Helpful Hints for Western Women living in Saudi Society: Rule # 4

Do not dance with married men at mixed parties.

Case in Point:

Being invited to a private house party within the first two weeks of our arrival seemed to be a feat of immeasurable proportion.  This surely symbolized acceptance, as these partygoers would be the liberal elite.

I had no idea what to expect, but I had this feeling that I was about to be baptized by liquid fire, or scrutiny which ever came first potentially.  The thought of no social lubricant to ease the social situation was a bit of a stress.

The important points to remember:

1) Don’t look offended when people automatically assume you are American, this puts people off

2) Introduce people with thoughtful details (Thank you Bridget Jones)

3) Don’t fall and break your neck in those stiletto heels while swinging your borrowed Coco Channel handbag sans Kleenex (why can I never remember Kleenex?)

4) Smile and nod even if you do not understand Arabic, or thick accents

5) Kindly excuse yourself to the bathroom if you have nothing intelligent to say and or feel that others are discussing you in Arabic while in your presence

6) Under no circumstances do you tell anyone you are a mere farm girl from Rodney Ontario with a deep-rooted red neck family bloodline

7) Always reek of confidence as you are not wearing cologne

8) FAKE IT till You MAKE IT (Words to live by Thank you Kathleen)

En route, I had envisioned the party scene in my head many times over.  I was certain that it would be similar to the house parties back home minus the keg of beer and keg stands of days gone by.  I did however assume that the majority of the guest would be huddled in the kitchen, a phenomenon typical of the Canadian house party, but surely synonymous the world over.

Leaving my abaya in the car, we streamed toward the house brimming with excitement.  I felt an adrenaline rush knowing I was exposing my feminine form in the Kingdom, my subdued version of streaking in public. 

You could have imagined the shock evident on my face and portrayed through my body language when we waltzed through the door to be confronted with a scene that emulated that of a  “western culture” grade eight-graduation dance party.  I think my jaw literally dropped open. This was nothing I had expected at all, I guess I really was not sure what to expect!   Then it dawned on me that the fact that men and women were converging together for a party was a mere miracle in and of itself.  Typically men and women celebrate occasions, even weddings separately here.  I felt so privileged to be included in this monumental shift in paradigm.

The cloth covered tables, and chairs were arranged in a circular pattern around the implied dance floor.  The DJ was playing loud top forty tunes, the fog machine was in overdrive, and the crazy laser light show was tripping the light fantastic.  For a moment I thought for sure I smelt burnt toast, but then I just realized that my stomach was in my throat, and all eyes were on us, skeptical of who we were and whom we had arrived with. 

Matt nodded reassuringly moving me forward, and I reached for his hand squeezing hard.  Before I knew it I was introduced to the room of reserved shy guests, and found myself sitting in a chair being served decadent ice cream treats by a band of elegantly dressed servants.  The tabletops were flooded with complimentary packs of cigarettes, red bull, and various other beverages. 

To my amazement, everyone had their chairs turned to face the dance floor, and where sitting or standing dancing in front of their chairs, no one dancing together, with one another.  I was aware that I was most likely feeling uncomfortable with all eyes on me because my chair was facing them all straight on and I was not chair dancing.

I sat taking in the whole sensory overload situation, and feeling the tension in the room building decided to jump in with both feet, if this was a mixed party then lets get it started with a little western flavour! 

I leapt out of my seat, and grabbed a gentleman by the arm dragging him to the dance floor.  His eyes darted from me, to Matt, to his wife, and back to me over and over again.  In this gesture, I had broke all of the cultural norms in one sweeping motion. I was not wearing an abaya, dancing with another woman’s husband.

Being at a party on a compound, I assumed all norms of Saudi culture would be tossed aside, and I was free to shake my ass with whom ever I pleased.  My dance partner’s wife looked very unimpressed, so he dismissed himself and returned back to her side, but I did not give up.  I kept grabbing man and woman, one after another until finally I must have hit the jackpot with a ‘single’ guy who was more than happy to sassy salsa with me.  Thank you Barbara Grumme!  You saved my ass, stunning the crowd with my salsa prowess in heels no less, I was able to subdue the men, and quell the wild wives with my dance moves extraordinaire.

The fever was contagious.  Before I knew it the dance floor was full of people vouging, rocking, and intermingling wildly.  It was like a Church street bomb had gone off in mere seconds and I was magically transported back to Fly wrapped up in the curtains with Darcy high on life, as in a flash I was surrounded by the Saudi Dykes on Bikes contingent and the life of the party.  The night wore on old school style, and I missed home a little less as each moment passed. 

I will however be a bit weary of scooping up others husbands to dance, until I get to know people a bit better here, as I am keenly aware I narrowly escaped disaster.