Policing the Ronda
“I’m a ‘laissez-aller’ guy,” I explained, “the dancers should regulate the ronda themselves.” Not everybody at the table agreed. The ronda, that dancer’s carousel which may drive people crazy, is a headache for many a fellow organizer. “You should take responsibility for the entire experience and safety,” someone stated sternly. “Well, I did ask someone to leave the floor once,” I rebutted weakly. A drunk who wandered in, didn’t know tango, and tried rock ‘n roll during a D’Arienzo tanda — I asked him to leave, politely. A meagre feat of ronda supervision across 700+ Tuesdays of Los Locos Amsterdam. “But aren’t you bothered by a chaotic floor yourself?” “I’m mostly bothered by people expecting me to take care of it.”
My remark raised many questions. Wasn’t there some policy the milonga could advocate? Could we launch an awareness campaign? Put some diagrams on the tables, explaining milonga etiquette? Shrewdly deploy reverse psychology in the evening’s welcoming speech, praising the dancers’ restraint? And so on. I had seen such approaches over time, but their effectiveness never convinced me. “Look,” I said, “leaders are either too inexperienced to master navigation, in which case we should be patient with them. Or they are capable but overenthusiastic tango lovers who temporarily lose their control — in which case they will naturally assume that all this preaching and diplomatic bitching is not intended for them.”
At this point I should explain that GoPro footage of the near-misses I witness during a tanda would probably go viral, similar to footage of wingsuit flyers diving off mountains with mini wings on their arms. It would immediately convince anyone watching that I’m not a suitable role model and don’t qualify as a credible ronda police officer. I boast some modest technical ability, but mentally I’m unfit. I get carried away. Throw me a couple of D’Arienzos, and I start exploring the boundaries of my creativity, accepting minor collateral damage. Some of my stressed-out colleagues have accused me of liking chaos. Yeah, I like a challenge, and I’m ashamed to say it adds to the excitement.
I don’t overdo it though, because I was schooled the old way. Many years ago I danced close to an old-style milonguero — a tall, imposing guy, currently enjoying his retirement in Spain. I was a novice but quite full of myself, my head reeling with ganchos, colgadas, high voleos, and some recently discovered clockwise circular accelerations — aimed, unfortunately, straight into the leader’s blind spot. I bumped into this guy’s broad back once and got a fiery look. A couple of tandas later, I bumped into his follower, and I got a frightening growl. On the third incident, he erupted; I won’t repeat what he said, but that’s the moment ronda awareness got permanently installed.
Still, I did not convince my audience with my concept of a self-managing ronda. If I were not the right person to supervise it, could someone else take the role? “Sure,” I said. “You’d probably need a tall man, with a predictable style of dancing, casually closing in or blocking rogue leaders, with a threatening posture — like old milongueros supposedly did in BA, cooperating to limit the space around the culprit with a pincer movement, teaching him a lesson.” “Great! Who would he dance with though?” “You see, that’s where the whole idea falls apart.”