Where are you from? (Raqs sharqi - رقص شرقي)

The goddess Aphrodite, wearing her magic girdle of love, her bedlah, so desirable, so beautiful, she shimmied in front of my eyes. My eyes were mesmerized by her enticing, swaying body, I imagined they were on extended stalks like a bugs bunny cartoon character. Her snake arm movement accentuated the soft dark olive skin as her long luscious dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders and arched back, her jeweled belly quivered enticingly, the sheen of her lean muscle tone shone under the spotlights overhead, and at the side of the stage. Her perfume radiated from her lithe body, and flooded my senses, as she twisted and turned, continuously circling me, the goddess of love, desire, and beauty, in that delicious moment in time, as I hid my mixed feelings of jealousy and sympathy for the many lovers of this Goddess of raqs sharqi.

I was possessed, hypnotized by the vision of this scantily dressed heavenly body, the gala event had taken on a different perspective. 

The conversation on the stage that night in the famous nightclub of Amman, Jordan put my intoxicated head, and faint heart into a jeopardous spin.

I have always suffered from dysfunctionality in stressful situations. Those dreaded pair of feelings; fear and panic were never far away. They were the culprits. Especially in the presence of astonishingly beautiful and half naked goddesses. As those events in my life very seldom happen, the dreaded pair do not often make an appearance, but when they do show up it causes a severe bout of dysfunctionality in different parts of my body. My tongue feels like a worn shabby sock in my mouth, dry woolly and swollen, better suited to protect my feet on a cold floor – not in the confines of my orifice. It’s not just my tongue causing problems to my speech, it’s also my brain; unable to control speech to the vocal cords, and the tongue creating its own mayhem in my mouth, swollen, dry like an old used bedroom slipper, all combining to create either the inability to speak, or feeble gibberish sounds, more suited the unintelligible sounds of a nocturnal mating hedgehog.

The body stiffens in its own revolution, and anarchy to the sight of beautiful women. The joints lock with early rigor mortis, as it appears I have the statute and gait of a Lego man.

Then probably the worst affliction, my hearing. It feels like the ears have been assaulted with wads of cotton wool, where I know people are talking by the movement of the lips, but the words are inaudible, never reaching any comprehendible language in the brain.

I’ve witnessed more intelligible cabbages in my life.

I have traveled a lot, from a humble working-class beginning, I have been privileged to travel and live in many different countries of the world. They say travel makes a man; it certainly widens one’s knowledge and perspective. Unfortunately, inside each man rides a child, with the same childish quirks and mannerisms, the same phobias, and fears, that appear at the worst times in your adult life.

I was once entertaining a group of Mexicans in Amman, Jordan. The reason: or how it came about is not important. One night in a grand Arabic restaurant, come night club, with these fellows from Mexico, enjoying the typical ambiance and the Arabic cuisine, the local music started, and a belly dancer appeared in all her splendor.

There is nothing more exciting and more sensual than witnessing a good professional belly-dancer. I’m told that it takes years of practice to be appreciated as a top performer. Their “bedleh”, the traditional custom, is ornate, decorative, and unique to the performer. The movements of the torso, hips, and the shimmering movements of the body, are from ancient Arabic folk dancing origins.

That night, the performer moved between the tables, and stopped to perform very close and personal in front of the sitting diners, and audience. The Mexicans were enthralled. I’m not sure how many belly dancers there are in Mexico, but these guys would certainly be throwing their sombreros in the air if they had packed one for the trip.

The performer encouraged the sitting audience to make fools of themselves, by taking part in the exotic dancing. Like beauty and beast dancing together, it would certainly be banned on BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing. No one in the nightclub had the courage to volunteer, certainly not my embarrassed companions – the Mexicans. Maybe, it was the delicious food, or the wine, probably the wine. Maybe, I felt like Mother Goose, with my Mexican companions. I decided to take the open arms invitation from my Aphrodite - vision of beauty.

I stood up to the loud applause of the whole room, especially the happy Mexicans without their sombreros. I became the Emiliano Zapata de habla inglesa, I felt like the hero of the hour in their eyes.

She led me towards the open stage, I couldn’t hide between the tables, I thought, as the sudden appearance of the Lego man gained control of the joints of my body.

In front of me was a goddess, a modern and real Aphrodite, a Venus de milo with her body parts. She showed me a few of the basic shimmering movements of the hips, completely in time to the enticing accompanying music. I assumed that I then had to mimic the move, to the amusement of all the people around.

I tried to perform the Raqs sharqi moves, but the Lego mortis had captured my limbs. It was a beauty and the beast performance – the audience fell about laughing one minute and then were in silent awe the next.

With utter embarrassment, and not in control of the situation at all, I blurted out “Where are you from?” It was a completely inane question; I thought, she probably didn’t speak a word of English!

With some surprise, she did understand, and replied in eloquent English, in a deep sensual throaty voice what I understood was the word and a place in London named - Uxbridge.

I was aghast. She was from my hometown in the suburbs of London. What a coincidence. She didn’t look anything like a girl from my hometown. But looks can be deceiving, especially if you are a professional belly-dancer – who cares where you came from!

I stammered “That’s my hometown, that is where I grew up!” Amazing, I thought. What a coincidence.

My confidence went through the roof, I’m sure my previous stiff Lego-like dance moves started to disappear, and the peacock inside me came to fore, as I started to sway, maybe a little shimmy, but with undoubted improvement.

“Yes, I practice in the park each day, when the weather allows” she said.

I started thinking, which park in Uxbridge, she must live near one of many children’s parks around the many housing estates. For the uninformed, Uxbridge is on the Metropolitan line of the London Underground, it is an end stop. The colour of the line is magenta. Many years ago, it was a market town, and probably a fuel stop in the age of the horse and carriage. It was a typical London suburban town, that ignited so many childhood memories, from travelling on the metro trains, or buses, to going to my first cinema experience on Saturday mornings for children. Or later being dragged to dance lessons, with early girlfriends, as an unwilling male partner. Open air swimming pool, and first kiss. It needs another story.

It is then, that she added “Yes, I love the shops, especially Harrods, and Tiffanys. I studied at the Royal College of Art for my degree.”

I thought to myself, Uxbridge must have gone upmarket since I left all those years ago. Subconsciously warning signs started to pop up in my brain, trepidations appeared stage left and right. Nevertheless, I blundered on with blind confidence.

Again, it came out, without the brain being in gear with the mouth and vocal cords, without thinking, I said incredulously. “Royal College of Art, Harrods, Uxbridge?”

She replied, without missing a shimmering move “Uxbridge, where’s Uxbridge. I said Knightsbridge!”

My body froze, the Lego man had returned, at the same time as my red-faced embarrassment.

I immediately thought, thank goodness the Mexicans were not privy to the conversation with my Aphrodite of the Raqs sharqi!

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Footnote: Uxbridge and Knightsbridge are the polar opposites in every shape and form in the vast city and suburbs of London, but I still think even today, my dancing Goddess Aphrodite missed out, if she never attended Saturday morning pictures in Uxbridge Regal cinema as a kid.