Postcard From Choroni
This article appears in the March/April 2005 edition of Songlines magazine

Russell Maddicks enjoys a rum-soaked night of tambores on Venezuela's central coast

"We knew we'd come to the right place as soon as we stepped down, rather unsteadily, from the bus. Choroni, also known as Puerto Colombia, is a fishing village on Venezuela's central coast famed for its palm-fringed beach and its drum dancing, or tambores. In colonial times this was a large slave plantation and its geographical isolation has helped to preserve important elements of Afro-Venezuelan culture. The biggest adventure is getting here. It's about four hours by bus from the capital city of Caracas to Choroni and the road from Maracay up into the cool cloud forest of Henri Pittier National Park is not for the faint-hearted. The road was built in the 1930s by the dictator Juan Vicente Gomez as an escape route to the sea and the hairpin bends are truly hair-raising.

It might be early, but music is everywhere.  A small stall selling
juices is playing reggae, the liquor store is blasting out 80s salsa and there's a reggaeton fiesta going on at the bar where the fishermen are hanging out, drinking beers. There's a definite Afro-vibe here that is unlike the rest of Venezuela.

After a wash and brush up at the cheap and cheerful Posada de los Guanches (less than 10 dollars a night) we set out to explore. Down at the beach, framed by high bluffs, the sea is warm and frisky, perfect for body surfing.

The first friend we make is Palomino, a former life guard who now sells"guarapita" - a sweet-tasting cocktail of passion fruit, cane alcohol and sugar. Palomino also has a less traditional "chocopita", made from cocoa powder , that goes down surprisingly easy. In fact, swinging in the hammock under a palm tree, sipping guarapita and watching the waves lap the sand, its easy to see why everybody seems so laid back.

That night, after a glorious supper of red snapper and fried plantains we head down to the malecon, the sea wall promenade, to catch the dancing.

There's no definite start time. As soon as enough people gather and enough guarapita has been consumed it just kicks off. A couple of kids drag out two large cumaco drums and place them under the statue of Saint John the Baptist, "the saint of the blacks, our saint" explains Palomino, who has set up stall on the other side. Made from a hollowed out avocado trunk, the cumaco is almost two metres long. The leather head is played with the hands by a drummer sitting astride the trunk while another one beats out a fast rhythm on the sides with two sticks called palillos or laures. As soon as the first furious beats break out a couple starts to dance and a circle forms around them. This is what we came for and it doesn't disappoint.

Supremely athletic men, dripping with sweat from the exertion, their hips moving like a washing machine on fast spin, try to get as close as humanly possible to the woman gyrating in front of them. At any time another dancer, man or woman, can cut in by moving between the two dancers and separating them, so the energy never flags.

The crowd eggs them on, clapping and cheering the best dancers and laughing at those with no clue (me I'm afraid). Do this in your local high street and somebody would call the police. Meanwhile a cantor, or singer, steps forward to lead the call-and-response vocals. The song is drowned out by the drums - even louder now with the arrival of three congas - but everybody joins in with the simple chorus of "dale" ("do it") and for while we are all as one.

About four hours later the drums come to a staggering halt as the booze runs out. As they have a whip-round for more rum, we walk to the beach for an exhilarating moonlight dip, the drums a distant echo of an unforgettable night".