and more encouragement from Mika we even loosened our tight British circle and took turns in the middle.
 Gladys said to Mia: 'You have got this girl to party! This one, she is always in her room, sleeping. Well done!'

My girl pals at the museum on Sunday: (from l. to r.) Morgan, Maia, Vicky and Courtney.