Prancing Porker at the Paris Wedding Hall (Thursday night fever)

Before I begin, I would just like to tell you how underwhelmed I am by your comments. Lets hope this tale of derring-do will lift your spirits and create a response.

Yesterday, all us foreigners (Khoragi), there are only 6 expats and 3000 Afghans in the organisation, were invited to Najibs wedding at the Paris Wedding Hall in downtown Kabul.

Now weddings are big affairs in Afghanistan and wedding halls are big business and HUGE places. Before I went I was told a wedding hall is a bit like being inside a wedding cake, and that was pretty true. A huge warehouse of a building on 3 floors decorated like a wedding cake!!!

A thousand people at a wedding is quite the norm. Now, when I say a thousand people at a wedding you have to understand a not so subtle and fundamental concept at this point. Although there is one wedding, there are two halls, one for the women and one for the men!! I may have explained this before, in the Afghan way, women are the property of their husbands (property as in a kettle or a television is your property) and the men are fearful of their property being stolen by each other so they keep it hidden. Hence an Afghan house has no windows on the ground floor that can be seen by a passer by (remember my recollections of the walls everywhere) and their women are dressed in Burkhas in public. (Of course, some people are more liberal than others, but this is a general rule). Anyway, that is the way, you have two rooms, one full of men and one full of women and the two do not meet during the wedding.

Three of us went to the wedding, one of which is female and although we got her special permission to stay with us in the Mens hall she did take a peek into the womens hall and said they were all dressed in really bright colours and looking great, then when they come out they put their Burkhas over the top and hid it all to enure another man is not driven crazy with desire and runs off with them.

When we got there we were escorted to a table in the corner where other Afghan HALO staff were seated. Some in suits and ties, some in their best Shalwar Kameez and some casually, a really wonderful mix of different styles of tradition and modern. Some also wearing the traditional Afghan flat rolled up hat.

There were about 300 men in the hall and presumably another 300 women in the womens hall. Everyone is sat around at tables chatting and enjoying the spectacle.

There is a traditional Pashtun band playing music with a really heavy beat and a rather high voiced singer. The dancing is called "Attan", I think and is derived from old, warrior dancing from the night before a battle. A group of men (preferably with long hair) are standing in a large circle in the dancing area in front of the very loud, thudding band. One man leads and the others follow his movements. This involves a lot of standard dance type waving of arms, spinning round and even dropping to your knees and shaking your head (and long hair) wildly. It is really quite spectacular and its warrior origins are pretty clear from the power of the dancing. The dance is also a sort of trial as it goes on until the last man is standing and the others have retired from tiredness. During the dancing one of the dancers will pick up a water urn and throw this over himself and the other dancers to cool them and to spur them on. Anyway, this went on for about an hour and there were about 4 of them left.

At this point the food was brought out and we all sat round and ate traditional Afghan fayre. Well, of course that excludes your humble narrator who had the salad and veg and some pudding, but avoided the copious meat dishes, which I am reliably informed were delicious.

Thank you for sticking with me so far, the action is about to begin.

Now maybe it is the middle age spread, the bald head, the Grant Mitchell look or simply my repartee, wit and charm, but everywhere I walked around this wedding hall greeting men I seemed to be a minor celebrity, so when the music started up again after the dinner, I found myself being dragged to the dance floor by a group of men who all seemed intent on dancing with me. Yes, honestly, these guys came over to me and took my arm and dragged me to the dance floor. This is absolutely true, they called out to the band and had a tune they thought appropriate put on and the dance floor cleared to leave me and one selected member of their group standing there on our own in the middle of the floor surrounded by 300 clapping, cheering Afghan men.

I had two choices: run and forever shame the Empire or to take up the challenge and show them what I learnt all those years ago at Broomfield Church Hall disco, (Moonstomper, eat your heart out). At this point I must apologise to John Travolta, thank God these guys have never seen Saturday Night Fever, for this was Thursday Night Fever, it was going to be brief, brutal and barely watcheable!!

As the thumping drum beat pounded out we faced each other just a few feet apart, my adversory raised his arms outstretched to his sides like a matador stalking his prey and looked me straight in the eye. I did likewise. This was to be a dancing duel and for God, Queen, Empire and John Travolta, I was not to be cowed or defeated.

We circled each other, the drum beat loud and urgent, the assembled throng of men expectant, yet nervous, how would the Khoragi react, what new moves would he bring to the dancefloor, could he outdance and cow his adversary. I jumped into the air, crossed my legs, landed and did a full 360 turn, battle had commenced and the crowd loved it, they clapped to the beat and cheered as I turned (and did not fall over, thank goodness there is no alcohol at an Afghan wedding). I had taken the initiative and was determined not to relinquish it, the beat continued to boom out, the high voiced singer pitched to new heights and I launched into a move all the way across the dance floor, crossing my legs and uncrossing them as I went, arms switching in synchronicity with my feet, I closed my eyes and was back there in Broomfield circa 1970's, the beat was Bee Gees, the high voice was Barry Gibb, John Travolta was running through my veins, nothing could could stop me now (if only I had a jacket to throw off). I opened my eyes and there in front of me was my black leather coated adversary stalking me (if you don't believe me, look at the picture carefully, you will see a man in black leather coat facing me across the dance floor, we were the only 2 dancing and everyone was watching us), he twisted, he turned, he waved his arms, but he had nothing new to throw at JT, this was to be my victory, I just had to stay there in the 70s, no fear, no hesitation, no quarter given, I was dancing for the Empire and it was to be a dance to the death. As the time ticked by I began to tire the swift turns and twists across the expanse of the dancefloor were taking there toll. My younger adversary began to sense his comeback was about to begin, he moved in closer to intimidate and to test my resolve and then.............. the beat stopped, the music finished, the Hall went quiet, I had made it to the end, and the Hall erupted into applause and two worthy and sweaty opponents embraced each other, the gaunlet had been picked up, brushed down and firmly worn, the challenge had been met, equalled and then surpassed. Ceroc classes were never like this!!

After that we sat and chatted for a while, then made our apologies and left, walking out, heads held high.

We never saw the bride, or a single woman, but the groom did come to visit us, who he married we shall never know.

During the reign of the Taleban dancing and music were strictly prohibited. This could never have happened under their rule. I am told the man on the left of the photo taking a picture, with the scarf over his shoulder and the little hat on is a Taleb. I wonder what he made of it all!!!