Belly dancing, with a little more body hair

At le Souk, a popular North African restaurant in Manhattan, all eyes were on Kamal Abdallah, who on this night was known simply as Kimo. The husky belly dancer was shimmying on the green Moroccan tile counter of the bar. Clad in a lime green bolero vest adorned with plastic beads and matching Aladdin pants, he was executing hip drops between two giant hookah pipes.

Three young women in their early 20s, each wearing blue jeans and a black top, joined Abdallah amid rousing cheers.

“Push it girls, push, push, push,” Abdallah shouted while playing his finger cymbals.

But the girls’ uncoordinated hip drops proved no match for Abdallah's professionally trained belly.

As belly dancing makes its way into gyms across the country in the latest fitness craze, male belly dancers have stepped into the spotlight normally reserved for curvaceous females and have captured an adoring audience with their moves. Dancers charge $75 to $200 for a one- to two-hour show. Some seasoned performers command even higher prices. Most say the pay is incidental to the fun of performing.

“I just love it,” Abdallah said. “It’s about spirituality and stage presence.”

Though relatively new to the stage in America, men have been belly dancing since the Ottoman Empire, where male dancers were known as rakkas. They impersonated female belly dancers (rakkase), who were forbidden to dance in public. The dance itself has moved to many parts of the globe. In Turkish, the belly dance is called Oryantal dansy, which translates to “dance of the east.”

In the United States, aficionados of belly dancing have come a long way since it was introduced in 1876 at the Philadelphia Centennial.

Adam Basma, 51, a Lebanese-born choreographer, says he paved the way for professional male belly dancers when he began his career in the early 1970s. He retired last year after performing in venues like the Washington Convention Center and the Greek theater of UCLA.

These days belly dancing has attracted the likes of John Trochesset, a Biloxi, Miss., native who performs by the name Jal. He is a master sergeant in the Illinois Air National Guard and has been in the service for more than 20 years. When he and his wife, Christine, also in the National Guard, went to Kuwait during Desert Storm in the early 1990s, they became enthralled by Middle Eastern culture.

Trochesset started belly dancing in 2002 to stay busy and fit during the long winter nights. He never imagined that soon he would be joining Tribal Fusion, a Chicago-based belly dancing troupe created by his wife, who took the stage name Aysu.

“I guess you could say I’m a redneck belly dancer,” Trochesset joked. “Now that is something to encourage others to perform this dance.”

Today there are teachers devoted to doing just that. Tyrone Bailey, known as Tarik Sultan, is a professional dancer who has male students in his classes at Morocco’s Studio in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. Wesley Gomes, a well-known male belly dancer in the Seattle area, has an instructional DVD, “Learn the Art of Male Belly Dance,” that brings the lessons home for the less adventurous.

Abdallah has been working the crowds at le Souk for the last six years. The 49-year-old dancer was born in Egypt and raised in Kuwait. He spent 14 years in Chicago performing in Middle Eastern restaurants and teaching in a dance school he owned. When the cold weather proved overbearing, he moved to New York City, his home for the last 11 years.

When Kimo performs, women can’t seem to get enough of him. He recalled one night almost two years ago when a shy middle-aged woman offered him a $50 tip. The woman asked him where he wanted the bill. He motioned to his golden hip belt. She hesitated.

“Honey, my belt doesn’t bite,” Kimo said.

Without warning, her hands made an unlikely descent to a place he never expected to be tipped.

Despite the fan base, performers say that many critics maintain that only women should belly dance.

“If I had a dime for every time I heard ‘Men belly dance?’” Gomes said.

Basma recalled that his parents considered belly dancing the domain of prostitutes and low-class people. He said he won their acceptance because he became famous.

“If I was not a star, I would be garbage,” he said.

Even in New York, some are slow to warm up to the idea of male-gyrating hips. At a recent performance at le Souk, a 23-year-old woman was watching a number by Kimo from the VIP section. Stiffly, she continued to sip at her pomegranate martini.

“Men should not belly dance,” she said with derision. “I am not even a lesbian or anything, but it would have been cooler if it was a woman.”

Tarik Sultan says he wins over skeptics with moves that have immediate impact with audiences.

“I knew that people were going to think I was trying to be a woman,” he said. “The second I get there, I have to hit them--boom--immediately. I have to win the people over, and I have to show them my talent.”

Most male belly dancers do not seem bothered by the criticism. What matters is the joy of doing something they love.

Trochesset's advice to men curious about belly dancing: “Don’t let the word ‘belly’ scare you.”

E-mail: cm2373@columbia.edu