When I think of that Christmas in Tunisia, it is to think that Enid Blyton might have been proud. For this was a holiday full of pro-active adventure, some of which may absolutely have been worth writing about. It was the year before I moved to Lahore and it all happened quite accidentally. Chantelle and I were chatting, reminiscing about our university days and the immense fun we had sharing a flat down the Old Kent Road. And before we knew it we were searching online for last minute getaway deals. I was to accompany other foreign women from local hotels on to the stage. Fatti believed we had it in the bag, as the others would likely be all bona fide westerners. I smiled wryly to myself. Causal tokenism. A fair enough trade off, really, considering my masquerading as a Tunisian bride to better to play to the cheap seats Aside from us, the only other foreigners at the hotel were a group of Germans, to whom Tunisia offered warm relief despite the biting Sousse sea. That Chantelle and I were both French speakers helped us mingle with the local guests. This also helped on the organised trip to a camel farm, as I was placed with a group just in from France. The Brits must have been busy colonising various parts of sunny Spain, on an egg n’ chips crusade no doubt. The chaps at the farm had noted my hitting it off with a couple of those beautifully statuesque beasts — not to mention a pack of stray dogs. A tour guide position was mine for the taking, they kindly offered. Yet a more eventful time in the desert was still to come. And it started off with the hotel’s larger-than-life entertainment manager, Fatti, asking me if I had with me any traditional Pakistani clothes. Interrupting my head shaking he indicated that all was not lost, and he was off as abruptly as he had appeared. The next day he was back with a red bridal gown, as elaborate as it was traditional. A couple of chambermaids would be along to help me into it. As it turned out, it took three. For there was also the matter of an intricate headdress. Chantelle was rolling around laughing as she snapped away with a disposable camera. Tentatively, then, did we make our way to the lobby to wait for the coach that would take us to the desert for a cultural extravaganza of some kind. A few of the Germans, upon catching sight of me, wandered over, asking from where I had bought my ‘party dress’. It might be fun to wear it back home, they mused. The n`ational football team was staying at the hotel and the entire squad was already on the coach. Only two Tunisian women were on board. I could no longer suppress my feelings of shame. What must they be thinking? That I was so dismissive of their culture that I couldn’t even be bothered to properly appropriate it, content to simply play dress up? As soon as we set foot in the desert — Fatti suddenly appeared, urgently talking me through what was going to happen. Up until then, I hadn’t fully grasped why I had been decked up like a Christmas tree, complete with festive gold shoes and matching anklets. Between Chantelle’s raucous cackling, I gathered that I would be going on stage with other foreign women from local hotels. But most importantly Fatti believed we had it in the bag, as the other women would likely be all bona fide westerners. I smiled wryly to myself. Causal tokenism. A fair enough trade off, really, considering my masquerading as a Tunisian bride to better to play to the cheap seats. I may even have been a little convincing because a few children came running up, throwing a handful of rose petals my way. Behind them, the two Tunisian women from the coach. As it turned out, they didn’t mind about my outfit. Their concern was that I needed more make-up. And right there, in the middle of the desert — they generously set about expertly powdering and rouging my face. The stage was facing out towards the gathering. We were, it suddenly dawned on me, to be part of the cultural extravaganza. A sort of short light-hearted interlude. There were only five of us on stage. And Fatti — who was now conveniently playing the part of compere — had been right. All were young white western women, all were dressed in jeans. He turned to give me a sly wink. To my horror, I realised that we were expected to sing and dance a little. When my turn came, I shuffled forward. A ‘special guest’ from Pakistan who was going to treat everyone to a song or two from her homeland was how Fatti introduced me. Yet somehow I ended up singing God Save the Queen, only to forget what came after the first verse. Then I was being asked to do a Pakistani dance. A fair amount of bangle shaking took place. It was all I could manage. Too fearful was I about falling down due to the heavy anklets. After winning a bottle of freshly pressed olive oil from the mayor, it was back to the coach. And to being cheered by all the Tunisians. On returning to the hotel — the team took us all out for tea. My ‘performance’ was deemed a roaring success. Overwhelmingly because of my brown-ness. Which was why no one was affronted by the blatant cultural misappropriation thrust upon me. This was my brown privilege. It was juxtaposed diametrically to Chantelle’s whiteness. And when I tried it on for size — I found that I enjoyed the novelty of it. The feeling of it against my skin. The writer is the Deputy Managing Editor, Daily Times. She can be reached at mirandahusain@me.com and tweets @humeiwei Published in Daily Times, August 20th 2017.