I had watched him from across the room. I was relaxed and comfy on the
brown leather couch. He was moving to
the music and entranced in his moves and the way he guided his partner around
the dance floor.
A and I had come here to escape the tourist flooded night spots of Havana
Vieja. We had hoped for a place that was
intimate, yet enabled us to experience the sensuality and thrill of salsa
dancing. According to the guide, ‘Piano Bar Maragato was a chill lounge with
cool music and a place that attracted s Havana’s well-to-do intellectual crowd’. After wondering the streets of Havana that
day, it would be nice not to be harassed by Jineteros all night.
We had been told to come early, but like everything in Cuba, this bar also
ran on Cuban time. It was just after 9:15pm when they opened the heavy glass
doors. The room was cool when we
entered; a small yet classy bar curled around the corner to our left, while
comfy leather couches relaxed the atmosphere to our right, behind the intimate
tables for two. The small dance floor,
with its hard wood flooring stood empty before us.
We were amongst the first few to enter the bar and taking a seat at one
of the couches and sipping our mojito’s, A and I reminisced about the last few
days that had passed since we had arrived in Varadero. Our bartering skills to secure a classic car
ride from Varadero to Havana for $75 CUC with the wonderful Rayner in his old
dark blue ford. Arriving into the hustle and bustle of old Havana, where locals
walked on the roads and the one ways streets between the two and three story
buildings caused confusion and mayhem to extranjeros like us. Sitting in our
Casa Particular last night, too afraid to venture out into the nightlife, feeling
sorry for ourselves and disappointed that we didn’t believe in ourselves to venture
out and enjoy what Havana had to offer to us.
To listening to the evening pass, the laughter of children playing in
the streets below, the idle chatter as locals walked home and their voice’s
echoing up the side of the stone buildings and in through our louvered windows,
the sounds of bici taxis winding through the darkened streets in the middle of
the night, their Cuban music blaring from their transportable stereos strapped just
below the seat.
Music was playing, but the band had not yet started. The room started to fill. In front of us three young women and their
male friend laughed in anticipation of the night ahead. A couple sat directly in front of us at an
intimate table for two. The area beyond
the archways further left of the bar had become crowded, and a young couple had
taken to the dance floor. Their moves
were swift and precise. Her hips moved
with the sound of the music and he twirled her with grace and led her to the sound
of the beat, as if at one with the music.
Before long the room was full, two African Cuban brothers took a seat
beside us on the couch to our right, smiled and introduced themselves. The band began to play. The soft beat of the drums and the sounds of
salsa echoing around the room.
One by one, A and I were both asked to dance. Our polite response ‘no, no, I not dance’ expressed
with both a smile, a shake of our heads and our hands held up open in defense,
as if apologizing.
Again and again we were asked, again and again we apologized.
The dance floor had filled and A and I watched in awe as the Cuban’s
moved with the music, secretly wishing we had not been shy and cursing
ourselves that we had not taken salsa lessons before tonight.
To our left, away from the dance floor a young man was moving to the sound
of the music on his own, his moves almost choreographed to the sound of the
beat, lost in a world where nothing else existed except for him and the
music.
The guy I had watched earlier across the room had just re-entered the bar. Like a magnet he too started dancing to the music. At first it was slow, as if in appreciation
of the music, in appreciation of the moves that his fellow Cuban was undertaking. In an instant it seemed as though they
clicked. Together they moved in tandem, each edging the other on. The smiles on
their faces reflecting the happiness they felt inside. The rest
if the room seemed to empty as all eyes focused on them. Their moves somewhat striking, as if never
attempted before As though they were
meant to be here, meant to be dancing this dance.
If I wasn’t totally in awe before, I was now. As the song ended and they finished dancing,
the others returned to the dance floor. I was wishing I had recorded this amazing
impromptu performance, but for now it would have to remain a memory.
As the Cuban brothers left, two Russian couples took their spot on the
couch.
Before long, A was again asked to dance. With her hands held up, her head shaking in
the usual ‘no, no, I not dance’ we had become accustom to saying; one of the
Russian women pushed her and said ‘you will love it’. It was all she needed to take the chance.
With A on the dance floor, and in a room full of mostly Cubans, I felt
like a sitting duck. With comments like ‘your friend is dancing, why not you
dancing?’ and ‘come on, I teach you dance’ it was getting harder and harder to
say no. Before I knew it, the second guy
that had been dancing to the left of us was standing beside me asking me to
dance. I politely again said ‘no, no, I
not dance’, when I felt A grab my arm and say ‘come on, this is fun’.
So amongst the Cuban’s, we tried our best to salsa. To be taught to dance to a beat that requires
relaxation and movement of the hips. While we may have failed on the dancing
front, we succeeded by laughing, by enjoying our partners, by having smiles on
our faces and stepping out of our comfort zone and into the unknown. Now that; that I wish I had a video of.
