Yemenite Steps

Meredith Price

The tribal beat of a drum and a lilting song full of yearning and aspiration usher the Yemenite wedding party into a long corridor. An expectant crowd, impatiently vying for glimpses of the bride, claps with anxious abandon from strategic perches. Arabic words fade into the background, their hushed syllables and quivering strings forgotten as the gut-wrenching sound of raw emotion fills the hall. Baskets of colorful, aromatic flowers crowned with smoking candles float by atop the heads of the leading women marchers. As they swirl and step to the slow, undulating rhythm of the drum, the candles twist and turn in unison with their dance. The anticipation mounts. An air of erotic mystery breathes its contagious scent into the crowd as the bride and groom step slowly into view.

Unrecognizable, the bride is adorned with a gigantic sequined headpiece at least half her height, its conical shape towering above her. An ornate silk suit covers her body, and her dainty feet are shod with beaded slippers. Despite bearing the weight of at least 20 pounds of silver, she manages a smile. The curve of her ruby-red lips betrays none of the pain she must be feeling beneath that arsenal of jewels. One wrong step and she would fall head-first into this frenetic crowd, I think to myself. And removing that gear to help her up would be no task for amateurs. Delicate filigree necklaces with long, hanging strips of crafted silver are four layers thick around her chest. One even hangs slyly from ear to ear like an afterthought. Every inch of her forearms is covered with bracelets, and each of her fingers sports an elaborate ring.

Dancing circles greet the couple on stage. An innocent bystander, there is still no escape for me, and the "Yemenite Step" is not as easy as it looks. It is painfully obvious to several toes where the virgin of henna ceremonies attempts to dance unobtrusively. After a few embarrassing collisions, I make my way over to the buffet. An impressive array of culinary Yemenite delights is nicely arranged. I fill my plate with Yemenite pancakes, melawah, jachnun and bread cubes. To work off all the calories will take weeks, but I decide to start by giving that fancy step another shot. Maybe it was that toke from the nargila, or the patient depth of the singer's melodic voice. It might have been the drumbeat, or the angry sideways glances from fellow feet, but the tempo eventually found me. I Yemenite-step with the best of them, round and round and up and back, until the beat of the last drum sounds and the lights go quietly out.