Arabic Salsa

by Jen Kim (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Oman

"Grab somebody sexy, tell 'em hey." The Omanis do not grab each other to say hello. They exchange kisses – twice: left, then right. Men who are close friends press their noses together in warm greeting. No further touch. In this nation, the people are devoted to their Sultan Qaboos, attend prayers five times a day, and function generally as how one might expect of an Islamic sultanate in the Middle East. Even the clothing is conservative – although Western garb is not uncommon, the preferred mode of dress is a modest dishdasha for men: a simple white ankle-length dress with long sleeves, and the abaya for women: a black loose over-overgarment, essentially a robe-like dress. Adjacent to its better-known cousin the United Arab Emirates (home to the Sex and the City-famed city of Dubai), the Sultanate of Oman is the relatively quiet and traditional relative that tends to stay out of the global limelight. And so, when I found myself scouring Couchsurfing.org for companions to alleviate the certain loneliness of a summer internship in the capital city of Muscat, the most exciting meetup I was expecting was a series of Arabic-English exchange lessons over coffee. We did have coffee, at first. Costa Coffee has a wonderfully frothy cappuccino, no matter in which country one might have it. A cup o’ Costa Coffee cappa in Muscat is no less foamy and soothing than one had in any other country (alas, except in the United States, where the chain has yet to arrive). The first Couchsurfer I met was Sajjad, then Mahi, along with Adel. The three of them made up the welcoming crew of the local Couchsurfing community. They were as warm and comforting as the cappuccinos I drank with them. They taught me Arabic phrases and helped me review the alphabet. They told me stories about Oman. From them, I learned about the rich and complex history of this small country – from its days as a maritime empire to its brief period under Portuguese colonialism. They described to me its natural attractions and explained the Swahili and Indian influences present in the national cuisine as a result of its maritime history. They were eager to share their country with me. They were the perfect tour guides for a wide-eyed, open eared foreigner. Then, they invited me to a hotel one night. The sound of live salsa music filled my ears as I stepped uncertainly into the InterContinental's bar Trader Vic's. Asides from a few men in local clothing garb out smoke from their shisha pipe, nearly everybody was dressed in Western style – slacks and t-shirts, tight dresses and heels. I headed towards the group of men before I saw their faces and realized that they weren't smiling at me because they knew me. A swift change of direction turned me towards the dancers moving about in the small space in front of the band. It took another second before I recognized one of the men on the dance floor in jeans and t-shirt sinuously moving his body and agilely spinning his partner as the same Mahi in a dishdasha that I'd had coffee with last Saturday. My face broke into an incredulous grin. In the corner I spotted Sajjad at a table with other people and hastened over to join them. When the song ended, Mahi came over, gave me two kisses, and grabbed my hand for the next. “1, 2, 3, …! 5, 6, 7, …!” He guided me through the rhythm of the steps. When I thought I had the hang of it, he surprised me with a spin. As the song went through the final chorus, Mahi concluded the dance with a flourish, dipping me low to the floor, my hands scrabbling at his shoulders at the unexpected loss in balance. By the end of the summer I would become accustomed to being dipped at the end of every song, even becoming comfortable enough to throw out a pose of my own. At the end of the song, I was eager for the next. Adrenaline and music surged through my body. Pitbull took over the speakers once the band retired for a break. "Give me everything tonight!"