Some guys aren’t content to take the chance. Stories abound of women out driving, only to have a car pull up alongside, a window come down, and a cell phone thrown into their car. Other men go the extra mile. Saskia was driving home late one night when a dishdasha-clad driver actually cut her off, forcing her to pull over. “He jumped out of the car, came over and introduced himself, and asked me to go to a party!” she says. “He said he needed a western girlfriend to accompany him to the party and said he’d even pay.”

When it comes to dating, this city is a mini United Nations. Iranians dating Brits Filipinos dating Brazilians Canadians dating Palestinians. Everyone is having fun here trying to avoid the insanity of the region. Some of us, however, just hang out at places like Dunkin’ Donuts. How sad.

Night Of The Belly Dancer

While huge numbers of Dubai’s resident expatriate population hit the zillions of multi-ethnic restaurants and ‘cool’ Western-style bars in the evening, not too many of them go to the Arabic cafes. For one thing, these restaurants don’t kick into high gear until after 10pm. Also, traditional Arabic music plays a large part of the experience and if you don’t understand Arabic, the songs all sound the same: somewhat dissonant, the pitch of the singer’s voice rising and falling like a roller coaster. 

Last night I went with my friend George, a Syrian Christian, to one such restaurant, located in the depths of a palatial Holiday Inn. We had been planning to avail ourselves of the fine cuisine at Hardees, but one of his friends invited him and me to join a little party in progress and witness some belly dancing. 

Like most Arabic late-night restaurants, the place was quite dimly lit, soft lighting barely illuminating the stucco walls from which rounded protrusions extended, making me feel like I was walking into the interior of a cave. But the tables were elegantly set, the waiters in suits, and high-tech theatrical lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling in front of a tiny stage. Five musicians sat resting as we entered, holding an array of strange-looking instruments. 

One thirty-something musician held an ‘ud, which is a half-pear-shaped string instrument held rather like a guitar. Beside him was a man cradling a tablah, a small hand drum. Just so that there would be enough percussion, another musician had his taar, a frame drum that looks like a huge tambourine. There was also a keyboard. I didn’t see what else there was because an older local man dressed in his crisp white dishdasha—the only guy in the restaurant so garbed—was waving George and me over to his table. Beside him was a lovely though slightly chunky blond woman, whom I took to be Russian. Another less attractive woman sat opposite her. Also at the table were two Syrian businessmen, cheerful fellows in their late thirties who were our hosts for the evening.

I was a bit overwhelmed as we sat down. In true Arabic fashion, all manner of dishes were spread across the table: finger bowls of hummous, olives, salads, sliced meats, and caviar. At my end of the table stood a bottle of whiskey, and wine was chilling in a bucket. I felt the financial alarms ringing.

“I thought this was just going to be some belly dancing,” I whispered to George. As the musicians started playing, George said, “Salim’s paying. Remember, he owns a gold shop.” 

The belly dancer came out, a gorgeous Lebanese woman with flowing black hair, exotic eyes, and, well, not a lot of clothes. She danced across the floor, shimmying and swaying, smiling all the while. Her crimson-colored bikini bottoms were veiled by tassels that were flung wildly by the girl’s wiggling. At one point, the man with the taar descended a step onto the dance floor, beating his drum with heavy strokes. The girl produced a short cane and proceeded to dazzle the audience by laying it across her breasts—where it magically stayed.

Now for a quick interruption while I give some background on belly dancing, which is shrouded in myth. For one thing, the term ‘belly dancing’ was coined by Sol Bloom, an exhibitor at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. His exhibit was entitled The Streets of Cairo, and he needed to attract customers.

Middle Eastern women have always danced, but primarily for their own entertainment, for the most part, at festivals, wedding celebrations, and the like. It was also a way of helping women prepare abdominal muscles for labor. Incidentally, the word ‘harem’ comes from the Arabic word ‘haram’, which means ‘forbidden’. Men were not allowed into the parts of the houses in which the womenfolk lived. 

So why was this young woman flitting about the dance floor and moving her hips at warp speed? Because European colonial powers, and later Hollywood and Sol Bloom, created the image, and tourists to the Middle East want to see ‘belly dancers’. The west solidified the image of the scantily clad harem girl with a gem in her navel (another Hollywood invention). 

The woman danced for twenty minutes or so and took a well-earned break. The band continued to play, and as the wine flowed, a few couples wandered onto the dance floor, one young woman in Levis doing imitations of the belly dancer. The crowd was happy; arms were undulating in the air like crazed cobras (I’ve noticed enthusiastic Arabs do this). The old guy in the dishdasha kissed his Russian ‘girlfriend’, and I saw the tiny golden cross hanging around her neck. I drank another glass of wine while thinking of tassels. 

To see more photos of Dubai Click Here

The following article is the first article that Scott wrote for the magazine:

• DUBAI: You Never Imagined A City Like This ~ Having Fun In Dubai 

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