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Uighur Wedding
Entry 56 of 209 | show all | print this entry |
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When I accepted an invitation to the bachelor party the night I arrived in Yili, September 4, four straight days of wedding activities began.
Two things brought me to Yili in Xinjiang province, the large province covering mostly desert in northwest China: to see Sayram Lake and to attend the wedding of a cousin of a friend, Raya, that I met in Beijing.
After checking into the Yili Hotel, another former Russian Consulate, two friends of the groom who were waiting for Muzappar and I escorted us to a restaurant. Upon arrival the groom insisted that Muzappar and I sit directly across from him. I felt awkward at all the special attention given to us, but delighted to be a part of such a rich experience.
The entire room of the restaurant was filled with men all spread out in two concentric squares, one row facing the other, sitting on the ground with a massive feast of Uighur and Chinese food spread out on the floor between the two rows of men. Speeches were given. In between Uighur musicians serenaded us with music that Muzappar, a Flamenco guitarist himself, said was well played. During the latter half of the party the crowd of men rolled in laughter and tears as apparently one of Xinjiang's most famous comedians, sitting directly across from me, went through comedy routine after comedy routine. Of course, the whole set of routines began by him saying something like (via Muzappar's translation), "You best all adhere to all the rules tonight. If not the American will report you to George Bush." That drew quite a loud round of laughter.
All this time every best friend of the groom plied me with shots of nasty fruit-flavored vodka followed by a berry-juice chaser. I maintained composure fine and gained much respect, according to Muzappar, though the next morning hurt.
More on Muzappar: Raya invited myself and another friend from Beijing, Alicia, to her cousin's wedding as she knew we were both going to be traveling in Xinjiang at the time. Muzappar is a friend of Raya's best friend. At first I figured that Muzappar would be serving as Raya's date. After a couple days of gender-segregated activities, it dawned on me that Muzappar wasn't Raya's date. He was my date.
Muzappar, if you read this, thank you for putting up with a million questions about were I was from and who I was and always giving a detailed, patient answer and for translating patiently for 5 days and for sticking with the festivities and catching a 12-hour ride back to Urumqi in the middle of the night after the reception. I'll never forget it.
The next day we had mostly to ourselves. Raya visited with her family and Muzappar, Alicia and I wandered around markets and enjoyed Yili. See the previous Yili Crazy Day entry. I nursed a nasty fruit-flavored vodka hangover most of the morning.
Now September 6, a day before the wedding. Muzappar and I started the day off by joining about 30 men in delivering a cow to the bride's family. In return the bride's family served all these men of the groom a breakfast of naan, tea, cookies, candies, and polo (rice, carrots and beef), which we ate entirely with our hands--reminiscent of Africa. I gained some respect by refusing a spoon though may have lost some of that respect with the mess of rice I made and that I unknowingly faux paus'd by flicking the water off my hands each time they came by to pour hot water over my hands for washing.
When we left the groom and his closest friends where squatting around bushels of carrots, pealing and chopping. An outdoor oven was fired up nearby. They looked to be preparing the same meal of polo outside the bride's house to be served in return. We ended the day spending the night out in the more agricultural suburbs at Raya's aunt's house.
Finally, now it's September 7, the much anticipated day of the wedding. Muzappar and I rise early to join the group of men from the groom's side in another breakfast at the bride's family. This time it's a joint meal between men of both the groom and bride. We were served the same meal though this time I was told the beef was from the cow we delivered yesterday. And I knew not to flick my fingers when they poured hot water over my hands. And I spilled hardly a grain of rice thanks to another quick lesson by Muzappar.
I really love polo. It reminds me so much of what I ate everyday in Senegal, especially these two occasions when I ate it with my hands.
After the meal there was a ceremony in the main living room. Muzappar and I, feeling awkward that we really didn't even know the groom, didn't take up space in the intimate setting and hung out in the crowded hall. So, I can't tell you what happened since my translator doesn't know either. We think that there was a blessing and promise made between the father of the groom and bride.
Afterward a proprietor of a local berry-juice producer offered to take Muzappar, another of Raya's uncles, and I on a tour of his berry factory and to check out the foothills outside Yili. It sounded like a wonderful opportunity and the women were no where to be found, so Muzappar accepted on our behalf.
I dread saying this type of thing too much, but I cannot tell you how much the foothills of Yili felt exactly like the foothills of California. Really made me yearn for home and I was so happy to have enjoyed that afternoon. The berry juice factory proprietor bought us lunch of peppers and chicken at a little resort built into the side of a valley above a quiet river with herders moving cattle below. Afterward, a few minutes after exiting the valley's dirt road, we stopped for a second course of noodles at a roadside cafe. Stuffed, we returned back to town in time to squeeze in a car wash for his VW Santana.
As soon as we arrived back at the groom's parent's house, Raya told us that Muzappar and I really needed to get over to the restaurant were the reception was going to be held because all the young men were amassing to go 'break into' the bride's house and 'steal' the bride, the main event of a Uighur wedding. Muzappar slipped into a barber for a hair wash and then we were off to the restaurant where, after about 30 minutes of hanging around, we ate a THIRD lunch.
More hanging around the restaurant, me refusing shots of nasty fruit vodka, and then we were off in a mad, frantic dash to the bride's house in a convoy of cars, some rented with professional drivers. We arrived, the groomsmen beat on the door and made fake, comedic threats about what they would do if the family didn't open the door. The groom anxiously waited with flowers behind the throng. An accordion player serenaded the whole event.
Then things happened quickly. As soon as the bride's family unlocked the gate, the whole throng of men rushed in to find all the young women from both families waiting inside the house with the remains of a feast. Everyone took a few seconds to crowd in and greet the new couple. I think at this point they were now wed, though they may have been considered wed since the ceremony of men at breakfast this morning. I stole a few seconds to snap a quick picture of the couple and escaped before being crushed.
Then, within minutes, we were off again, in a massive traffic jam of cars again, this time men and women together for the first time in 4 days. Accordion player still serenading from the back of a small truck, video tape rolling from the side car of ancient looking Chinese motorcycle. The bride and groom chauffeured in a floral decorated Cadillac.
At this point I realize that all around me are other convoys of other weddings, all headed to a gazebo near the Yili River for photo ops, all with accordion players in the back of small trucks and videographers in motorcycle sidecars.
My car with Muzappar, a friend of Raya's aunts, and I arrived a bit late because our cocky driver (who wouldn't let me put on my seat belt because it offended his driving abilities), who was possibly the scariest, maybe worst, driver I have yet ridden with, got lost.
We arrive into a mass of hired cars, blaring their horns, grooms, brides, bridesmaids, groomsmen and guests from dozens of weddings frantically snapping pictures and coming and going and dancing in every direction I looked. Uighur wedding pandemonium.
Then, again frantically, madly, after maybe a half an hour at the insanely packed gazebo, we're off again amongst dozens of wedding processions to the Bridge of Craziness where Muzappar, Alicia, and I witnessed the attempted suicide just 2 days earlier. This time we're way early and I snap several good pictures of the sunset. The bride and groom unfortunately arrived after the sunset but much fun was had taking pictures in the dying light.
Finally we depart once again in a mad convoy, this time headed back to the reception restaurant where a familiar wedding reception of dancing and food ensued. By 10:30 or so, after all the gifts had each been announced and presented to the new couple, the guests disappeared. The couple returned to the groom's parent's house for a blessing by the groom's grandmother who had not attended the festivities and bowls of soup that represented good fortune for the future.
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