How I rediscovered the magic of salsa, the music of my mother's mother, in an Edinburgh bar

When I moved to Scotland, I expected bagpipes, not salsa music. And yet, one drizzly February evening in Edinburgh a friend invited me salsa dancing.

Born to a Dutch father and a Colombian mother, salsa is not foreign to me. In Colombia, salsa music plays everywhere: grocery stores, bus radios, taxis, pop-up coffee vendors on the street, and phones of construction workers’ sauntering down the sidewalk.

Salsa plays at weddings, and for some reason, guests know all the songs, and their bodies know the steps. I remember sitting in a supermarket trolley as a child, being pushed through the aisles by my mum as I entertained myself organising the groceries by size, all while listening to salsa in the background.

Back then, I could hardly wait to return to Swan Lake. Ballet was all I knew for nearly two decades, since I was two years old. Salsa felt worlds apart after flitting careers and a five-year dance hiatus.

Salsa music and dance is well-known to people in Colombia (Picture: Luis Robayo) | AFP via Getty Images

‘Going to be fun or a good story’

Still doe-eyed and fresh in Edinburgh, my hesitations about salsa dancing were overridden by my then-flatmate’s motto: “It’s either going to be fun or a good story." So, we ventured into a Brazilian bar in the city centre on a Thursday evening.

Picture your friendly neighbourhood bar and restaurant. Palm trees and wooden furniture, adorned with fairy lights and Latin American flags, creating a tropical vibe, complemented by fruity cocktails and the subtle aroma of seafood wafting from the kitchen.

Descending the small steps through wooden doors discreetly tucked away at the back of the club, I was hit with a wave of heat. The red walls in the small, single-file corridor made it feel like entering a fever dream.

I heard the familiar sound of salsa. The shoe steps echoed step, step, glide – quick, quick, slow – synchronised with the conga drums, cun-cun-pa!

As I turned the corner into the club room, I was greeted by couples standing in a circle – men and women of varying heights, mostly students and young professionals, but also parents and retirees, all sharing the same gleeful sparkle in their eyes.

Hips synced to a mambo rhythm

In the centre, stood our soon-to-be instructor: a charismatic Colombian man with a passion for dance and a belief that life should be savoured. In Latin dancing, there is a leader and a follower. During dance breaks, you can let go and do your solo before coming back together. We didn’t need to bring partners as we rotated in the circle.

Dancing salsa felt freeing. My hips synced to the mambo rhythm as if they’d always known what to do, and I got lost in the music, not thinking about what moves came next.

It was as if salsa dancing repaired an undiagnosed short circuit in my system. Here I was in Scotland, awakening my mum’s cultural gift, an ocean and some latitudes away from her.

It’s a common assumption that Colombians are passionate and skilled Latin dancers – a stereotype that vexed me until I found myself embodying it. After class, the space was open for social dancing.

Besieged by the red walls and palm trees and the smell of spilled beer from the night before, I got the impression we could have been anywhere in the world.

The beauty of mistakes

The following week, I was back for salsa class, and after some time, familiar faces became friends. I started dancing around my flat and listening to salsa music while running errands.

The beauty of social dancing lies in the inevitability of mistakes. If I miss a lead or stumble on a move, we simply laugh it off. Occasionally, with some partners, everything clicks. As soon as our hands touch, my breathing syncs to theirs. The moves feel effortlessly electrifying. For an entire song, there’s magic in our connection.

Salsa is a week-long affair in the city, with classes and social dancing at various venues Monday to Sunday and a monthly party extravaganza organised by the Salsa Society.

Edinburgh’s dance scene is connected to those in other UK cities, including London and Manchester, as well as internationally. It seems like a hidden world where everyone knows each other.

Last year, Dimitris Psychogyios, a seven-time Greek salsa champion and 15-time international salsa champion, held a workshop in the city. I remember spotting him from across the dance floor at a social. There was a certain unspoken magnetism to him when he danced. The man had swag.

My feet suddenly started trembling when I mustered up the courage to ask him for a dance. For a song, I glided across the dance floor with this salsa Adonis. As he spun me, the club lights drew neon trails around us.

A love letter to Puerto Rico

Edinburgh is a transient city for many. Students and young professionals come and go every few seasons, creating an international community. This combination makes the city’s dance scene a revolving door of local regulars and new faces.

Bad Bunny’s sixth studio album, Debí Tirar Más Fotos, released in January, topped the Billboard 200 in the US. The three-time Grammy-winning Puerto Rican artist was the most-streamed on Spotify for three consecutive years, starting in 2020.

The album is a love letter to Puerto Rico, featuring lesser-known musical traditions but predominantly salsa. Baile Inolvidable made history by becoming the first salsa song to reach number one on Apple Music’s global charts.

The genre emerged from Latinx communities in New York City and developed in the ’40s and ’50s. It received its name, “salsa”, in the ’60s and flourished into the ’70s. It was the music of my mother’s mother and her mother before that. But, too close to home, it lay dormant for me and many younger generations.

While Edinburgh’s salsa scene has been buzzing for years, the arrival of Bad Bunny’s album has reawakened a genre and amplified the sense that salsa is here to stay.