Adjustments

I just
realized that I have been living here in Cairo for more than three years. This
is a long time for someone who never intended to live or work
here. With all the uncertainty in the air about Egypt’s future, one
wonders how much longer I and others like me can thrive here. But rather than
speculate about the future (again), I have decided to reflect on my past and
share a few of the adjustments I made as a dancer. There were many,
because belly dance outside of Egypt is a totally different animal than belly
dance inside Egypt. There were adjustments in technicality, musicality,
and even physicality. There were adjustments in music selection and music
understanding, costuming and audience. And there were changes in attitude,
ethics and comportment.

Technique

Perhaps
one of my biggest initial challenges as a foreign student of Egyptian dance was
learning proper technique. Egyptian technique is much more subtle,
nuanced, and intricate than what most of us learn back home. Movements are
smaller and more precise, more controlled and more meaningful. Upon studying dance
here, I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew and start from
scratch. For example, in the US, I learned to do everything
in plié. Shimmy in plié. Hip drops in plié. Figure 8’s in
plié. I never noticed how bent my knees were until I came here and
Egyptians pointed it out. Not only do bent knees look bad, but they
prevent us from making our hip movements as powerful as possible. I have since
straightened up and become a stickler for straight knees, as anyone who has
ever taken class with me can attest. 

No
sooner had I replaced my American technique with Egyptian vocabulary than I met
my next challenge: slowing down. Non-Egyptian dancers have a tendency to
do too much too fast too soon. If we don’t cram all the moves we know into
one piece of music, if we don’t hit every single doom and tak, we feel as
though we’re not doing the music justice. This isn’t necessarily the
case. Less really is more. Slowing down is probably THE single most valuable
piece of advice I have heard in all my years here, and it came from none other
than Sara Farouk. I consider Sara one of Cairo’s best kept secrets. She is the
organizer of the Randa Kamel of Course intensive held twice a year here in
Cairo, and an assistant to costume designer Eman Zaki. More than that, Sara
is one of the best belly dance instructors I’ve encountered, and a really good
friend. She has a talent for spotting all of your belly dance flaws and
correcting them. Now, every time I go on stage, I think of Sara and make a
point of slowing down and feeling the music, no matter
what I’m doing. 

The
Show

These
were some of the technical adjustments I had to make as a student relearning
how to belly dance in Egypt. When I finally found a stage, however, I had other
things to think about.  For starters, the shows here are longer. A
typical belly dance performance at any hotel, boat or wedding runs between 45
minutes to an hour. They are not the 15 to 20 minute gigs
we do back home in one costume. Each show is divided into 2 to 5 sections,
depending on the performance format of the venue. The dancer changes her
costume for each section, and performs to a different sub-genre of Egyptian
music. For example, in the first set, the dancer will usually dance to an
instrumental entrance piece, which is what Egyptians call the mejance,
and followed by one or two classics. This takes anywhere between ten and
twenty minutes. She then changes her costume and dances her second set for
another ten to twenty minutes. Typically, the second set involves some
type of folklore and shaabi music. Whether it’s saidi, iskanderani,
Nubian or khaligi, the dancer costumes appropriately. For the third set,
dancers usually wear another belly dance costume and continue with things like sharqi,
baladi, and finish with a drum solo. Some performances deviate from
this, but this is generally the standard belly dance show format in
Egypt. 

Because
the shows are longer and more comprehensive, I had to really brush up on all
types of folklore. I could not rely on all the (con)fusion I learned back home,
because things like wings, fan veils, swords, and candle trays just don’t cut
it here. Egyptian audiences want to watch you dance, not do circus acts. This
was actually a relief for me, as I never really enjoyed dancing with props. 

Music

Music
selection was another big one for me. Because the Middle Eastern community
in New York is diverse, I would dance to Egyptian, Lebanese, Syrian and Turkish
music all in one set. In Egypt, however, people’s taste in music is well,
Egyptian. Unless it’s George Wassouf or or someone like Melhem Barakat, I
learned not to deviate too far from the standard Egyptian classics that all
Egyptians know and love. I also learned that I really need to understand song
lyrics. Not so that I can play charades on stage, but so that I can be
emotionally in tune with the music.

Physical
Appearance

Physically,
I’ve also undergone some changes… for the better, I like to think. For the
first two years that I lived here, I was sickly skinny. You could see my
ribs, and I had no rear. This was odd, being that I had always been
slightly on the round side. It’s not that I was on a diet or even exercising
that much. I was, however, under a whole lot of stress. Between
adjusting to the culture and constantly dealing with selfish, narcissistic
types, I entered into a depressive slump that affected not only my weight, but
my entire outlook on life. Luckily, I was able to make the changes I
needed in order to restore my health, happiness, sanity, and love
handles.  Not to mention my big old butt….

…which
is having a difficult time squeezing into costumes these days. (Thank God I
live within a three-mile radius of Eman Zaki and can have costumes custom
made!). Any other girl would be freaking out if she gained the 25 pounds that
I have gained since moving here, but not me. I’m proud of them. They serve
me well on stage. I kind of like how every sharp movement I do now has an
unintentional shimmy reverb. Not to mention, Egyptians like a little more
junk in the trunk. So it all works out.

Which
brings me to my next point.  Dancers here are encouraged to select
the costumes that flatter their curves the most. That means tight-fitting
lycra skirts that trace every dimple and cellulite deposit on your thighs and
butt. Sexy. The more traditional chiffon bra and belt numbers are no
longer in fashion. Nobody wears them here. Ever. Nobody does
fringe that much either. This all came as a shock to me when I first
arrived here, because most of us wear these traditional bedlas back
home. Except for the lack of fringe, I have taken quite a liking to the
more modern costumes, even if they do define my thigh dimples every now and
then. With lycra, the possibilities are endless. From newspaper-print
lycra to heavily-sequined spandex, stretch fabric has stretched our
imaginations to the extremes. Hence, fabric shopping has become a regular
part of my weekly routine. This is why I now own more than 30 pieces of
fabric, all waiting to be transformed into gorgeous costumes.

Attitude

Alongside
all the changes I made in technique, music selection, and costuming, the
biggest adjustment I have been making is one of consciousness. I no longer
belly dance. I am a belly dancer. Meaning, belly dance isn’t
just a hobby I do on the weekends to make a few extra bucks. It is my full-time
job now, and it pays my bills.

I am
also no longer a one-woman production the way I was in New York. Back home, I
would show up for my gigs, CD in hand, ready to dance for fifteen minutes and do
it all over again at the next venue. It was just me, myself, and I. Here, I am
part of a larger team of musicians, managers, agents, and male dancers… you
know, those young guys who do the cheesy YMCA-type movements at the beginning
of any belly dance show? They also share the stage with me when I perform any
type of folklore. Because we interact with each other while dancing saidi
or Alexandrian, we actually have to conduct rehearsals from time to time. This is
always fun(ny).

Though
I am technically part of a team of musicians an ddancer, the concept of
teamwork does not always apply the way it would outside of Egypt. For example,
Egyptian dancers see (and often treat) their musicians as inferiors.  As tools. Foreign dancers are taught to do the
same.  Unnecessary interaction with the
band is strongly discouraged, which means there is little to no camaraderie
amongst coworkers even though we see each other every day. I’m sure each
dancer’s situation varies somewhat, and there are examples of dancers breaking the rules, but generally this is
the dynamic between a belly dancer and her band. I personally try to keep
things a little less formal and more humane, but this doesn’t always work
out. 

The
relationships amongst dancers here is similarly uncordial. Again, there are
exceptions to this, but for the most part, there’s no sisterhood between belly
dancers the way (we think) there is back home. This is because there are fewer
work opportunities than there are dancers, so dancers tend to view each other
as competition, not as friends. Though this holds true around the world, the
situation doesn’t seem to be as cut throat as it is in Egypt. In New York City,
for example, most of the dancers were (and still are) friends. We would hang
out, work with each other, drink with each other, take class together, etc. Here,
dancers generally avoid one another. If
they interact, it’s usually in a negative, destructive way, such as reporting each
other to the belly dance police, or stealing each other’s costumes. Both of these
things happened to me. This is unfortunate, considering we have so much in
common, but I was warned about this when I first moved to Egypt. Even though I
had no intention of performing, my Egyptian dance teachers would always tell me
to avoid making friends with dancers. I do see the wisdom in this, however there
are a couple of dancers whom I respect and admire greatly, and with whom I stay
on friendly terms.

Contract

The
fact that I am now contracted means that my job imposes certain responsibilities
on me.  Kind of like any other ‘normal’
job would. For example, no matter how sick I am, I can’t just not show up
for work, or send a replacement and hope they like her. I also have to
constantly update my costume wardrobe. In short, I have to be on top of my
game, because in Egypt, the belly dancer is the reason for the evening. Egyptians
and tourists go to venues that feature belly dancing specifically to watch the
dancer. Not like in the US, where people go to restaurants to eat, and ‘oh
by the way’ there’s a belly dancer. When you’re a ‘by-the-way’ belly
dancer, you can get away with not doing your best—your audience is more
interested in that chicken on the plate anyway. In Egypt, all eyes are on
the belly dancer for the complete duration of her performance. So, there is
more pressure for her to be at her best (assuming she cares). In the end,
however, it is totally rewarding. Both Egyptian and foreign audiences appreciate
a good show.  In fact, it is quite common for audience members to
treat good dancers as celebrities… running after them before they disappear
into the changing room, begging to be photographed with them, kissing them, or hiring
them for so-and-so’s wedding.   

I will
never forget my very first show in Egypt two years ago. It was at a remote
Red Sea resort two hours away from Cairo. Before I could even finish
taking a bow, I had almost the entire audience up on stage with me—kids, moms,
dads—kissing my sweating face and pulling me alongside them to take pictures. Never
before had I seen an audience react to a belly dancer this way before. I
was overwhelmed by the love. At first, I thought maybe it was just this
particular audience that was particularly warm, but the more I performed, the
more I encountered similar reactions. I’ve heard other popular dancers in
Cairo relate similar experiences as well, which means Egyptians really appreciate
a good show.

When
people ask me what is keeping me in Egypt all this time, I answer, this.
Knowing that I have made people happy with my performance. Knowing that
audiences truly appreciate my art. Because other than great audiences, mostly
everything else that comes with being a belly dancer in Cairo is some type of
nastiness. Indeed, one of the mysteries of the universe is how an artist makes
so many people happy could be considered a hell-bound prostitute by those same individuals. It’s
a real mindfuck, let me tell you… feeling like a sinner and a celebrity all at
the same time.

One
thing is for sure: I am neither a sinner nor a celebrity, but I have learned to
accept that other people see me as such. More importantly, I am a different
dancer than the one I used to be in New York, and a different dancer than the
one I will be in two more years… because each night on the stage is a learning
experience as much as it is a gift.