Attending a host country national wedding might be the archetypal Peace Corps cross-cultural experience: a distillation of your privileged intimacy with host country nationals, the exotic foreign customs you long to write home about, and the pure joy by which you will transform your entitled, world-weary soul.
While Britt worked at camp last month, I walked up the dry river bed leading out of town with a few friends, cone of sugar in hand and shirt tucked in (the best I can do on short notice), to a nearby village for my first Moroccan wedding.
We arrived early in the afternoon to the groom's house and immediately split up by sex. I can't speak for the women, but the men ate a mysterious -but not unappealing- plate of organ meat and gravy and afterwards coached me as I made tea for the room. Next, we napped up in preparation for the evening.
The wedding was described to me as "Meya-F-Meya Amazigh". Loosely that is: a 100% traditional Moroccan mountain village wedding. Not city-fied or not Arabized (in ways that I would never be able to detect). Still,in the singing and dancing and staggered meal service there was some easily-identifiable shared DNA between Moroccan and American weddings.
And watch this clip to the end and you'll see that I'm capable of dancing badly at a wedding on any continent.
Then there were some more unusual customs, like the collective pause midway through the wedding to announce the precise amount of each gift, down to the last centime, given by every guest at the wedding. My friends assured me that my cone of sugar would not be announced; real gifts (money) only. If the design is to shame people into generosity, it certainly worked on me: I shelled out at the next wedding.
Halfway through the night I wondered aloud when the bride would arrive. A chorus of drummers and chanters had played the groom in two hours earlier and her entrance was sure to be a show-stopper. Except she wasn't coming. "She's in the house waiting for her husband," my friends told me, "Alone." Taking the tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other before the wedding to its logical extreme, the bride doesn't see anyone on the wedding day, until the groom comes back from the party.
The night ended ended with mint tea and a 3am bowl of harira, and we walked back home in the dark. Whatever fun I'd had turned to tired grouchiness on the long slog home, but I decided to stay awake anyway to watch the sun come up from our roof.
A week later, Britt was back from camp and we were going to another wedding with our friends. The night promised to be a bit more modern, a bit more urbane. For one thing the bride would be there, and we'd get to see a few of her famed outfit changes throughout the evening.
Still, the first thing we did after we met up with our friends was split up; Britt went with the women and I went with the men. We ate dinner on the roof while the women waited downstairs for their turn. Later we sat on plastic chairs set up around a stage, maybe thirty yards apart. Close enough that we could see each other, but not close enough to hear each other over the noise.
The evening provided a good show -a typically Moroccan too-long-by-half good show- with some very impressive dancers who carried the bride and groom around on a little throne, and a wait staff that somehow incorporated pyrotechnics into serving tea.
That it turned into an endurance test didn't surprise me; what surprised me was how hard it was to enjoy. I kept thinking of our wedding day -without fear of cliche, I'll call it the most fun I've ever had in my life- and of the bride who had to wait alone in the house, and of how much richer my life has been for the many spaces I'm able share with women. In theory, it's a very intimate thing to attend a stranger's wedding, but in practice you're the stranger. People can invite you anywhere, but you haven't arrived at the place of intimacy until you feel at home.
While Britt worked at camp last month, I walked up the dry river bed leading out of town with a few friends, cone of sugar in hand and shirt tucked in (the best I can do on short notice), to a nearby village for my first Moroccan wedding.
We arrived early in the afternoon to the groom's house and immediately split up by sex. I can't speak for the women, but the men ate a mysterious -but not unappealing- plate of organ meat and gravy and afterwards coached me as I made tea for the room. Next, we napped up in preparation for the evening.
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| Not doing it right, no doubt. |
The wedding was described to me as "Meya-F-Meya Amazigh". Loosely that is: a 100% traditional Moroccan mountain village wedding. Not city-fied or not Arabized (in ways that I would never be able to detect). Still,in the singing and dancing and staggered meal service there was some easily-identifiable shared DNA between Moroccan and American weddings.
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| Can you honestly tell this is wedding is in Morocco and not Austin? |
Then there were some more unusual customs, like the collective pause midway through the wedding to announce the precise amount of each gift, down to the last centime, given by every guest at the wedding. My friends assured me that my cone of sugar would not be announced; real gifts (money) only. If the design is to shame people into generosity, it certainly worked on me: I shelled out at the next wedding.
Halfway through the night I wondered aloud when the bride would arrive. A chorus of drummers and chanters had played the groom in two hours earlier and her entrance was sure to be a show-stopper. Except she wasn't coming. "She's in the house waiting for her husband," my friends told me, "Alone." Taking the tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other before the wedding to its logical extreme, the bride doesn't see anyone on the wedding day, until the groom comes back from the party.
The night ended ended with mint tea and a 3am bowl of harira, and we walked back home in the dark. Whatever fun I'd had turned to tired grouchiness on the long slog home, but I decided to stay awake anyway to watch the sun come up from our roof.
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| Spot the stork! |
Still, the first thing we did after we met up with our friends was split up; Britt went with the women and I went with the men. We ate dinner on the roof while the women waited downstairs for their turn. Later we sat on plastic chairs set up around a stage, maybe thirty yards apart. Close enough that we could see each other, but not close enough to hear each other over the noise.
 |
| Britt and a friend before they were whisked away. |
That it turned into an endurance test didn't surprise me; what surprised me was how hard it was to enjoy. I kept thinking of our wedding day -without fear of cliche, I'll call it the most fun I've ever had in my life- and of the bride who had to wait alone in the house, and of how much richer my life has been for the many spaces I'm able share with women. In theory, it's a very intimate thing to attend a stranger's wedding, but in practice you're the stranger. People can invite you anywhere, but you haven't arrived at the place of intimacy until you feel at home.
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| Four in the morning. Home at last. |
Great perspective, Pete, on lots of things. The screenplay is practically writing itself.
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