Kishore Singh: When Indians boogie the belly

On day one, at a private party, the belly dancers were a side attraction that became the main course for the evening. "You want to learn how to belly-dance?" I was asked. I, ahem, didn't, but it seemed voyeuristic to just watch, which is why it made sense to join the crew on the floor and, er, wiggle a bit. "No, no," I was told, you're doing it all wrong - and so I had my maiden lesson in belly dancing in Marrakech.

As you do on the first day, so you shall do on the following days - or so goes the adage. Events other than belly dancing occupied our mind the following morning, and afternoon, but the evening found us in the popular city square amid magicians and snake charmers and a stage where a live band rocked an audience of thousands. No dancers, though, to our relief - especially since what was on our mind was shopping, and dining, and just hanging around in an exotic city amid exotic people. Till someone had the bright idea of heading out for a nightclub, and when you've had a drink, or two, or three, dancing comes naturally to a group that's aching to practise its latest moves. So, on a floor, where everyone was simply dancing, a group of Indians ended up teaching the local Moroccans how to boogie the belly.

Having shown the local citizenry the belly-dancing ballad, it was a matter of time before we declared ourselves professionals - dancing in our suite to music we didn't understand, but which was seductive. It helped that one of the first people we'd met in Morocco was keen to show us the moves and became our official host to private parties at nightclubs where it would otherwise have been impossible to get in. Now here we were, doing what the Moroccans don't, a belly-dancing version learned in Marrakech but turned into Bollywood moves and exported back for their benefit.

People we rubbed shoulders with would ask us, "Indians?" It must have been obvious because Hindi film music followed us wherever we went. Maybe because our visit coincided with a film festival in Marrakech where Shah Rukh Khan was expected - and Paris Hilton and Madonna, if you must know - shopkeepers would break into Hindi songs to entertain us, when all we wanted to do was bargain a little more. "Chaiyya, chaiyya," they'd clap, or "Baby doll," they'd sing, till someone in our little group would start to groove in the crowded marketplace, causing the local population to giggle, and strangers to gawk at what might be a film shooting.

We did more than just sing and dance, though. Sightseeing, for instance, and dining - oh, the food! - and excursions into the countryside. We ate calamari and snails and cactus on the wayside, and bought wild berries, and struck deals for handpainted pottery and carpets. We were invited into local homes and entertained with lavish hospitality, but the nights were long and inevitably someone would propose extending the party to an alternate venue. Enthusiastic new converts wanting to practice their moves employed every opportunity to shake their booty.

Here's what I learned. To be a good bellydancer, having a belly helps. You don't sway, you undulate. Bend the knees and flap your arms sinuously, not like a fish flopping out of water. Prance forward and back. And if you end up in a shape from which you find it difficult to unfreeze - blame it on the ballad.