African Christian Wedding
Trip Start
May 31, 2005
1
22
33
Trip End
Aug 02, 2005
Parakou,
Benin
Saturday, June 25, 2005
So it was that people had literally traveled from around the country for this happy occasion. The first hour was spent singing, with an announcer directing, praying, giving the schedule for the day and encouraging people to hold out as time wore on, "You're going to eat! Don't worry!" When the groom finally arrived (he was apparently "so happy he couldn't get here"), we rose to our feet and cheered. A cameraman with an old-school shoulder camcorder walked backwards with a flood light on the stoic groom. As a multi-time-bridesmaid I know it's hard to walk slowly down the aisle, but African weddings beat all! Each step was literally snail inch along and the walk up the aisle itself took several minutes. After more songs and a few more minutes, the white-dressed, white-veiled bride made her appearance and painstaking approach to the alter. When she at last made it, the two stood side by side on the stage facing the huge crowd and each sat in their own wooden arm chairs, never touching, never looking at each other until almost the end of the ceremony.
I should remind people that this was a Christian wedding and so for those of you who've been to one, wherever it may have been, things went pretty much according to my experience. Of course, I've never been to wedding that was consecutively interpreted into Bariba...The giant family parties from both sides sat in plastic chairs in a semi circle at the foot of a stage, in front of the podium where a lively pastor gave a sermon about how Rebecca was found for Isaac (See Genesis 24:11-21) and how in our lives we should take every major decision to God instead of trying to make it on our own wisdom. He got everyone laughing by saying that human wisdom doesn't work for marriage and a stable household because men want women who are thin-that's why women are starting to wear pants, because they want to prove to men that they are thin and not hide themselves underneath skirts (hardly any woman here wears pants yet)-and women want muscular, impressive looking men who do silly exercise not for their health but just to attract girls when they take their shirts off, but neither of those things make a solid household. What counts is character and the bride and the groom had gone about things the right way and put God in the center of their lives. There was more prayer, more singing and another pastor invited to give a blessing. He had representatives from both families stand up. The first fellow jumped right in to a lively discourse that got the Bariba speakers laughing and cheering and just kept right on. So much that the French interpretation of a 5 minute speech went like this, "He says they are here today because they are full of joy. And they wish the couple all happiness today and for their whole lives with God's blessing." Period. (Note to self...style to AVOID.) The Pastor then asked the couple individually if they regretted getting engaged. No, pastor, they did not. Then asked if they were prepared to undertake the path ahead of them and yes, indeed, they were. They put rings on each other's fingers and held their hands high. More singing. An offering of which half went to the couple and half went to electricity costs for the wedding was taken. More singing and praying. Then the pastor who'd given the blessing told the groom that when his bride entered the room everyone was looking and looking but couldn't see her, so would he please reveal who is under the veil. (Picture a typical wedding veil-we could see her a bit ;0). Slowly, gingerly, the new husband lifted the veil and placed it delicately behind his bride's head. He kissed her quickly twice on each cheek and a quick, timid peck on the lips and we all clapped again. Husband and wife.
At this point, we'd been sitting on hard wooden benches, with an occasional minute of standing for singing or prayer, for three hours. However, the couple sat back in their one-time thrones and those who had prepared, came up and sang songs for them. One song which I couldn't understand, made both of them cry and the announcer affirmed the emotion induced by the blessing sung. Then there was a long, long receiving line as we all piled forward with our gifts, mine being, like many people's, an envelope with a bit of money to help the young couple start our on their way. The couple who had been previously very calm and reserved came to life, kissing people on the cheeks three or four times, grabbing them in bear hugs (the first I've seen in a month living here), smiling, with tears streaming down the happy groom's face. Returned to our seats after more singing, we were adjourned to the fresh breeze of the dirt courtyard around the church. Photos were taken in every possible combination before we were herded, three and a half hours after arriving, to the back for a meal.
Now, I'm one for adventure. I enjoy a challenge. I like to think I take things in stride. But I have a confession to make. For the first time ever, I reached a limit today. The guests were divided into different buildings and I got shuffled in with the pastors. I was happy about this because I know some of them and they looked out for me! I'm handed a plate and I see two women scooping piles of steaming orange rice from a ten gallon cooler and passing them around. Great. Rice. I like rice. I know this dish. The gregarious Pastor Daniel (you may remember him) calls me over to sit near him and slides half of his streaming rice onto my plate. Then I see another bucket. This was not a happy bucket. I've eaten tough meat before. I've eaten unidentified meat before. I've eaten meat that wasn't hot and was hence a cause for concern before. This meat fell into all of those categories and more. At first glance I'd say gizzards and what-not because it was all kinds of lumpy, uneven shapes and dark gray, brownish colors in bite-sized pieces. No matter. A few were chunked onto my previously glowing safe haven rice plate. I didn't make a face or flinch in the slightest Western newbie kind of way. In stride. However, the pastor reaches up and takes the biggest chunk of what looks like a pig's ear off my plate, telling me, "It's too tough. You don't like the skin." Gangly, shy but smiley Pastor Isaac pipes up from the seat just behind me, "You don't like the skin?" I laugh, "I don't know! According to him-he said it!" We all laugh and Pastor Daniel says, "No, I know. Here." Dumping onto my plate not ONE to replace what he'd taken but THREE chunks of assorted sized meat that couldn't possibly be that much easier to chew, raising the number to five. Gulp. No problem! In stride.
I eat my rice for a few comfortable, familiar bites of introduction and then stab the first chunk. It's tough alright. That's fine though. The thing about it is, if everyone around you is eating it, it just can't possibly be all that bad according to simple logic. Still, the strange shapes make me think of innards that can't possibly be edible and seem too boney and tendony to be digestable. I give the small crowded room a once over, finding that every person is munching contentedly away on a wide variety of shapes and varying degrees of hard meat. Logic. In stride. The thing is...I know, I know, I'm getting to it, but these thoughts keep coming to me in rapid succession even as the fork brings the crusty piece to my mouth...The grayish brown meat on my fork is definitely the skin of some unnamed animal because I can see the hair and the shape is from the skin curling as it cooked. Down the hatch. Chew, chew, chew. Look natural. Chew, chew. More rice, that'll help. Chew...chew. Tastes like meat. Keeping chewing. Close enough. Swallow. Victory! One piece down and none the worse for it. I resist beaming as I sweep a joyous mouthful of plain rice. But four pieces remain. To make a long story (literally because each bit of meat was a couple minutes of jaw-tiring work) short, I got it all down. A Coke was brought my way. Now, if you know my normal eating habits you know that, yes indeed, I usually wash down a great meat meal with a lovely carbonated, chemical beverage. Don't get me wrong, a cold drink is great and I appreciate not having to turn down water that my system can't handle, but the fizziness after the fuzziness...So, there is a third dish and this is gray (commonly called white) rice with onions. One of my favorite dishes (in my vast experience of no more than four Béninois meals). Throughout the ordeal of the first few minutes, I'd been hopefully eying that dish as a washerdowner and prize to myself for being brave. So Isaac calls the girl who plops a steaming spoonful on my joyously receptive plate. But then, as if the sky suddenly darkened and the room became quiet, as if the swinging saloon doors opened to reveal the West's Most Wanted...(This is imagery here, it's West Africa not the Wild West, just go with it)...she threw four more chunks of the bane of my very existence onto my rice!
My heart dropped. This is not imagery. I had been such a big girl! Where was my sucker or cookie? Where was the love? I look out the door and my ride, a missionary from Northern Ireland, makes a "eat quick, let's go" gesture. Easy for you to say! I think about crying, pushing the bride out of my way and running home. Maybe that would be overreacting. So instead I take a deep but subtle breath and dig in. This time I had what I recognized as meat, as in, not just skin, fat and tendons. Unfortunately, I also had a very dark brown, curly, clumpy piece that had longer black hairs and made me think of an umbilical cord that really nearly brought tears to my eyes. My pastor friends had gone and I was in a quickly-emptying corner. The piece I'd been working on for at least two minutes was starting to whisper to my gag reflex. I wondered if it would be possible to discreetly spit it back on my fork and place it on the edge of my plate as I'd been trained in Jr. High Home Ec. But in a few minutes in West Africa you realize that with white skin that stands out even next to other white people, there is always someone looking at you. Not only that but the ever-ready cameraman had just made his way over and I was clearly in the back ground of his perma-shot on the proud couple. Perfect. Where was my stride now? At last I stared at the two remaining, dry, threatening pieces of mystery before me. I hate to waste. What am I to know it's not actually very healthy for me? I notice in the growing stack of finished plates a scrap or two here and there, even remainders of rice. These plates hadn't just belonged to kids! Could I leave a bit and not be considered rude? Could it be true? I silently sigh at the bit of adventurer in me that will die if I choose not to tough it out. My Coke on the cement floor leaves a dark, wet ring as I bring it to my lips to get the greasy taste out of my mouth and allow me a second to think. I chug it. Set my plate quietly on the table, the two chunks of still undiscerned animal flesh seem to taunt me. I stand and leave the room, resisting hanging my head, but so incredibly, thoroughly, completely, undeniably grateful to be done with that meal.
