THE BELLY OF THE BEAT: THE LOS ANGELES BELLY DANCE SCENE, CIRCA 1994

My, how time flies! Sometimes I cannot believe I have been belly dancing- and writing about belly dancing- for nearly two decades. In my Royal Archives ( also known as the dusty jumble of boxes on the shelves above my costume closet ) I recently unearthed the following story, The Belly of The Beat, which I wrote under my given name, Pleasant Gehman, for the April 22, 1994 edition of The Los Angeles Reader, a large weekly newspaper I worked for extensively in the early Nineties. At the time I wrote the story, I had been dancing professionally for three years, and had absolutely no idea that fifteen years later, I would not only still be belly dancing, but performing and teaching internationally!

Needless to say, much has changed in the international world of belly dance since then... to begin with, back in those days, there was no Internet, no Belly Dance Super Stars, very few competitions and dance festivals, and it was difficult to buy costumes from Egypt and Turkey- many dancers made their own. We used cassettes and VHS tapes, not iPods and DVD's, and so on. Even so, the dance scene in Southern California was then-and continues to be- a hotbed of Oriental Dance. Many of the names you will see in the story- Sahra C. Kent, Fahtiem, Angelika Nemeth, Mesmera, Tonya and Atlantis and many others- are still quite active performing, teaching, writing about our beloved dance. I hope you enjoy this walk down memory lane- published here as it exactly as it appeared in the LA Reader in 1994.

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The lighting is dim and reddish, the air heavy with smoke, and all that matters to the crowd, which is getting a little feisty behind tables heaped with an orgy of food and wine, is the drum. The drum, and, of course, the girl dancing to it, being led by it.

Jaqueline Eusanio is a blur of gold and black sparkles, cascade of russet, waist-length hair, a glimpse of thigh. She twists and turns slowly. Her eyes are closed, and the look on her face is distant and trance-like. She moves parts of her body most people don’t even know exist. Then suddenly, there it is—louder and more insistent this time— the drum, the drum, the drum. She starts spinning and finally, in perfect time with the beat, collapses to the floor in a spine-snapping backbend, perfectly executed. As the music swells up once again, a man in a suit steps forth and solemnly rains a thick wad of cash onto her, bill by bill, to the wild cheers of the cheers of the onlookers.

It sounds like a scene from a James Bond movie, but it’s Los Angeles—Burbank, actually—1994, and it’s just another Wednesday night at The Middle East Connection, a tiny hole-in-the-wall that transforms itself once a week onto a haven for dining and entertainment, Middle Eastern-style. That, of course, means belly dancing, which is very much alive and well these days, especially in Los Angeles, though many people aren’t aware of it. In fact, most people know very little about belly dancing, viewing it as a carnival sideshow attraction or some left-over fad from the Seventies. This couldn’t be further from the truth. The movements, correctly known as Oriental dance, have been around for thousands of years, and were performed in various styles and combinations all over North Africa and the Middle East.

One of the oldest dances on earth, it’s origins are cloudy. Some believe it represented fertility rights and was connected to pre-Islamic Goddess worship. Others claim the dance originated in India, with Gypsies, and was spread through out the Orient in their travels and migrations. It’s easy to follow the “Gypsy Trail,” as scholars call it, through Afghanistan and Persia, on into Turkey, where there was a split with one branch of Gypsies trekking through North Africa and the other meandering toward Eastern Europe. Even in modern Egypt, the term for dancers in rural villages is ghaziya, which is singular for ghawazee, meaning “invader” or “outsider.”

The original ghawazee were not of Egyptian origin. Egypt, however, has been a Mecca for Oriental dance for centuries. The women’s solo dance in it’s Egyptian social form is known as raks al-beledy (dance of the people) and is still practiced today, handed down from generation from generation. When it was refined by professionals whether they were courtesans or performers, it took on a slightly different aspect: the movements became more complex and less folkloric, and were tempered with nuances from other countries. This hybrid became known in Arabic as raqs al sharqi, ”dance of the East”- hence “Oriental dance” and was observed by the many travelers, writers, and painters who went abroad during the 19th century. The movements, especially of the hips and abdomen, had never been seen by westerners and caused a sensation.

Eventually, word of the amazing Oriental dancing girls spread to the West and the demand to see them grew. At the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893, Oriental dance made its American debut on the Midway Plaisance. Of the entire Midway, which featured exhibits from Japan, Germany, Holland, Italy, and Ireland among other countries, the attractions that drew the largest crowds were those with the famous dancing girls-The Turkish, Tunisian, Algerian, and, of course Egyptian. “Little Egypt,” as the most famous dancer was known, not only attracted huge crowds but scandalized the Victorian rubes to no end. To their uneducated eyes, her movements, considered highly skilled and artistic in the Orient, were obscene. Thus began a hundred years of misconceptions and bad press, which were only heightened by the late-Seventies belly-dance boom, in which enthusiastic but misinformed house wives donned veils and set out to turn their husbands into “sultans.”

“Ninety percent of Americans don’t know what it means, belly dance,” says Ben Mahmoud, owner of Moun of Tunis of Restaurant in Hollywood, where belly dancing is featured nightly. “It is like speaking out, like a communication, something in North Africa that you grew up with. It’s in your blood. Belly dancing is not stripping. It’s a language between the dancer and the audience.”

“People are finally becoming aware of the dance in a cultural way; it’s becoming less of a novelty and more mainstream.” says Feiruz Aram, a well- known Long Beach dancer who has worked through out the United States (as well as in Cairo) and has been teaching for more than fifteen years.

“With World Beat music getting so popular, Walt Disney’s Aladdin, and even Prince featuring belly dancers, it leads me to believe that Oriental dance will be intergrated into other dance forms.”

That concept worries some purists, who frown upon “fusion” of dance form and musical styles, but Michelle Forner, who regularly dances at Dar Margreb Restaurant in Hollywood and has a degree in dance ethnology from UCLA, disagrees.
“How can you keep something like this pure?” she asks. “It’s gone through so many changes, it’s hard to define. It’s not like ballet, where there are certain rigid steps.”

“There is no standardization,” says Zahra Zuhair, a petite grey-eyed woman who has been dancing for more than 16 years. “We’re still suffering from the Seventies, when people would just put on a costume and jump around, but these days there are a lot of good things going on. We have a very high caliber of dancers here in L.A… but anything can look strange when it’s taken out of cultural context.”

The culture "thing" is a big barrier- but not insurmountable. Anaheed, the vivacious dancer who runs the Wednesday program at the Middle East Connection, traces five generations of Oriental dancers in Los Angeles.

“The first was in the Forties and Fifties, when women came over or were brought over from the Middle East.”,she says.
“Then there was the second generation-well known dancers who learned from those women, and became teachers themselves, Jamila Salimpour, Marta Schill, Diane Webber, Aisha Ali. The third generation is people like me who learned from the second. The fourth generation is dancers who never experienced the club-scene here… it was huge. There were lots of clubs, like The Fez, Coco’s International, Omar Kayyan, Ali Babas-they all had old-style bands with live musicians-violin, oud, [a sort of oriental guitar], dumbek [drum]. The fifth generation is just now beginning to get their first dance jobs.”

The club scene fizzled in late Eighties Los Angeles for a variety of reasons, one being the economy: people were no longer willing to spend a lot of money on live entertainment.

“ The Gulf War really had an effect,” says Marta Schill, one of the founders of The Middle Eastern Culture and Dance Association (MECDA), which is a special-interest group for dancers but began in the late seventies as a union for women who worked in the clubs-The Middle Eastern Cabaret Dancers Alliance.

“In the late seventies and early eighties, there were over thirty-eight clubs in the area, and a lot of money was coming in from the Middle East,” Schill says. “The hostages and the Gulf War were the end of that, though. Some clubs went out of business over night.”

“There’s been resurgence, though, definitely,” says Aisha Ali, a respected dancer, teacher and choreographer whose field recordings of music from Northern Africa are now in their tenth printing.

“Dancers are learning much more now, and getting away from the self-styled and more into the entire culture. It’s not so much only in nightclubs and restaurants; people are looking into the dance for research and even for fitness.”

Angelika Nemeth, Orange Coast College’s Middle Eastern dance doyenne, suggests total immersion. “For the serious dancer, you have to go to Cairo, travel through the Middle East--- take classes, broaden your horizon. It’s not all nightclubs.”
Shareen El Safy publishes Habibi, which, along with Arabesque, is the leading Oriental dance trade paper, and features scholarly articles alongside costume hints and ads for dance workshops, costume swap meets, reviews of music, and performance videos. A veteran dancer and instructor, El Safy has traveled extensively and conducted workshops and tours of Egypt for years.

“When you travel a lot, you can tell Los Angeles is different,” she says. “There’s more of a Hollywood, show-biz influence here…the seven-part dance routine, use of a veil, that look of glitz and glamour. But there are also many professional dancers in LA, so there’s a really high level of skill. I think we’re going to be moving out of the clubs soon and into more concert-level productions.”

Still, the nightclub or Middle Eastern restaurant is the main place of employment for most belly dancers. Although clubs with live bands may not be as prolific as in years past, Oriental dancers still have many venues from which to choose, encompassing Greek, Persian, Turkish, Armenian, Moroccan, Tunisian, Lebanese, and Egyptian. Aside from Dar Magreb, Moun Of Tunis and The Middle East Connection, there are Darband, Marrakech, The Plaka, Burger Continental, Katoubia, Al Amir, The Athenian Gardens, Port of Athens, Byblos, Colbeh, Aladdin, Corfu Island, The Athenian, and many other venues featuring Oriental dance around town.

“These days, you’ve got to be versatile,” Anaheed says. “You’ve got to be able to dance to Greek or Persian music, which is different from Arabic. If you’re dancing to a tape, you have to make it look as exciting as though it was live. If it’s live, the drummer could be playing with you, making you look bad. You’re not under contract, you work week-to-week. There’s no insurance, and the tips are split. You have to decide that you’re willing to put up with all of it in order to perform your art.”

Not to mention the long hours waiting in dressing rooms that are usually supply closets or offices, inhaling cigarette smoke, dealing with overenthusiastic patrons who think it’s correct etiquette to grab at you or tip you with money held in their teeth…and, of course, the inevitable drunk who wants to see you roll a quarter on your belly. (Yes, it can be done by almost anyone who can perform a stomach undulation, but most dancers relegate that sort of performance to the “circus trick” category.)

“And then there’s the irony,” says Shahira, 1993 winner of the Egyptian Category of the Southern California International Belly Dancer of The Universe Competition, “That you don’t know the language—you have to be able to compete with Arabic girls who know what all the words mean and sing along while they dance, which audiences love.”

Noura, a Syrian native who lives in Los Angeles and works at the elegant Al Andalus in Studio City, has the advantage of being fluent in Arabic and English, but is just as cognizant of the competition. “In my country, or in Egypt, it is absolutely different,” she says, “The audience appreciates the dancer much more. Also, the club makes contracts with her. Here, there are lots of dancers, and some of them are kind who go see somebody dance, and then they think, ‘Hmm…I think I’ll take her job.’ You know?”

“There are lots of opportunities to dance here, though,” says Melissa Berger, a dancer and actress who recently appeared belly dancing in an episode of Brisco County, Jr. along with Jacqueline Eusanio and Atlantis. Television and movies have provided work for dancers like Veena Badasha, Fahtiem (who is a ringer for Ann Jillian, and a proficient Oriental dancer), Europa, Anaheed, Mesmera, and Michelle Forner. But the work isn’t steady—club and restaurant gigs are.

“This is how I make my living—performing and teaching.” says Fahtiem, who also heads the troupe Sultan’s Delights. “I don’t ‘do’ anything else, it’s not a hobby.”

Adds Forner: “I dance for tips—we all do. But there’s a line I will draw, like when some man is trying to grab me.”

“You know, most people who see Oriental dance see it as a beautiful art form, but there are some people for whom the stereotype still exists—or who are misinformed,” says Zahra Zuhair.

“Western audiences don’t know any better, because sometimes the dance is taken so far out of context, and there’s constant bad press focusing on it being so sexy. It’s sensuous, yes, but never blatant. I mean, this is a part of a culture. There’s a dancer at every wedding—Arab women learn this as children!”

“Unfortunately, a lot of places don’t afford the dancer an appropriate way to express herself,” says Eusanio, who is working on her dance degree at Pierce College.

“Oriental dance is a unique feminine expression, because no dancer will ever dance like any other—but it’s serious! You have to have a passion for it, be devoted to it—if you aren’t, then you shouldn’t be doing it, because it needs to taken up to the next level.”

Fahtiem agrees. “The general public really needs to be educated,” she says in a soft voice. “Most of the people I dance for are American, and they’re shocked. They’ll say, ‘My gosh—that’s really artistic!’—my feeling is that we need to transmit that this is an art, even in little ways, like belly-grams. I did one at an Acapulco [restaurant] the other day, for a dentist at lunchtime…I mean, these are people who never would’ve gone to a Middle Eastern club. To them, you’re representing the whole genre, and you have to do it with dignity and show them you have skills, and that you’re a professional—and a lady.”

At Orange Coast College, Nemeth teaches nuances of Arab culture along with the dance steps, and has presented a series of folkloric dance concerts to the students and faculty, most of whom would never have made it on their own to the clubs and restaurants that feature belly dancing. Aside from raks al sharqui and beledi, there are many traditional dances— raqs shamadan, which involves balancing a large candelabra on the head (an Egyptian wedding tradition), Turkish scimitar (a curved sword) balancing, the used of zills, (Turkish for finger-cymbals; in Arabic they’re called sagat) canes (raks assaya), handkerchiefs, and Moroccan tray dancing, which also involved balancing the object on the head, and is traditionally done by men.

Yes, indeed, there are male belly dancers. In the tradition of ballet, many of them are excellent teachers and choreographers, as well. Though dance is a daily part of life in most North African or Middle Eastern countries, and many dances are the sole property of men, Western culture has traditionally emasculated most dance forms unless they are a display of athletic prowess.

“It’s dicey here, you have to get beyond the Chippendale’s mentality,” wearily laughs Zain Abd-Al Malik. Well over six feet tall, Abd-Al Malik is even more imposing when his heavy brass tray is balanced on his head. A Los Feliz resident, he’s danced all over the West Coast, and even in Morocco and Saudi Arabia, where he lived in a royal palace for nearly a year. An article on that experience, “Bel Air, Beirut, And Beyond” was just published in Habibi, and he will be on the cover of Arabesque this spring. Although Abd-Al Malik is concentrating on scholarly research and teaching these days, he has a lot to say about performing.

“To American audiences, it’s hard to interpret the dance in what they perceive as a masculine way,” he says, exhaling his decidedly masculine Marlboro.

“The basic movements are usually seen as ‘feminine’ in Western terms, but what I’m doing is not a women’s dance.”

Kamaal (Mr. America of the Belly Dance 1986 and 1992) is a Bay Area transplant who does everything from folklore to cabaret, and deals with the same problems as Abd-Al Malik.
“You have to really come across heavy ethnic, or audiences tend to freak,” he says. “In the Bay Area, if you don’t have a male dancer, the club’s not complete, but down here, it’s different.”

“There really are more men in the business than you would think,” Abd-Al Malik says, citing famous dancers like Ibrahim “Bobby” Farrah (who also is the publisher of Arabesuque), Mahmoud Reda, and Mohammed Khalil. “Women are more in the spotlight, but the men are the costumers, the choreographers.”

Kamaal maintains both traditions—when he’s not teaching or performing, he operates a costume business, Harem Treasures.

There are not nearly as many male dancers, but they are not always in demand, either, so “day jobs” are a necessity. As odd as some audiences find the male performers, women sometimes get very uncomfortable watching other women dancing, because of the sexuality perceived in the basic motions of the dance. Most women, thought, have a very positive attitude when presented with an Oriental dancer, one that’s far more enlightened than their male companions. And some, at the first sight of dance, become hooked immediately.

“The very first time I took a class,” remembers Anaheed, “I went nuts! I was thinking, “here is the method of self-expression I’ve been looking for all my life.’ I’m not a writer, I’m not an artist—but I can talk with my body.”

“When I’m dancing for women, some women will actually have a physical reaction,” says Laurie Rose, a.k.a. Mesmera. Known for her specialty snake dance (with live boas that she keeps in her house), Rose is heavily into the feminine energy inside of the spectrum.

“Those women will have something in their body that snaps, and as they’re watching me, their body is going. ‘I WANT THAT!’ You can see the light bulbs going off in their heads—‘I could be enjoying this myself!’ They’re realizing that their back could be arching like that, their hips could be working like that. The body language of the belly dance says more than words ever say—I’m alive and creative and in touch with my body in a spiritual, joyful way. My hope is that I ignite those feelings in women…it helps empower them.”

Rose’s Silver Lake house—also her studio—is an ancient Spanish stucco affair, full of drums and African masks and incense and cassettes. There are piles of veils in the corner of the large, airy room she teaches in, and Orientalia everywhere. She talks about her theories on the dance as she putters around, dressed for class in a leotard and coin-belt, and removes a frozen white rat from the freezer.

“For the snakes!” she explains cheerily, dropping if off in the reptile room to defrost. Rose teaches about six classes a week and conducts seminars, as well. She’s been working at Dar Magreb for more than ten years and has released two dance videos. One of the dances’ most important features, she believes, is spontaneous creation. The women who attend her classes also sometimes come to the dance and drum circles she holds in various parks, where self-expression rules. Her latest venture is mixing Arabic dance with African, which she explores in her troupe, Mesmerasha.

Across town in Studio City, Zahra Zuhair’s Saturday morning classes are the polar opposite. Most of her students are working dancers, and it shows in the curriculum—mostly technique drills and choreographies done to popular songs one is likely to hear in Arabic clubs. The classes are tough and sweaty, and no one talks, focusing instead on the work at hand. Afterwards, however, it’s hard to get a word in edgewise with all the gossip about costumes, jobs, and auditions.

Both Melody and Jodhi work at Moun Of Tunis, and take classes regularly from Zuhair and other teachers. “When I first started out,” says Jodhi, who has been dancing for almost six years, “I didn’t know where it was going to take me—but I just love it.”

“It’s completely become the focus of my life,” Melody says. “I’m obsessed.” The complete absorption and, yes, obsession, is what holds troupes like Annaheed’s Perfumes of Araby together for years—decades, in some cases. Perfumes was started in the mid-sixties by Dianne Webber and is the oldest continuously performing troupe on the West Coast. Fahteim runs the troupe Sultan’s Delights, which has been together for more than ten years, and Jorjanna’s Troupe Mosaic (which also sponsors open classes every summer) has been around for almost thirteen years.

The long hours of rehearsing always pay off, and at Tonya and Atlantis’s Southern California International Belly Dancer of The Universe Competition, held every February, it’s readily apparent who did their homework. The contest, which the mother-and-daughter team has been running for four years, features cash prizes, a coveted title, and the chance to appear in front of your contemporaries and strut your stuff. In addition, the weekend-long event also includes workshops from visiting teachers, vendors, and a chance to network, culminating in a gala show at the end of the evening, after the judging. The competition itself features different categories for troupes, duos, Egyptian-style, and “The Complete Belly Dancer” –one who is able to perform under any circumstances.

This year’s contest took place at a spacious new Elks Lodge in Long Beach. We knew we were getting close when we spotted a silver Volvo with the license plate “SHARQI.” Inside, even at 10 a.m., the competition was in full swing. The halls were dotted with dancers in caftans covering their costumes. The hall itself was packed with vendors’ tables, heaped with glittering Egyptian and Turkish costumes, veils, cassettes, drums, cymbals, headpieces, bracelets, and the like. Racks of used costumes were for sale, and everywhere you looked, women were trying on fringed belts, swaying and undulating in time to the Arabic music pouring from the loudspeakers. Old friends were greeting each other Arab-style with a hug and double-cheeked kisses, and the clatter of zills and coin-laden costumes was everywhere.

The contest is a constant parade of all styles, variations, and hybrids of Oriental dance, presented by a mélange of performers, from consummate professionals to students who are competing just for a lark. To win a title ensures cachet in the form of better bookings, parties, and invitations to conduct workshops.

Watching the parade of dancers in sparkly costumes, Cookie Hamidzadeh of Turquoise International Belly Dance Supply House (co-owned with her husband, Ali) discuss the future of the dance.

“I think we’re going to swing back to the more earthy and ethnic,” she says, even as she arranges her table, full of glitzy Madame Abla costumes. The last word in up-to-the-minute Egyptian dance couture, the must-have Madame Abla stage duds run from about $600 to more than $1,000, depending on the construction and how much fringe—all hand-beaded-drips off the garment.

The Hamidzadehs have done a booming business since the early Seventies, when Ali founded the company with his own brand of finger cymbals. Now, they stock everything from the pricey, coveted Madame Ablas to hand-beaded fringe by-the-meter, to scarves, wristlets, jewelry, dancing canes, and candelabra . In addition, they sponsor dance-study tours to Egypt, and bring in well-known dancers for workshops. Their mailing list numbers in the thousands, and they are always up on the latest dance-oriented news and juicy gossip.

“I think that we’re about to experience another boom,” Cookie says. “In the seventies, Ali was selling about two thousand sets of cymbals a month. Now, it’s more like two or three hundred. But it’s growing again. People from all walks of life are getting interested for different reasons—as fitness, a women’s thing… remember, it’s going to swing back to ethnic!”

The swing may have already begun. A few groups in the Los Angeles area have started to experiment with more rootsy, ethnic forms of the dance. Europa is San Francisco émigré who did time in the Bay Area Middle Eastern club scene. When she moved south in the mid-eighties to pursue an acting career, she also wanted to return to her dance origins. A student of the renowned Jamila Salimpour, she’d danced in Salimpour’s influential Bal Anat troupe, which blended the more raw, drum-oriented forms of dance with an exotic and extravagant form of “tribal” dress that mixed Bedouin, Algerian Ouled Nail, and Turkish influences—lots sashes, antique coins, and facial tattoos. Eschewing the glitz, Europa founded her own troupe, Raks Majnoun (“crazy dance”), in 1991, with a group of like-minded musicians, including Daoud Coleman, a well-known drummer, cellist, and nai (flute) player who’d previously worked with Prince. The concept of the group was “California Arab Industrial”.

While one woman danced, the other dancers would play drums, cymbals or rek (tambourine) to tapes that Coleman had prerecorded, while he accompanied live on cello and Arabic vocals. Playing in non-traditional local venues like Sin-A-Matic, The Pik-Me-Up, and Club Fuck, Raks Majnoun may well have been he only troupe ever to have used a cello hooked up to a fuzz-distortion box, but it also brought Oriental dance to people who never would have experienced it otherwise. “What really bummed me out the most was the rise of the synthesizer in the eighties,” Europa says. “People can’t play the oud anymore—it’s going to be a lost art.”

David Hermon’s Experiencia Fantastica is a group of musicians who started playing together for fun, and whose ranks have swelled to include dancers, jamming friends, and audience members, who are heartily encouraged to participate. Hermon was a photographer and rock musician who became interested in Middle Eastern music just after his father died.

“I underwent a personal transformation,” he remembers. “One day, I was in Hollywood, the next day I was in a souk in Israel. I bought a drum…”

After returning to the States, and noodling around on the dumbek himself, he attended Middle Eastern dance camp in Mendocino. Since then, he’s been immersed in the scene. He dances with Aisha Ali’s company occasionally, and at Renaissance Faires, but most of his energy goes into Experiencia Fantastica. Hermon works with Turkish virtuosos Salah Aleddin, Joshgun Tamir (who also plays with Aman Folk Ensemble), and Abdurrahman Tanrieogen, as well as an ever-changing ensemble of other players, including the beautiful Azam, who knocks the audience out with her playing of the santour, a stringed, Persian auto harp-like instrument.

The group began playing at the Grassy Knoll coffee shop in Silver Lake and now occupies Nova Express café in the Fairfax district every other Saturday night. The crowd usually spills out onto the sidewalk, the audiences sing, clap, and play along with the rhythm toys the band provides, and the evening always features a series of guest belly dancers, who come from local troupes, the Renaissance Faire, and nearby restaurants to dance to the live music. The mood is exultant, and the nights are getting so crowded that Hermon says the entire event will soon relocate to a larger venue, West Hollywood’s Luna Park. “They’re playing and dancing for the pure love of it,” Aisha Ali says. “It’s great for them to develop as musicians, and it’s great to watch.”

Most dancers, working or not, do dance for the love of it. But in the back of everyone’s mind is the ultimate fantasy: recognition, fame, fortune … and a chance to work in the Middle East, Egypt, in particular. To dance in Egypt, is evuivalent of racing in the Indy 500 or competing in The Olympics.

Southern California’s Carolee Kent has achieved that goal; for the past five years, as Sahra, she has danced at Cairo’s posh Le Meridien Hotel. In Egypt, she has enjoyed the recognition and prestige of being a top belly dancer (which is akin to being a movie star or well-known athlete), but back in the States, the myth of Sahra has grown to almost legendary proportions. Her performance videos sell like hotcakes, and on her yearly excursions back to Southern California (timed to coincide with Ramadan, The Muslim religious observation that is roughly equivalent to Lent, in that there is fasting and most forms of entertainment are given up), her workshops and shows sell out almost immediately.

Sahra’s engagement began almost accidentally. She was in Cairo, studying with the well- known choreographer Farida Fahmy, who knew it was Sahra’s dream to perform in Egypt. As a favor to Fahmy through an agent pal, Sahra got to perform one night at Le Meridien, as part of a series of audieitons they were holding. She got the job- and had to start immediately. Hardly believeing it was possible, Sahra took the engagement and began working right away without even a chance to return home to collect her possessions.

“It was so strange at first, realizing that I was actually going to be living in Cairo—things were so different,” Sahra says. “Everything was a culture shock, and the longer I stayed, the more things seemed different—not like when you’re there for a vacation. The language barrier was tough, but now I’m to the point where I can communicate with the musicians and people on the street.
“Every time, I come back to Southern California, things seem so different. It seems that people here could become more serious… more rehearsals and discipline. But there are a lot of great dancers here, real artists, and it’s almost time that I came home. I think the next year in Egypt may be my last.”

Sahraa wants to finish her master thesis, as well as to do a large-scale choreographed Oriental video, much like an old movie. She says the most instructive part of her time in Egypt has been viewing her audiences and their observations, as well as seeing the dance in its natural context.

Anticipation for Sah’ra’s show at Al Andalus in Studio City—one of only two Southern California appearances—was running high. The eagerness was palpable inside the club, and the audience was made up of a veritable Who’s Who of the local Middle Eastern dance scene. Zahra Zuhair was there, swathed in white mink, at a front table. Zain Abd-Al Malik was there, sitting with Hallah, a seventeen-year dance veteran whose costume designs are currently all the rage. One table was headed by Shahira, Michelle Forner, and Naima; Aisha Ali was there with a group of her students; Anaheed, Yusef, and Odette of The Middle East Connection were in attendance, as was Dr. Samy Farag, a noted composer; the well-respected Jacqueline Lombard, Tahia, and the show’s producer, Linda Tesar.

“ I can’t wait until she comes on,” says Melody, with the urgency of a six-year-old about to enter Disneyland. Suddenly, the house band burst into the classic strains of “M’Shaal” and Sahra appeared in a whirl of red and gold sequined veil. The audience, as a unit, leaned forward to take in her every movement. Her face was serene and her energy seemed ethereal and quietly strong. The rich subtlety of her movements was effortless, and the classic hand and arm gestures were almost rgeal in their beauty. As she shifted into the slow taqsim (the improvisational portion of the dance) the club was so quiet you could hear paillette sequins rustling against one another. Around the room people were beaming with pleasure, watching her unbelievably precise shimmies and layered undulations. This was beyond “local gal makes good,” beyond seeing a peer that you could judge or compare yourself to. Sahra, in her performance, seemed to embody the whole essence of the dance, every nuance, every variation. This was grace and artistry and dignity, this was mystery and sensuality, the movements that have lasted through the ages and still mean something. This was what it’s all about.


PHOTOS: JEFFOTO
LA READER COVER FEATURING JACQUELINE EUSANIO AND LA READER CONTENTS PAGE FEATURING PRINCESS FARHANA

INTO THE WILD

One of my favorite things about being a professional dancer is that my jobs bring me all over the world. I not only get to earn my living doing something I love, but I also have the opportunity to visit exotic locales meet a huge number of creative, talented, dynamic, intelligent and FUN women, who usually turn into great friends. My recent trip to Alaska to teach and perform, which I had been looking forward to for over a year, was a stellar example of why I love my life. It exceeded anything in my wildest dreams, from the shows and the workshops to what I did in my off time. My sponsors Shadiyah in Juneau and Kamala in Anchorage went above and beyond in the events they organized and their hospitality. There is a very active dance scene up there and the women are dedicated to continuing their dance educations, as well as putting on a number of events open to the communities. My visit was preceded by an Alaskan tour by Canadian dancer Hadia, and everyone was already buzzing about Eva Cernik’s up-coming dates.

I even had a student fly in to Anchorage for private lessons. At first, I thought this was odd or that she must have been rich, but locals assured me that not only are visits from touring dancers so rare up there that many dancers learn solely from DVD’s, but also that some towns in Alaska are so remote they can only be accessed from ferry boats or planes.

Across the bottom of the license plates in Alaska, it reads “The Last Frontier” but Alaska was so different than “The Lower 48” that I often thought I was in a different country! To begin with, the whole place looked like a picture postcard. There were panoramic views with snow-capped mountains, vast expanses of silvery ocean bays, evergreen woods with fairytale sized mushrooms, blooming wildflowers, awe-inspiring cloud formations, and abundant wildlife. The scenery was so stunning, I joked that it seemed like there were glaciers just “laying around” everywhere you turned! The sun stayed bright until almost midnight, which was thrilling and exotic-if a little disorienting- to a California girl like me.

Then there was the “every day” stuff that was so different, too. I saw more taxidermy (in stores, restaurants, public buildings and private homes) than I have ever seen in my entire life. Every park or hiking trail had signs warning of bears, elk, or wolves. There were dog sled trucks and pick-ups with gun-racks or kayaks bound to the roof parked at convenience marts; the parking spaces had electric plug-ins for engine heaters- a necessary item in a place where winter temperatures can reach forty below zero.

It seemed as though everybody was wearing camouflage or polar fleece, and backpacks. In the airports going to and from Alaska, the TSA security checks included special “survival weapons” checks (yeah, it seemed like I was practically the only person not packing a gun) and instead of the usual items discarded in the security line, like bottled water or hand lotion, there were items like buck knives and bear spray left behind.

I visited Juneau first, and began a whirlwind with my sponsor Shadiyah, who is a criminal investigator, a pilot, a mom and a belly dancer. From the moment she picked me up, things never stopped. On the way home from the airport, she took me to see Mendenhall Glacier, which looked like a movie backdrop. Imagine turquoise blue icebergs floating around in a polar lake- it was stunning. We began my first morning in Alaska with a “typical” domestic chore: picking a 2 ½ inch porcupine quill out of her Irish Setter’s muzzle with a pliers…before we’d even had coffee! Courtesy of dancer Kat, we went whale watching on Auke Bay, with many belly dancers. The trip was gorgeous on calm seas, and we saw pods of Orca and Gray Humpback whales. The mature whales are roughly 30-60 feet long- like the size of three or four Cadillac’s laid end-to-end, or about three quarters of the size of the boat we were onboard! We saw a “bubble net feed” (a pod of whales diving in succession to churn up schools of fish to eat) and three of the magnificent beasts breeched the surface, spinning and turning in the air about 40 feet from our boat-deck. I was screaming in delight and wonder the whole time, and so were the other whale-watchers. Being a greenhorn, I thought this was normal for a whale-watching expedition, but t my fellow passengers, the crew and the captain assured me it was not. After that, it was time for an afternoon radio interview to promote our show that evening.

The show itself was held at The Rendezvous, a club in downtown Juneau and featured all sorts of entertainment. Aside from my two sets, local belly dancers performed, including Shadiyah herself, Majida (a massage therapist who worked her wonders on me the next day) and the Tribal troupe Patshiva, who were all related: sisters, daughters and mothers-in-law! How wonderful to see an extended family that has been dancing together for years. The band Noodle Of Doum played a couple of sets of Arabic/Pirate/ ethnic stuff infused with a good deal of comedy and showmanship: at one point they did a number called “Redneck Beledy” which featured Majida dancing in a plaid woodsman’s top tied up at the waist, balancing a rifle on her head! The stage manager also performed. A Juneau native who’d been living in Seattle, he performs under the name of The Luminous Pariah. "Lumi", as he is known, danced twice: once as an Alaskan fisherman in a number called “The Biggest Catch” and once in drag in an incredible Scarlett O’Hara-type hoopskirt made entirely of recycled materials (like plastic dry-cleaning bags) with a corset made entirely of duct-tape.

Workshops took place the whole next day at the creative hotbed of the city, The Juneau Arts And Cultural Center, where I taught four classes in total.The next day, Kathleen, who has been a leading proponent of the Juneau belly dance scene for years and leads the troupe Daughters Of The Moon, held a hafla at her beautifully appointed dance studio, followed by a potluck feast. The following day, Kathleen graciously allowed me to give private classes in stage make-up and sword technique at her studio, and also let us peruse her collection of hand-made costumes and belly dance scrapbooks.

Shadiyah and I left for Anchorage the next morning. Though our plane was delayed for a few hours, it didn’t matter once we touched down in Anchorage: our hostesses Kamala Stiner and Vivavoom Brrr-lesque met us at the airport in a white stretch Hummer limo, with a freshly-popped bottle of French champagne! Shadiyah and I settled into our cozy wood cabin, where Chilikoot Charlie’s put us up, the club we were appearing the next three nights. That evening, Kamala and her husband Frank took us up to Arctic Valley to watch the Perseids Meteor Shower. Though we arrived well after 11pm, we had to wait over an hour until it was dark enough to see the shooting stars, but the delay was worth it.

The next day was consumed with tech-checks for our show, “Through The Veil” plus the opening night of the show itself. Kamala and Frank have run Vivavoom Brrr-Lesque together for years, and though the troupe usually performs at Anchorage’s Snowgoose Theater, the Chilikoot Charlie’s shows were the opening of their fifth season. The troupe consists of a live jazz band, comedians, dancers and circus performers, plus special guests. Many local belly dancers participated, including Gypsy Underground Tribal duo, poi-spinning belly dance by Kimber, and an AmCab drum solo by Corliss.

A nurse by day and a dancer by night, Kamala runs a tight ship with a sense of ease and fun and the troupe has a large following in Anchorage, a city with a thriving entertainment scene: there are diverse communities of belly dancers, circus performers, alternative musicians emerging artists and burlesque dancers. The shows, held in the club’s baroque “Russian Room” theater, were a resounding success. The club also graciously lended day-time space on all three days for my workshops, which included belly dance arms, abdominal technique, fan dancing, Oriental combinations and burlesque.

On my last day in Alaska, Kamala and Frank took us on a sightseeing trip down the coast to the Alaskan Wildlife Conservancy, where we saw bear, moose, caribou, a bald eagle, and elk, buffalo and yaks. The Conservancy takes care of orphaned wild animals and endangered species. We saw the Ghost Forest, another glacier, and capped it all off with a gourmet organic dinner in the resort town of Girdwood.
Arriving the next night in LA, I knew I was definitely home: nobody in the whole airport had on Polar Fleece… I also spotted a thirty-something woman with pink hair and Anime clothes clutching an over-sized stuffed toy, and then I literally bumped into Keanu Reeves at the baggage claim.

Thanks to all the wonderful dancers I met in Alaska, and an extra special shout-out to Deb at The Rendezvous and Doran at Koots... I hope I can return soon!

Pix: Gastineau Channel from Mt. Roberts, Majida performing "Redneck Beledy", the cast of Vivavoom Brrr-lesque in The Russian Room

YOU GIVE GREAT FACE: DANCE MAKE-UP FOR STAGE AND PHOTOS

As a performing dancer of any genre, you want your face to be not only beautiful and finished, but also expressive. You will want to look fabulous- with pretty doe eyes, luscious lips and have your best features maximized. In general, belly dance make-up should exotic and mysterious, but not garish- there’s a fine line here that is easy to cross. For work where you will be seen up close, such as private parties or outdoors in the daytime, like at a dance festival, you’ll definitely need more make-up than you would wear on the street. This can be as uncomplicated as rimming your eyes with liner or powder shadow a little darker and more heavily than usual, and using a brighter shade of lipstick. Of course, if you’re a major glamour-puss (like me!) you will also want to add a bindi or two, a medium-sized set of false eyelashes, and some body glitter.

However, if you are working on a large stage, or about to have professional photos done, wearing a little more eyeliner simply won’t cut it. The first thing you must remember about being onstage or in a photo studio is that the lights will wash out your features. You may have on a spectacular costume and be dancing beautifully, but without make-up (or with "every day" make-up) your face will appear almost blank. The basic look gone over here will enhance your features and also work well with dim lighting, the kind you may encounter while dancing in a restaurant or nightclub. For black and white photos you can really pile it on; with color photos you need a slightly more subtle approach. This look may seem heavy and almost clown-like up close, but on stage or under harsh studio lights, your face will look natural, yet intense, with your features accented.

For stage and studio work, you will definitely want to wear foundation make-up, or a combination powder/foundation, because it will make your complexion appear poreless and perfect. Sheer formulas are not good or strong enough to achieve this effect- you will need a very opaque, full-coverage type of foundation to get the desired effect. In general, you would select a foundation color by matching it as closely to your own skin tone as possible. Try foundation samples on the inside of your arm, this skin tone is very close to the color of your face. For stage work, many performers like to use a foundation that is a shade or two darker than their natural skin tone, because it makes their face appear brighter and more robust under the harsh stage lights. If you are unsure what color to pick, consult with a make-up artist at a department store cosmetics counter.

To apply your foundation, use a sponge edge or clean fingers to daub the make-up onto your face, and blend it well, making sure to extend the blending onto the sides of the cheeks, chin, and onto the neck, so you don’t have a discolored, de-markation line where the foundation ends and your natural skin tone begins. Press translucent or similarly toned powder onto your face to set the foundation, and wait a few minutes for it to set before applying any other make-up. Before applying eye make-up, a pro trick is to sprinkle a good amount of translucent powder or even baby powder on the cheeks, directly under the eyes.
This will catch any “migrating’ pigments from the eye shadow you are about to apply. When you are done with your maquillage, simply blow or brush away the excess powder for a flawless finish.

BASIC DANCE MAKE-UP FOR STAGE AND PHOTOS

#1) Cover entire eye area (lid and upper lid) with beige, white or ivory shadow.

#2) Lightly pencil in brows (with short, feathery strokes, not harsh lines) and extend outward and upwards.

#3) Accentuate the hollows at the inside corner of your eye with a light brown shadow. (This step may be eliminated if you have large eyes with big lids)


#4) Use dark brown shadow or gray in the crease of the eye, and, if you like, extend it in a sweeping wedge outwards and up at the outside corner for a cat-like slant.


#5) Smudge a "V" shape of black or dark grey shadow in outer corner of eye.



#6) Softly line under the eye in back or gray shadow. Dark blue also may be used; it makes whites of the eye appear whiter. Smudge shadow so the line is not harsh.

#7) Apply black mascara to top lashes. Brown might be ok for every day but black is much better for stage and photos. Instead of mascara, which will run if you sweat while dancing, you may wish to apply false eyelashes. Most professional dancers eschew mascara altogether and use faux lashes.

“ But wait!” I can hear your panicked cry, “I haven’t the foggiest notion of how to apply false eyelashes!”

Never fear! I was taught to apply false eyelashes by (who better?) a professional drag queen! After a simple demo, I mastered the art of faux-lash application and have never looked back. It’s easier than you might think, too.
The first things you will need to do are look at the lashes, and determine which is for the left eye, and which is for the right. Yes, eyelashes are made differently, with the smaller, shorter hairs meant for the inside corner of the eye. Next, trim the lash (at the inside end) to fit your eyes. Some of us have long, almond-shaped eyes; others have eyes that are slightly rounder in shape. False lashes are meant for everyone, so most are too long, on purpose length-wise.

After you’ve trimmed the lashes, apply a thin band of glue to the base of the false lash, and let it sit for at least 30 seconds, - more like a full minute or two, until glue is tacky. The brand of the glue, or the amount you put on the lash will determine how quickly it dries. My drag queen pal used to give me this sage advice:

“ Girl, you put the glue on your eyelash. Then you walk your ass into the kitchen, and pour yourself a nice cocktail. Wander over to your closet, open the door, and think about what stunning outfit you’re going to wear. Then you take a sip of that cocktail, and figure out what jewelry will go with your dress. …Then you take a few more sips of that cocktail, til it’s almost half gone. When you’re thinkin’ ‘bout finishing that cocktail…. And only THEN… you pick up your lash, and put it on! And, honey, repeat every step for the other side!

Cocktails or not- it was good advice. The main reason most gals have a problem with applying false eyelashes is that they try to stick the lashes on when thy are too wet, which can result in slippage, or worse- actually gluing your eyelids together!

I recommend "DUO" glue in clear/white, it’s my favorite because it holds well and is the least irritating of any brand I've used. Using clear glue, by the way, is better, because it dries invisibly. If you use the dark-toned glue, it can make mistakes look very obvious. When you are ready to apply the lash, sit it on your upper eye-lid, just above your natural lash-line. Press down lightly in the middle first, and then tap the lash down lightly towards inner and outer corners. Keep your eye closed for a moment, to let the glue take hold. And back to the rest of your make-up…

#8) Finish the eye by lining the top lid with liquid eyeliner, or smudge some black pencil over the lash-line. It will hide any visible glue. If you are using big, thick lashes, you won’t even need to do this.

#9) A nice touch is to apply pearly white or light silver shadow in the inside corners, just over the tear-ducts, to open the eyes.


#10) for more glamour in a live show, lightly sprinkle glitter just under brows, or apply with a finger or paint on with eyeliner sealer to make the entire area sparkly, being careful not to get any INTO your eye. Opt against the glitter if you are doing a photo session. On film it doesn’t appear sparkly, just grainy.

#11) Rhinestones or sequins may be glued onto outer corner of eye for a flashy fantasy effect. This looks great onstage, but in photos it may appear as a white blur that will look like a scratch on the negative, so it's not recommended for pictures. To glue the stones or sequins on, simply apply a tiny dot of lash glue to the back of the decoration and stick it on where you want it.

12) For bee-stung, "kissable" lips, apply lipstick and blot with a tissue, then draw an outline with pencil just over the lip-line on your lower lip, to make it appear fuller. A small dot of white or gold eye shadow in the center of the lower lip makes it look even fuller. On stage for a natural look, use, beige or pinkish- nude lipstick outlined with mauve, purple or brown liner. Up close, it will look weird, but it looks like plump, kissable lips from far away.



13) Contour just under cheekbones and jaw line with light brown shadow or blush, blend well. Apply a pinkish color on the "apples" of your cheeks for color, especially on stage. To find the “apple”, smile at yourself in the mirror. Start with a minimal amount of color, and build from there.


14) Powder your face to set make up, either with a puff or cotton ball, and you're good to go! Make sure you bring your make up bag along for touch ups.

15) Remember to take off ALL your make-up before going to sleep!



PHOTO BY DON SPIRO

BACK TO THE FUTURE: HONORING OUR PAST TO PRESERVE OUR DANCE

Like the rest of the world, the belly dance community is changing rapidly. Modern technology, globalization, forward thinking, trends and the inclination towards Westernization in the countries of the Middle East and North Africa are all contributing to these swift changes. And, of course, the fact that Oriental Dance-in all it’s myriad forms- has been booming into a worldwide fad doesn’t hurt, either!

It’s probably not an exaggeration to state that belly dancing itself, it’s practice, application, and traditions have changed more in the past decade than it had in the hundred years that preceded the New Millennium, if not many centuries previous to that.
While the evolution of new styles and fusions within Oriental Dance are exciting, revitalizing, and amazing to watch and be a part of, we are still running the risk of seeing many elements of our beloved dance fade into obscurity, and perhaps become lost forever.

Personally, I am a huge advocate of individuals bringing creativity and innovation into the dance; I love to experiment and mix and match dance genres myself, and have become well known as both a traditionally based dancer as well as a fusion performer. When I first started dancing, nearly twenty years ago, I learned as much as I could about all facets of Oriental dance, from cultural context to genre-specific signature movements, from differences in costuming to the traditions that surrounded certain rituals. I did this because it was fascinating to me, and I was obsessively hungry for knowledge about where our dance came from. I spent hours doing research in libraries, because there was no Internet; I took classes and workshops like a maniac and became familiar with- and in many cases, well versed- in the nuances of many styles of folkloric, classical and cabaret dances from Egypt, Turkey, Lebanon, Morocco, Tunisia, Uzbekistan, Persia, and many other countries- like flamenco, Romany dances, and the like. I was interested primarily in Egyptian raqs sharki, but also learned to balance scimitars and perform raqs shamadan. I played with many props aside from those as well, incuding trays, canes, Isis Wings, fans of all sizes, etc.

After a while, I wanted to add a personal stamp to what I was doing, and began imbedding my own ideas, concepts and flights of fancy into my performances, at the same time many other dancers from all over the world were doing the exact thin, or something similar to it..

Recently, I had an experience that was kind of like one of those Oprah Winfrey “A-ha! Moments”. I was dancing at a party, and there was a woman- obviously a belly dancer- sitting in the audience who was happily wriggling in her seat. Excited to see a “sister”, I called her up to dance with me. The music playing was classical Egyptian, “Ganal Hawa” to be exact. She got up and began dancing-quite beautifully, I might add- but as we moved together, I began to feel like we were trying to converse in two completely different languages without a common ground for understanding. Though she was dancing on the beat, and looked lovely, we were not in sync at all. I mirrored her movements, but she couldn’t mirror mine. She had dance training- it was apparent- but her movement vocabulary didn’t include the typical fluidity or layers I was used to seeing.

After my show, I spoke with her, and she was indeed a belly dancer, with four years of training. Though she liked my music, she didn’t know what it was; she also told me she was a teacher, but preferred “the modern style”, she was a Tribal Fusion dancer. The thing about her though, was that for all her wonderful movement, her hips were pretty much NOT involved, what she was doing was basically a string of arm and hand movements and gestures, with some foot work and upper-body isolations. I didn’t get a chance to ask where she had studied, or with whom, or if she was self-trained.

This experience stayed with me for days, causing me to think and reflect.

I adore Tribal Fusion…. or any kind of Fusion. I also love “traditional” ATS –or ITS, as it’s now sometimes called, as well as Flamenco Arabic Fusion, Samba-belly, Raks Gothique, Asian-Influenced, …. You get the idea. But it wasn’t just that the dancer was performing something “modern”… it just didn’t look at all like oriental dance to me.

I stared wondering: what happened to just plain old belly dance?

Two decades ago, if two dancers from opposite backgrounds- say Egyptian and Turkish- got together to dance, even just for fun, there would be a shared movement vocabulary. There would be stylistic differences of course, but essentially, they would be dancing in the same “language”. One decade ago, if a tribal dancer and a cabaret dancer got together, there would still be similarities in the movement vocabulary… hip articulations, foot work, hand and arm gestures, and of course, finger cymbals would be included! Nowadays, it’s different.

Thinking about the incident with the dancer, I wondered if I was mildly upset and uneasy about this for personal (as opposed to professional) reasons. I wondered if the disconnection I felt was because I was being stubborn, an “old lady”, a belly dance Luddite or just a big ole stick in the mud…then I realized that while no one can call me a staunch traditionalist, I believe in keeping tradition alive!

I became conscious of the fact that though I sometimes choose to take creative liberties within my own dancing, I know enough about the culture, history and tradition of oriental dancing to make these artistic choices from a well-informed, educated view-point. Since we are practicing an art form whose very origins are rather mysterious, and whose historical documentation has been spotty at best, it is our responsibility as dancers to respect and preserve our past, even as we lean towards the future!

There are many ways each individual dancer can do this, no matter what sort of style of dance you prefer to perform or teach, whether you perform cabaret or fusion, whether you are a baby dancer, a pro, a student or an old hand! Here are some ideas I have used in my own studies that may help you to connect- or reconnect- to the rich customs and rituals that make our dance so unique.

Study The Dance In It’s Cultural Context
Do some homework- learn what you can about the many cultures that influenced belly dancing, and how the dance grew and changed in it’s countries of origin. This can be as simple as opening a book or surfing the Internet, or as time-consuming and costly as “making a pilgrimage” to North Africa or the Middle East. If you are a serious student or working dancer and you can afford to plan for a dance-study trip, and haven’t been to any of the belly dance “motherlands” before, it would definitely behoove you to travel with a group, lead by a knowledgeable teacher. Many are available every year, many offer payments on time. Numerous “big names”, or dance legends such as Morocco, Hadia, Eva Cernik, Angelika Nemeth, Fahtiem, Delilah, Cassandra and many others offer educational tours on a regular basis. If, in these horrid economic times, taking a trip is not an option, then try to study the same thing closer to home. Sahra Saeeda, one of the most well-educated figures in dance ethnology, not only offers educational dance tours, but has a workshop series, tailored to locals around the world, called “Journey Through Egypt”, which is an intensive and ultra-comprehensive study of Egyptian dance traditions and culture, region by region.

Familiarize Yourself With Traditional Music, Movements, And Costuming
As a dancer, you owe it to yourself, and as a teacher, you owe it to your students- no matter what style you perform or prefer- to be able to identify at least the most commonly used Arabic rhythms, as well as the movements that compliment them. You should also be familiar with Arabic musical structure, and know the titles of well-loved songs, and have a working knowledge of famous composers and singers. Do some research on line and have a look at costuming: traditional or folkloric as opposed to modern; Turkish vs. Egyptian, etc.

Study this on your own or seek out instructors who specialize in these fields, take a few classes or privates- or study via DVD’s, both instructional programs and dance documentaries. There are also many CD’s on the market offering tracks featuring Arabic drum rhythms to help you identify them.

Learn To Play Finger Cymbals
Unfortunately, what used to be a requisite for belly dancers of all stripes is quickly becoming a lost art. Keep this art alive by challenging yourself, and learning to play them if you don’t already! No matter what you call them: zills, sagat- finger cymbals, especially to “the general public” they are representational of belly dancing. No, they’re not always easy to learn, but you will be so glad you did!

Early on in my dance journey, like many students, playing cymbals daunted me. I declared to my primary teacher, Zahra Zuhair that I was only going to dance Egyptian style- and not play zills- just like she did!
She arched a well-groomed brow at me and said, sweetly but firmly,
“That’s fine- it’s your decision…. but the difference between us is that I can play them if I want to!”
Well…that kinda drove the point home to me, and even though I practically bit through every layer of my lip in the frustrating process of mastering them, I learned them well, play them often, and require my students to learn to play them, too. Again, if you don’t have time in a busy schedule for classes, there are many DVD’s on the market, which will allow you to drill your cymbal technique at home.

Get Lost In The Past For A Little While
Thanks to www.youtube.com, we all have access to a wealth of videos featuring legendary dancers- take advantage of this! Spend some time looking at cool movie clips from Egypt’s “Golden Age”, and watch Samia Gamal, Naima Akef, and Tahia Carioca in action. Have a look at Sixties and Seventies dancers like Suad Hosny, Soheir Zaki, Nagwa Fouad, or the Turkish star Nesrine Topkapi. While you’re at it, look up some North African or Lebanese folkloric stuff, traditional Rom dances, traditional dances of Yemen, Syria, Israel, Persian Classical pieces, Bollywood, Bhangara, Uzbek dance, Egypian balady… the possibilities are endless, and it’s all there for you to see and become inspired by.

Remember… it’s up to every one of us to help keep our dance alive, and by honoring and preserving our belly dance past, you can assure it’s future!

Photo: One of the many gorgeous antique oriental oil paintings at the Mena House Oberoi in Giza

LA PRINCESS ET LA POUBELLE ROYALE

"La Poubelle" for those not well-versed en Francaise means trash can. Los Angeles dancer Jennelah took this kooky snap of me and my Poubelle Royale at Cairo Caravan 2009 aboard The Queen Mary in Long Beach, California. Every time I saw a royal trash can, I giggled un-controllably!

And then I snapped this backstage picture of Jennelah- looking far more glamorous- in a custom-made costume by Eshta Amar after her awesome performance at the same event!

LADY, DON'T BE PANIC!

Hey dear readers- remember a couple of posts back, I mentioned that ten years ago, during the first Ahlan Wa Sahlan Festival, I had gotten into a big heap o' crazy trouble? About seven years ago, I wrote a short-story chronicling the events that transpired in Cairo on that trip. It wound up getting in the anthology "Pills, Thrills, Chills And Heartaches: Adventures In The First Person", published by Alyson Books. So, here it is, in all it's kookie glory.

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LADY DON’T BE PANIC!

The fat businessman flashing his brassiere in the middle of the street should’ve been a red flag, but being a Hollywood native, stuff like that happens to me on an everyday basis, so it took a moment to register that I wasn’t at home, but in Cairo. I'm a freak-magnet. Weird circumstances and insane people actively seek me out. Once in a while, the way five-year-old girls dream about being Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan, I have fantasies about living like “everybody else”- but no matter how hard I try to behave, to act normal, it never seems to work.

I was traveling with my friend Tracy, whose stage name is Layla. We both belly dance professionally, had been to Egypt before, but this time we were in Cairo for the huge Ahlan Wa Sahlan dance festival featuring classes and workshops by legendary choreographers of le danse orientale, many of whom had been famous for decades. Performers from all over the world were attending. We'd been giddily planning this trip for months, leaving messages blasting Arabic music on each other's answering machines, saving every penny for dance classes and costumes. We were not only excited about going to Cairo, but more than happy to leave our everyday lives behind. Tracy was going through a nasty divorce; I’d been dealing with veterinary and automotive problems on a constant, nightmare level. Counting the minutes 'til our departure, we breezily waved away everyone’s concerns over terrorism. Anything would be better than what we'd both recently been through! Tracy’s mom, a nice Jewish housewife from the San Fernando Valley, was almost as excited as we were. She stuffed Tracy's suitcase with munchies, trial-sized shampoos and travel accoutrements, even scored us a bottle of Valium for the plane. But the piece de resistance was the tiny, state-of-the-art video camera she gave her daughter, so the entire trip could be documented.

"This is gonna be so great!” Tracy gloated, standing in the middle of LAX, stroking the camera in a gesture not unlike a lover's caress, "We're gonna be able to record every little thing that happens to us!"

The second we stepped off the plane, conservatively dressed, trying desperately to look and act like average tourists, the Fellini shit started. It began with the hotel, which was a dump, even by Third World standards. We'd both agreed to staying in a budget place, being tough chicks who'd back-packed through Europe, camped out on beaches and stranger's floors. We didn’t need cushy surroundings, we both reasoned, we'd hardly ever be there! The lobby of Hotel Amon Toushka said it all. There were a couple of dead palm trees sitting in decomposing clay pots filled with cigar butts and crumpled up tissues. Old men loitered smoking sheesha pipes, their ratty turbans and food- stained galibiyyas barely visible through the haze of stale smoke. The desk clerk was a nastier-looking, vampirical version of Sirhan Sirhan. We considered offering him a pen (for some reason, Western style pens are in huge demand in Egypt, and are considered a status symbol that can also be given as tips or tokens of esteem) but it didn't seem as though it would change his sneering attitude. He demanded our passports immediately, as though he’d sell them on the black market the second we stepped into the elevator. Fortunately, it took almost fifteen minutes to come.

The creaking ride up to our seventh floor room was terrifying; we expected to plunge to the lobby with every lurching second. We wended our way down a narrow corridor, barely lit by naked light bulbs. The dirty salmon-colored walls were punched in every few feet; threadbare oriental carpets littered with piles of chipped plaster and discarded food wrappers were spread haphazardly over bare concrete.

Our room, of course, wasn’t made up. Damp, ragged towels covered the floor, and sagging beds revealed dirty sheets with black pubic hairs interwoven. The sun-bleached curtains had once been a gay Flower Power Seventies print, but were now torn and rotten, falling off their hooks. The indoor/outdoor carpeting was stained with grease, and a dead radio hung by its own wires from a trashed cabinet within the bedside table. Amazed to see a television set, Tracy touched it and the front control panel fell off.

There are only two phrases one needs to know to survive in Cairo. One is "In Sh'Allah,” which means " If God is willing,” the other is "No problem". They are used ubiquitously as well as inter-changeably, covering everything from the answer to a simple question, to the rationalization and/or solution for a major emergency. If something is going to happen, it will…In Sh'Allah, so you wait—no problem—as long as as you need to, until God wills the outcome.

Delirious from lack of sleep and urgently needing to flee the flea-bag, after hearing forty five minutes of "In Sh'Allah" and "No problem" (without tangible results) from the front desk, regarding everything from getting clean linens to making an overseas call, Tracy and I locked our valuables in our suitcases and made for the street, waiting the requisite half-hour for the elevator. While I was looking for the stairs, I opened an emergency exit door and made the rather unsettling discovery that the hotel simply did not exist between our floor and the lobby. There were four steps and then six stories of twisted metal and raw cement (courtesy of the last earthquake) with no stairs or even floors between the ground floor and us. Comforting!

Walking on one of Cairo’s main thoroughfares, Giza Street, between the Ministry Of Culture and the upscale Cairo Sheraton, we were approached by a tubby, balding man in Western clothes. Seemingly reaching for his cell-phone, the guy lighting-quick unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a gray JC Penney's-style, no-nonsense grandma-type bra. It was so threadbare and dirty it couldn't even begin to qualify as lingerie- even a bag lady on crack would’ve been ashamed of it! Looking directly into our eyes as he passed, he tongued his lips lasciviously and squeezed his left nipple. Stunned and speechless, I asked Tracy:

"Did that really happen?"

"I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT JUST HAPPENED!" she replied in amazement.

Our first impulse was to reach for our cameras, but by the time we had them in hand, he was gone. The soldiers guarding the Ministry Of Culture hadn't even noticed him. But we sure noticed them. And it wasn’t just their snowy white Tourist Police uniforms, a beret tilted jauntily to one side. How hard is it to miss lithe, café au lait-skinned nineteen-year-olds with Pharonic features and puppy-dog eyes—especially when they're smoking casually, wearing gun-belts and packing gigantic automatic weapons? Since our cameras were already out, we tried for a photo-op. Instead, we succeeded in attracting the attention of their first in command, a pot-bellied, toothless guy who screamed in broken English that we were violating an Egyptian law we didn't know existed: it is illegal to take pictures of anything having to do with the military. As we left, Tracy whispered, "No problem!" launching us both into fits of punchy giggles.

That night, we were determined to paint the town, even though I'd developed a nasty bladder infection. We’d been guest-listed to see the Dina, the most famous belly dancer in the Arabic world. Dina is a household word, like Cher or Barbra Streisand. We couldn't believe our good fortune. At 9:30 we began our toilette. By 10:00, we discovered the shower wouldn't turn off. By 10:15, we 'd begun a frantic series of calls to the front desk. When 10:30 arrived, the bathtub had begun to fill up, and the whole room was inundated with steam.

" No problem," said Sirhan Sirhan, in a lackadaisical, offhand tone.

Soon the bathroom floor was completely flooded, so I called again at 10:45, and tried to describe in detail, slowly and clearly, what was happening.

"LADY, DON'T BE PANIC!" he hollered in disgust, banging the phone onto the receiver.

I calculated that we'd need at least twenty minutes for the elevator to come, so if we weren't going to miss Dina, we'd have to leave now.

"Fuck it!" I said to Tracy, "We’re outta here!"

We piled our suitcases on top of the dressers, left the windows open for the water vapors to escape, and bailed, drenched as though we'd come out of a steam room.

Dina was awesome, with a huge orchestra and multiple costume changes. For the climax of the show, she danced to a song by Om Kulthoum, and the entire crowd lost it. Om Kulthoum, for those who don’t know, is to the Arabic world what Elvis is to Westerners…and then some. Like The King, after she died, she became even more famous, as though canonized. Every cabby in Cairo has a picture of her in his wallet. The first time I heard Om Kulthoum, I was an immediate convert. Then I saw her picture…and, well, let's just say that she makes Fat Elvis look dignified. The passion in her voice is stunning, but towards the end of her career, she was old and bloated, and didn’t really manage to cover it up in voluminous caftans. Nearly blind, she wore oversized Jackie O sunglasses; she had a number of double chins, which were only accented by her massive beehive bouffant, hair-do. She always sang with a white handkerchief in one hand—some said because her songs were so full of sadness and longing; others insisted it was because she was an addict who concealed cocaine in her hankie, sniffing it onstage during her lengthy concerts. Whatever… the handkerchief, like the glasses and scary hair, were her trademarks. I must say that Om Kulthoum, more than any living human being, resembles those scary old beehive haired ladies in the comic strip "The Far Side." But even mention her name and Egyptians get misty-eyed…. and seeing Dina dance to a thirty piece orchestra playing Om Kulthoum made me and Tracy so crazy we had to go out and party with George, a jovial Lebanese guy we'd just met. We went to the Pyramids Mena House Hotel, where he managed the casino, and got shitfaced on his tab, listening to stories about the multitudinous times he'd been arrested in various countries; then he took us to an after-hours disco. Somewhere along the line, we changed his name to “G-Dog.” Just before the sun came up, we went with G-Dog to his place, right around the corner from our hotel, to have a nightcap of arak (an Arab version of Pernod or Ouzo) with juice and smoke a sheesha pipe before turning in.

We arrived back at our room after the day had officially started. Unbelievably, the shower wasn’t running. Utterly stinko and jubilant that our entire room wasn’t soaked, we documented our hotel room's splendor with Tracy's video camera. We showed off every carpet stain, duct-taped piece of furniture and mildewed towel, reaching new heights of delirium, laughing so hard we ached, and then we discovered that the shower hadn't been fixed—they'd merely covered up the problem by turning our water off! A series of phone calls to the front desk ensued; all met with the standard "No problem" answer. By the time the plumber, accompanied by a shifty-looking, unsettlingly quiet security guard arrived, it was so bright in the room, and we were wearing our shades.

“Look, it's the water doctor!” Tracy cried, sticking the camcorder in the men’s faces the moment they came in through the door.

She giggled drunkenly and filmed everything, from the Arabic curses streaming out of the plumber’s mouth as he wallowed on the bathroom floor getting soaked, to my slaphappy, slurred commentary and Roto-Rooter jokes. Finally, the water pressure was restored and the guys left. Brushing my teeth with my sunglasses on, my hair wadded up into a sloppy bun on top of my head, I was struck with my uncanny resemblance to Om Kulthoum. Grabbing a bed-sheet and draping it around my body to fashion a caftan, waving a piece of Kleenex in my hand, I stepped onto the balcony and started prancing around, bellowing phonetic lyrics to a famous Om Kulthoum song, "Ya M’ Sharni" at the top of my lungs. Tracy filmed my psychotic histrionics with the Nile as a background, until I stepped inside, laughing so hard the sheet fell off.

“Keep singing!” Tracy cried, maneuvering camera angles like a guerilla filmmaker, "Do X-rated nude Om Kulthoum!"

Of course, I obliged her.

* * * * *
We spent most of the next day jet-lagged and hung over, in a cab circling endlessly around Cairo looking for a post office. The one we finally found had a mud yard, with chickens pecking around inside the lobby. Exhausted by the nearly one hundred and twenty degree heat, we sat down at a café. We needed caffeine so badly we were practically sobbing. After waiting ages to have our orders taken and longer for the coffee to get made, the waiter dropped the tray with our drinks just as he approached our table. Maintaining our composure, we actually smiled at him as he slowly shuffled his way back to the kitchen. Finally, my spoiled American need for instant gratification surfaced, mixed with my pounding hangover, and I let loose with a full dose of cranky, culture-shocked sarcasm.

“Trace- you know the Seven Day War?”

“…Yeah,” she grunted, gamely trying to gear up for a political conversation.

“If it takes this long to get a coffee,” I sighed, “I just can’t see how it’s within the realm of possibility that an entire war could’ve gotten started and finished within a week!”

She grinned at me haphazardly, her bloodshot eyes wandering off in two different directions.

* * * * * *

It wasn’t until late that night, still functioning on no sleep, yet about to go clubbing again, that Tracy noticed her camcorder was missing.

"Are you sure?" I asked, thinking it was just buried in her suitcase jumble of blow dryers, workout wear, pantyhose and lunch-box sized snack foods.

"It's gone," she said mournfully, " I looked everywhere."

Our luck was such that Sirhan Sirhan was on duty again, so I went to the lobby to call Raqia Hassan, the woman running the dance festival, who spoke fluent English. Meanwhile, Tracy came down to the lobby and started shrieking, causing a major scene. Sirhan Sirhan, the hotel's manager, and all the old men sitting around smoking sheesha stormed up to the room, throwing everything around, arguing with each other in Arabic and trying to find the camera, which they figured we crazy, rich Americans had only misplaced. All they succeeded in doing was (as we call it in the States) "tampering with a crime scene". In other words, they destroyed any evidence that may have been left behind and left their fingerprints all over our belongings. Raqia sent over one of the festival’s representative/liaisons Mohammed, who arrived looking like a slick, Eighties-style Vegas gigolo, or maybe a near-Eastern version of Don Johnson in “Miami Vice,” dressed head-to-toe in silver sharkskin.

Pissed off and keyed up as she was, Tracy took one look at Mohammed, and began covertly pointing at him, frantically mouthing to me, "HE'S CUTE!"

Trying to be serious, even in the face of Tracy's cartoon-like libidinal display (in spite of his garish taste in clothing, Mohamed was pretty damn easy on the eyes) I kept a straight face and attempted to answer questions posed in Pidgin English. Tracy alternately ranted, giggled, eyed Mohammed lasciviously, and wept.
"There, there, Trashy," Mohammed said, mispronouncing her name as he patted her back while she gave me a sly sidelong glance,” Trashy, please, don't be hysteric! Is OK… no problem!"

Mohammed had me write up a statement for "Trashy" to sign, flashing his silver Bic pen for us to use. At this point, we'd been in Egypt long enough to be duly impressed—a man is only as good as his pen, after all! So all this posturing was Mohammed's way of saying he was on top of the situation. He assured us that Egyptian police were “very clever.” Out of sheer nerves, Tracy and I were compulsively munching our way through her stash of junk food as Mohammed stared in disbelief.

Just then, with a dramatic gasp, her hands flying up to her mouth, Tracy remembered that the missing camera contained footage of my nude Om Kulthoum act, something I’d thought of grimly the very moment she discovered the camera was missing. In fact, I was reasonably sure that my nude concert was all over the Internet by now. With renewed fervor, Tracy told Mohamed it was an absolute necessity she gets her camera back, and, pulling him aside, urgently stage- whispered that there was footage of me naked. At this, Mohamed's eyes nearly popped out of his head in shock over the sinful and almost incomprehensible antics of Loose Westerners.

"We must get the camera and tape back," he said, gravely.

Then, giddy with testosterone and brightening at his good fortune to be in a room with two women who would commit such a licentious act, he leered at me pointedly and said,

"So I can see this!"

After more Arabic arguments with the non- English-speaking contingent from the lobby, which were chain-smoking cigars at a rate equal to our junk food consumption, Mohamed made it clear that it was necessary to go to the police station to give a report. As Tracy and I grabbed our sweaters, Mohamed looked us over dubiously.

"Ah…I mean no offense," he said as politely as he could muster, "But you cannot go to station looking like…" He threw his hands up heavenwards, " Like… one hundred percent… nightclub womens!"

Obediently washing off our glitter make-up, we changed into baggy, covered -up "decent” clothes as I noticed my jeans had also been stolen.

Even though it was fucked up that we’d been robbed, and that we weren't going to go out to see Lucy or Fifi Abdou dance, we both were a little excited and adrenaline -charged with the prospect of going to Police Headquarters in Cairo. It would, after all, be An Adventure.

The moment we entered the station, our illusions were shattered and we started to get scared. It was as though we'd stepped out of a James Bond movie and into Midnight Express. As our eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering fluorescent lights, we took in the cracked, filthy linoleum floors; the rat-traps in the corners; the battered file cabinets, their drawers open and bulging with folders; not to mention the surly-looking, middle-aged cops lounging on dilapidated naugahyde chairs, nonchalantly cleaning their Kalashnikov machine guns. Tracy gripped my hand so hard her bubble gum-pink acrylic nails dug into my palm. Mohamed and the head cop started yelling at each other immediately.

"Not Without My Camcorder!" I whispered, trying to put Tracy at ease with a joke.

Mohammed motioned us frantically to be quiet as the head guy, who had a huge scar down one cheek, stood up abruptly, adjusted his gun-belt in a macho pose, and said to Tracy in deadly calm, perfect English,

"Whom do you wish to accuse?"

"Accuse?" Tracy asked, her voice barely audible and quivering with terror.

"Yes, you must accuse someone!" the cop said, his gaze steely, as he took out a long knife and began tapping it impatiently on the desk.

Tracy stood silently, suddenly looking very small and young, her eyes darting around nervously before finally meeting mine. I felt skittish; my breath was quick and shallow, as I took in the whole situation, sizing things up. Self-preservation tactics and plans began running through my mind. It seemed as though… maybe we should just…forget the whole matter, go back to the hotel, get some rest, take it easy…perhaps do some light sight-seeing the next day…. Chalk up the camcorder as a loss… and say anything to get out of this situation. What's a camcorder, anyway? Just a material possession that can be easily replaced. And really, what would happen if they did get it back, and- oh my god! - Saw Naked Om Kulthoum, then what?

Quickly, reality hit me, as well as waves of dread. I felt panicky about what I'd done on film, what I’d done thoughtlessly in a foreign country. Was I out of my mind?

To me, at the time, it was just tipsy shenanigans. If I had done this at home, in Hollywood, it would've been a joke, even with the cops, but what about here? Surely, there were laws about nudity not to mention lewd conduct—was I completely insane? What the hell was I thinking? Egypt may not be as hardcore about morality and religion as Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan or Iran, where women are mandated to veil and not even allowed to drive, but still, it's an unbelievably conservative, 98% Muslim country.

I had the distinct feeling that what I did would never fall under the umbrella of Allah having willed it, and there'd be no way I could never explain away my flagrant display by saying “No problem.” Totally horrified, suddenly I felt the need to pee. Badly.

"Mohammed," I whined, like a kindergartner about to have an accident, "I have to go to the bathroom!"

Tracy was biting her cuticles, saying nothing as Mohammed regarded me and said emphatically,

"But you cannot go to the bathroom here. You must wait."

I resigned myself, rationalizing that it was just nerves and not my bladder infection, trying to breathe deeply and think calming thoughts, when the hotel's plumber was brought in, hands cuffed behind his back, looking absolutely terrified.

The cops roughly threw him onto a bench facing us and began harshly interrogating him. I openly stared at his cheap rubber sandals, worn-out pants and his haggard face, and felt horrible. He looked like a nice guy, a decent sort. It didn’t seem as though he would steal anything. He probably had a wife and kids at home in a hovel somewhere. Soon, my remorse changed to desperation: after another forty-five minutes of everyone in the room screaming at each other, my teeth were floating.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said urgently, pummeling Mohammed.

"YOU CANNOT GO TO THE BATHROOM!" he hollered,

"THIS IS BATHROOM ONLY FOR CRIMINAL!"

"I HAVE A BLADDER INFECTION!" I yelled right back, as all the policemen's heads snapped around like Linda Blair's in The Exorcist.

"But listen to me," Mohammed said carefully, as though he was talking to an obstinate child or someone with a severe mental disability, " You must wait. This bathroom is…. INHUMAN!"

"I'm going to wet my pants," I said truthfully, through gritted teeth.
Another agonizing ten minutes went by as Mohammed attempted to explain my situation to the cops, who regarded me dubiously. Finally granted reluctant permission, Mohammed took my hand tightly, and with an escort of two cops, I limped down a corridor to the toilet.

There were a bunch of men loitering around in pimpy-looking 80’s sweat suits with pagers and cheap cell-phones prominently displayed. I noticed that they were linked together chain-gang-style with Medieval-looking iron leg-shackles. Standing near them was the most over-the top, freakish hooker I'd ever seen. If she’d been a character in a Tarantino or John Waters film, she’d have been hard to believe. She momentarily made me forget my bloated bladder. Tall and corpulent, she wore a luridly patterned mis-matched skirt and low-cut blouse, which looked even more psychedelic than it already was under the strobing fluorescent lights; the cheap, sparkly fabric nearly bursting over huge, melon-like, stretch-mark-scarred breasts. Shiny taupe Spandex tights encased her sausage-shaped legs, leading to white pumps almost completely black with scuffmarks. Her massive, badly permed ‘do was bleached a sickly shade of orange, filled with plastic flowers. Her clown-like make-up resembled Joel Grey's "Emcee" character in Cabaret—two symmetrical circular splotches of red on her pock-marked cheeks complimented the harsh, silvery blue shadow which almost—but not quite—hid a huge shiner. She was handcuffed, and on one of her scratched and hirsute arms, wore bangle bracelets up to the elbow. From the noise they made—a tinkle, rather than a clank—it was obvious they were real gold- a fortune’s worth.

The guards went into the bathroom first, roughly dragging a man in traditional Saidi dress out, as he protested violently. Actually, the toilet was no worse than any other Egyptian bathroom I'd been in, except for the fresh feces smeared on the walls. There were two metal foot-forms on the floor flanking an open hole in which to relieve yourself. No toilet paper, no light. As I urinated and endless stream, sighing in relief, Mohammed guarded me, providing a human barricade so no one could open the door, which didn't have a lock. I could see his Italian loafer-encased feet planted firmly, inches from my own, outside the stall door.

Back in the main room, Tracy was still sitting morosely, looking small and scared, squirrelly at being left alone in this hellhole. More arguing ensued. Perhaps "Trashy” had brought the camera to Cairo only to lose it intentionally, so as to collect insurance? How did we know in fact that the perpetrator wasn’t one of the hotel maids?

We valiantly tried to explain that Tracy had never even insured the thing, and if she had, wouldn’t it have been much easier to just "lose” the camera in Los Angeles…why go through all the red tape of doing it in a foreign country-one with a different alphabet- for Christ’s sake?

We both were positive that the culprit was the suspicious-looking hotel security guard who’d accompanied the plumber. First of all, the door hadn't been forced, so it was obviously an inside job. Second—and more importantly—the security guard was the only person besides the plumber who'd even seen the camera. And the plumber was here, shitting bricks, probably thinking he was about to get his hand cut off or something. Plus, both Tracy and I thought it odd that if indeed the thief had been one of the naïve- looking teenage chambermaids, why hadn’t they stolen any of the multitudinous beauty products, costume jewelry or feminine clothing we’d left out? The only item stolen other than the camera was a Levi 501’ s- coveted American men’s jean that would’ve fit the security guard perfectly. With the severe language barrier, all this was almost impossible to translate to the police.

Finally, Tracy was made to sign a statement that she couldn't even read—it had been typed up in Arabic, of course. We were finally allowed to leave, just as dawn was breaking.

"I feel as though you are my sisters," Mohammed said, darting expertly through Cairo’s kamikaze traffic, apparently forgetting about being all hot at the possibility of seeing my nude Om Kulthoum karaoke act. As he dropped us off in front of the Amon Toushka, he handed us his business card , saying he would get the matter sorted out, which we severely doubted. Relieved to be done with the whole incident, we'd both written off the possibility of ever seeing the camcorder again.

We immediately started packing our belongings, planning a hasty exit. There was no way we were going to spend even another minute in the hotel. Tracy called G-Dog, who was just arriving home from his casino job.

"GUESS WHERE I'VE BEEN?" she shouted hysterically shrill and almost gleefully into the phone, "I'VE BEEN IN JAIL!!!"

After hearing an abbreviated version of our ordeal, he commanded us to get a cab to his house immediately. We could stay with him, he said chivalrously; or he would help check us into a Five Star hotel. As Tracy struggled with her overstuffed bags, waiting impatiently for the elevator, she suggested taking the stairs, too delirious to realize that all her luggage would've been totally unmanageable.

"Let's just wait," I sighed, too exhausted to explain to her that there was literally nothing between our floor and the lobby.

As we tried to beat a hasty exit, attempting to forego the proper check- out procedure with Sirhan Sirhan (whom we never, ever wanted to see again) the scene at the front desk could've been any random newsreel footage of people trying to escape a Third World country as a coup took place. Everyone sitting around the lobby, all the old men, even a bunch of newly arrived, jet-lagged, hippie-looking Norwegian tourists, got involved. Sirhan Sirhan was going apoplectic, pounding on his ledger, shrieking and gesturing wildly. On the street, the cabbie we’d just flagged down and bribed with a ten-pound note, was simultaneously stuffing our luggage into the trunk of his car while bellowing loudly, violently engaged in a duffel bag tug-of-war with the Tourist Police, who’d been summoned by Siran Sirhan.

We finally escaped, and safely at the entrance to G-Dog's building, I started laughing hysterically while Tracy broke down in the tears that had been threatening all night. At this point, we hadn't slept more than four or five hours in like…six days.

Later that day, we checked into the Ramses Hilton, where the Oriental Dance Festival was being held. The employees at reception were charming and fawned all over us, sending our bags up to our room with a crisply -uniformed bellhop and offering us a gratis cocktail we gulped gratefully while we waiting for the paperwork to go through.

We were amazed at the cleanliness and luxe modern amenities of our room. Feeling like we'd won the lottery, we noted the sparkling clean bathroom, with a tub, shower and bidet, plus fluffy, pristine bath-towels, tiny soaps and lotions neatly sealed in Hilton wrappers. There was a big-screen color- TV (that actually worked) with a remote control, double beds, and a phone whose receiver wouldn’t give you hepatitis, trench mouth or some leprous skin condition. Putting on our bikinis, we went down to the pool, crashed onto chaise lounges and ordered more liquor immediately, charging the cocktails to our room.

After the dance festival started, Mohammed came by, wearing a Mafioso-like combo of a black polyester shirt and skin-tight, white-brushed denim jeans, which unfortunately showcased his beefy thighs. Shiny-faced and sweaty, he had bags under his eyes, was in need of a shave, and reeked of cheap cologne.

"Still no news on your camera, Trashy," he said, trying to look all in charge and official with his clipboard.

We knew through the grapevine that he'd been bungling matters all week, including taking care of some other festival attendees staying at the Amon Toushka, who’d had property stolen out of their rooms. As he fumbled, flipping through some paper work looking for a police document Tracy needed to show at customs upon departure, Tracy and I both eyed him critically. There were wet rings of perspiration under his arms, his hands were shaking.

Leaning in close to me, Tracy whispered cattily,
"You know, Mohammed's not really that cute… he's kind of a dork… and he's sort of fat."

I nodded in agreement.

"All he really has going for himself," Tracy yawned, "Is a good pen!"

He was a harried, stressed-out mess, a polyester disaster, a buffoon- a mere shell of the take-charge guy he had been the week before. Chunky and inept, he was almost endearing in a pathetic sort of way. He’d put up with a lot- from us, especially. Feeling a wave of pity, for a few seconds, I wished he could see my Om Kalthoum impersonation after all. It’d do him some good, cheer him up, possibly restore his former macho jauntiness.

Tracy and I did our best to appear grateful. We tried not to roll our eyes as Mohammed continued earnestly, "…But the police, I am sure they are working on your case…"

"Yeah, sure Mohamed,” Tracy said, all Valley Girl and sarcastic, cutting him off mid-sentence while catching my eye.

She continued:
“ I know -one hundred percent…The police, they are very clever!”
Her sarcasm sailed with an almost audible swoosh right over Mohammed’s head as she drawled,
"No problem!"