First Mid-East Gig - Part Two
Who was this beautiful goddess sitting across from me? Joseph and Habib were talking and waiters hovering while I am marvelling at the dark round eyes, big as coins, on the other side of the table. We had been quickly introduced. Afaf was her name. I had never heard such a name before so I played with it in my mind’s ear to get acquainted with its simplicity and complete mystery. The same syllable twice was dumbfounding me. Afaf was the first female I had met since arriving in Amman a few days ago.
It was 1983 and I was in Jordan as the warm-up act for Joseph Salama, a Lebanese singer from Canada. He billed himself as the Canadian singer when in the Middle East and the Lebanese singer when performing in Canada. He had spotted me at the Sheikh Nightclub in Toronto. I was a very new and green dancer but being Canadian myself, blonde, blue-eyed, leant itself well to his branding.
Joseph had recommended me to the hotel for their nightclub show. Part of the deal for me to accept the contract was that they also send an extra plane ticket for my mother to escort me. I was 23 years old but my naivety and knowledge of the world was that of a 14 year old. When we arrived at the airport in Amman, the group of hotel and nightclub managers were furious. After a lot of yelling in Arabic which I did not understand it was finally explained that I was to go home on the next return flight. There is no way this short blonde girl with her mother in tow was a legit Bellydancer.
After more arguing, we were ushered into a car. A tense angry silence then ensued until we arrived at the hotel. There was no checking in. Even our baggage was left in the car. Instead, we went directly to the nightclub where eight musicians were warming up on stage. More people followed us into the nightclub. All were men. Were there no women in this world? The musicians seemed kind. They smiled at me but everyone else hated me.
Then the musicians started playing music that I recognized and it was amazing, rich and full with the oud, qanoon, violin and tabla filling the room and my body. A thousand times better than what I danced to in Canada. I was sitting on the edge of my chair enjoying the music when the band stopped abruptly and more yelling. Finally, Joseph came over and explained that this was a rehearsal or “provo” as it was known in the nightclub world, arranged especially for me. I thought how wonderful that they take rehearsal so seriously here. Getting musicians to rehearse in Canada was like pulling teeth.
So now I listened to the music intently, planning out my moves and the staging I would do with this full bodied music. I was pondering how much I am going to love dancing to this music in performance when ... more yelling, now with slamming. Joseph came over to me again and begged me to show them a few steps. That is when I learned of how this was actually an audition that could possibly result in returning to Canada immediately. Apparently, my continuing to sit was confirmation that I could not dance.
So I went to centre stage in silence as eyes in all directions stared intently. The band started up again, I did a couple of hip kicks and undulated while rotating in a circle, all the while thinking they cannot possibly see my moves under this puffy woven skirt and blouse. Not more than 10 seconds had passed. The music stopped, but this time all were happy and laughing, slapping each other on the back. Now, everyone was beaming smiles at me. The musicians were talking amongst themselves except for the very young accordion player. He had big wide eyes only for me.
My mom and I got settled in. A real rehearsal took place the next day which was easy going, relaxed with food and drinks, like a private party. I could choose any songs I liked but it didn’t matter, whatever they played filled me with joy. Even I was surprised by the dancer I had transformed into overnight with this team of musicians behind me. I even had my own singer. And to think I only took the contract because of its proximity to Egypt. That quick week in Cairo before the contract was to start let us enjoy Fifi Abdo and the pyramids. Initially, I had no real interest in Jordan but this peaceful land soon became my beloved home.
Then it was opening night. A very tall body guard came to pick my mother and I up at our room. No one was allowed in the elevator with us and the bodyguard. The elevator doors opened and the relaxed rehearsal world was turned on its head. Upbeat music was blaring and boisterous voices got louder as we approached. Excitement was in the air and my tummy churning with nervousness. With a sweet smile the polite maître d’ showed me the way and made it very clear my mother was not allowed in. He spoke English and explained that unescorted women were not allowed into a nightclub.
My mother’s response was “I did not fly across the Atlantic to NOT see my daughter dance”. And here we go again with the Arabic yelling. Down at the front desk, the night manager asked if we knew someone in Amman who could sit with my mother for the show. And yay, that guy we sat next to on the plane from Toronto to Amman and the one who helped us through customs were both Jordanian and had both given us their phone numbers. One could not attend, but said he would come the following night with his family. The other drove over right away. I refused to dance until my mother was in the nightclub.
I do not remember much about that first performance except that the audience was silent and looked confused, definitely not welcoming. I do remember coming off stage and heading directly for the WC and vomiting. I am not sure who was afraid of who more; me of the audience or the audience of me. But we warmed up to each other in the following nights. The show was a hit and sold out every night.
My mother and I ventured out of the hotel the next day and asked the taxi driver to take us to downtown Amman. We entered a store and looked around. When we came out there were a few young teens at the door. They followed us to the next store. Every time we came out of a store there were more young people until we had own very own parade.
Then I saw it, a huge circular pit where inside were hundreds of tents. You needed to go down steps to get in. We lost our parade but as we entered I saw three embroidered gallabeyahs hanging on a clothesline. I had always wanted one like I saw my first Bellydance teacher wore. They sold in an artsy store in Toronto for $600. The price here was three dinars. I freaked. That was $9 so I bought all three and asked if there were more. All of a sudden we were surrounded with women waving gallabeyahs at us. Things got boisterous and impossible to navigate. The police came, escorted us out to a taxi cab and asked me never to come to the Suk again. I was sad; I really wanted to see the whole Suk but feeling victorious that I had a treasure of three embroidered gallabeyahs.
We asked the taxi driver to take us to eat good food. He dropped us on a dirt road lined with food kiosks. He pointed to one and said it was the best and that he would wait as we got the food to take back to the hotel. I learned that all the people on this street were Palestinian and they were very proud to introduce us to Musakhan. It was barbequed chicken wrapped in very dense oily bread covered in sautéed onions with a tangy spice that made everything purple. Oh my goodness, it was delicious. Even though it made my tummy too heavy to dance, we went back several times for this Musakhan. Sometimes we stayed at the kiosk to eat and learn about the Palestinian people and why they were in Jordan having being ripped from their ancestral homes.
One morning we were invited to breakfast with Joseph’s hairdresser Habib and his girlfriend Afaf. During breakfast, I would steal glances at Afaf and she did the same. Her eyes were sad but her mouth always smiled. Finally, smiles turned into giggles. We did not speak the same language but our future as besties fraught with pain and magic for the next 10 years was launched.