Midrift Madness
I don't know why I first decided to take up belly-dancing. Was I following the recent fashion set by Shakira's or Britney's slinky shakes? Unlikely, since I was, at the time, trapped in the warped fashion world of Russia, where mullets, flatheads, and shoulder-pads still get past the editors of glossy magazines. Was it as an antidote to exercise-ennui? No such excuse. Living in Russia meant renouncing exercise (as well as wildly or even mildly exciting fruit and vegetables). Going for a run would have been the ultimate cross-country challenge: whopping twelve-lane roads to cross, with illogical traffic rules and unpredictable cars; in the winter, icy pavements, considered an extension of the road by Russian drivers; and in the sweltering summer, pollution levels that turn a white shirt grey on the walk to work. Perhaps I chose belly-dancing as a token gesture towards having an exotic life (or even a life) when I returned for my final year. Yoga seems too much like "stress management". Or so say all the helpful magazines I don't have the time to read. If finals were a Russian road, it would have at least ninety-nine lanes.
Whatever the motivations, I've now officially progressed from belly-dancing "initiate" to "beginner". Last week we learnt the challenging "camel" move. No kicking and spitting involved: it's more a graceful undulating of the torso - though anyone seeing my hilarious jerks would think I needed a doctor. Last term we performed in a belly-dancing "hafla" party at St. Hugh's. Thirty minutes before the start I still didn't have a top to wear. I wanted to bear my midriff in true Western style so my usually unassuming neighbour had the ingenuity to staple a vest-top to me as I fumbled with the rest of my costume. This term's "hafla" might be in the Zodiac, normally associated with gyrations of an altogether different kind.
I do secretly enjoy the raised eyebrow of interest, guaranteed whenever I mention my belly-dancing hobby - probably more for the impression it gives that I lead an exciting life, than the saucy images it invariably evokes. The first thing we learnt about belly-dancing - or "Oriental dance" as it should be termed - was that belly-dancing (oops) isn't the sexy, slightly naughty activity most Westerners and my mother perceive it to be. Type the inappropriate term in any search engine and you'll find many passionate websites deploring the pervasive misconceptions about belly-dancing (oops, I did it again). No, it didn't originate in the harem for the sultan's titillation. Women writhing in sequinned bras baring much midriff are actually a Western development: traditionally the stomach is covered (the whole "less is more" idea, I suppose). Indeed, not just women, but men and children belly-dance in the Middle East on festive occasions like weddings or the birth of a child. And it doesn't make you more fertile (though it might improve your seductive powers!)
Funnily enough, the more indignant defences of the dance seem to come from Western women (their images pasted in all their sequinned glory on the websites), describing at considerable length its "wholesomeness". The ladies do protest too much, methinks. One wonders: was it this "wholesome" image that first thing that attracted them to belly-dancing? Doesn't it take out the fun if you don't visualise moves like "Hey! Look at what my hips can do!" or "No chance mate!"? I remember now why I took it up. It does feel slightly naughty and sensual, but mostly fun. If I get good enough, I might just belly-dance around some exotic country when I'm finished with finals...
13th Feb 2003