No one taught Jesús García how to move his body to danzón.
Fascinated, he followed the path that his eyes found. It was sight, he said, who taught him at age eight. It’s what captured the movements and the steps of that Cuban dance. Un, dos, tres, cuatro - un, dos, tres, cuatro.
Tengo 72 años de experiencia, he tells me. He’s not bragging. The music has just coursed through his body that long.
It’s Sunday but even in this heavily catholic bastion the lord has got to share the day with Benny Moré here. 5 p.m. mass has already ended and it’s un día bonito y sabroso, as the Cuban legend would say.
“Pero que bonito y sabroso, bailan el mambo las mexicanas,” Moré sings into the wind.
Over a dozen couples - and singles on the hunt for a partner - get lost in their synchronized moves with the occasional twirl. It’s all about the steps and the beat for now. The sounds of the mercado, the car honks, the dogs, the cops’ whistles, the taquero bellowing out orders, the taxi driver berating the idiot driver in front of him… they don’t exist.
“El baile es como una panacea,” explains García who is sporting an elegant and slightly flamboyant pink guayabera and a tan fedora. Rosalinda, his wife and dance partner flashes us a quick smile as she walks off the makeshift dance floor that is the black volcanic rock in this part of Coyoácan.
A 92-year-old man, from what they tell me, is sitting down, dressed in his Sunday’s best. His hands are on his walker but his feet are aching to break free. They’re tapping away, slowly, slowly but with certainty.
La fiesta lo consume, the festivity devours him as someone places a party, clip-on tie around his neck. He starts to stand up, as if brought back to life by the thumping beat from the ground. Once fully upright, or as upright as one can be nine decades into existence, he bends his arms and sways. Izquierda, derecha and back again. He’s part of the slow-moving frenzy now.
“Mueven la cintura y los hombros igualito que las cu - ba - nas…”
“Había gente que nunca baila o que nunca había bailado en su vida y ya están bailando,” García says as he looks at the group around him. He’s taught danzón for the past 20 years. He’s turned various two left feeters into bailadores.
It’s getting late, however, for Don Jesús.
His feet have been moving in beats of four since the morning hours. It’s nearly 6:47 and someone is going to play a banger as the last song. With no discernible effort, always cool, Don Jesús heads back into the heart of the small crowd.
“Yo bailo aquí hasta las 7 p.m. y me voy.” Hasta un minuto puede contener un sinfín de pasos.