Bachatera.

They walk around with a dazed look. After all, they have just spent about ten hours of dancing in one day, finally throwing the towel in around 5 AM. Some of them have been doing this for a couple of days and a lot of them will do it for a couple days more. Peeled away from the Bachata music, they have eyes that almost look glazed over, unseeing. They strut around, backs erect, chins up, with an arrogance that comes from someone who is aware of possessing a rare gift. There’s an exhaustion, a kind frustration about them because they stop at nothing short of perfection. In them, you could sense a burning passion perhaps only a fellow dancer can understand.

The minute you gather some five hundred dancers in a room filled with Bachata music that originated from the Dominican Republic, magic starts to unfold. The passion in the air gets so thick, you can almost taste it. The dancers abandon exhaustion and come alive in front of you. Their eyes light up in flames. Their hearts thump a few beats ahead of the music. Some eyes close. Hands lock together. Arms intertwine. Legs fly. Feet syncopate. Women are spun around like tops, some flung around as though they are weightless. Slowly, the two disappear into one... then into the dance.

It is a couple of days after the 3rd Annual International Reno Bachata Festival. My feet are sore. My legs are tired. I badly need sleep. Yet I have not one regret. I danced my soul out every night like it was my last night on earth, just the way it ought to be done.

Hi. My name is Trish. And I am a Bachatera.