Heat, Dust and Dirt Bikes in Egypt

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Did you know Egyptian men belly dance? I didn’t, which is I was keen to meet Aleya, an American bellydancer who transplanted herself in Cairo to learn from the masters in the home of the Belly Dancing. Only problem being, the Home of Belly Dancing no longer welcomes belly dancers, unless it’s for tourists on the bright-lit Nile dinner cruises, or in seedy underground cabaret bars. It’s tough times to be a belly dancer in a nation constantly slipping into religious conservatism. Once the pride of the harem and the pinnacle of sexuality, the largely tame belly dancers are regarded nowadays as whores and harlots, entertainment to be tolerated for tourists. It’s traditions and beauty, it’s art and skill, are slowly being sunk to the bottom of the Nile. In a city where women are advised to cover their heads, and where many cover their entire body save the slit of their eyes, there’s no room for bellies and sequined brassieres. Aleya, a busty and boisterous Latino, waves off insults and dirty leers the way you’d wave off flies in the bush. “Haram alayik, emshee!” Shame on you, go away! She accompanies us to Khan Al-Khalili to get kitted out. Here we entered four floors of bright coloured sequined dresses, a virtual bellydancing megastore, hidden into an alley, decidedly low-key. Men typically wear robes, but for the sake of quality entertainment, I picked out purple pants, flecked in gold sequins, with a red fez hat for effect. Julia found a gold ensemble, and we headed to a dance studio to learn some basic moves. It’s quite the workout, involving a lot of core exercises, hip shakes and stomach pulls – by the end it’s easy to see why belly dancing has taken off as a gym alternative, and why dancers like Aleya feel its addictive. We were joined by a small man with a large drum, and shook, rattled and rolled our bellies to the amusement of kids waiting for their ballet lesson. Later that night, we ate dinner aboard a Nile Cruise with dozens of other tourists, watching traditional musicians soundtrack a whirling Dervish, a man who gently spun in a circle for a half hour without stopping once. The main act was an Argentinean belly dancer who wooed and wowed the Chinese, shaking her belly evocatively, rattling the pillars of Islam. The boat cruised along Cairo’s riverbank, hushed by the din of traffic, a fog of pollution protecting the stars above. This is a city of secrets. It would take months if not years to try and figure them out. It’s better for tourists to just hit the museums and the pyramids, the cruises and souvenir markets. It’s perfectly safe to pop the bubble (I enjoyed a great haircut and barber shave in a smoky salon), but the heat, dust and noise quickly take their toll.

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