wedding feast

Preparing a wedding feast is a mammoth task, involving women from all branches of the extended family. As with an Aussie event, the men tend to do the heavy lifting; erecting tarps, unloading plastic chairs and building a temporary fence around the venue with coconut leaves and sticks. Then they squat under the shade for the rest of the day while the women chop and stir and stoke and wash.  The average wedding has around 300 plus guests - that is, most of the village - and the food preparation begins at dawn on the big day.  Rice, pig, goat and noodles are standard, with additional dishes added relative to the wealth of the family.  I have a morbid fascination with the massive vestibules of boiled meat, and emit involuntary shrieks of horror when my lens hovers too close. 

The groom's parents foot the bill for all food and water (the reception is alcohol free aside from the odd nip of sopi out the back), and family members are asked to make a donation toward the catering and "hire" of equipment.  The pots, woks, plates and serving bowls are community owned and are stored at the chief's house in between events. 

Hanging out the back with the ladies around an oversized pot of boiling rice is always a valued experience. I feel a sense of kinship that is absent in my Australian life where I don't even know the name of my neighbours.  Over the years I have learned more insider snippets of custom, gossip and tradition, and my roving camera and meat avoidance is always welcome entertainment.

part three - the wedding

The big day has arrived, part three of the journey to matrimonial success.  Part one (the asking), and part two, (the dowry party) are here and here.  Only Tom's name is on the official invitation as I am bound by obligation to be present.  We spruce up for the event, Tom in a collared shirt, and me in my conservative best. I don't want all eyes to be diverted from the bride to my bare thighs. 

We rock up to the church at 10.00am as indicated, and the place is deserted.  A phone call to the groom's sister-in-law tells us they decided to change it to 1.00pm.  Just like that.  Great, thanks for letting us know. Back home for a cuppa, hang up the dress and into the work duds for a few hours.

I am summoned to the bride's house at 12.30pm to photograph the bride and groom leaving the house.   There is a short blessing ceremony before they travel the 500 metres to the church in a silver van, together with the flower girl and two bridesmaids.  The flushing bride fans herself with what looks like an orange feather duster and clutches her plastic flower arrangement.  It is all very 1980's suburban dream - flounces and lace and frills.

There are only 15 people at the church, the remainder of the extended clan are busy slaughtering pigs and weaving the fat onto skewers for the reception dinner.  Preparation for the wedding began at 3.00am and over 250 people are expected to turn up for the feast.  Weddings are a rather fluid affair - you invite as many people as you can afford to feed, they turn up whenever they feel like it, eat, then leave. It is very much about keeping up with the neighbours and outdoing them if possible.

Plastic chairs are shrouded in ikat cloth, a hint of tradition in the kitsch surrounds of the church.  Last year's Christmas decorations still hang from the ceiling and the priest booms his message of love and devotion from the bow of a ship. It is hard to contain a fit of the giggles, so after taking a few photos we sneak out the back door.

We arrive at the reception on sunset, sign the official guest register and receive a slice of tasteless cake, a cup of water and a hideous bombanerie:  a tiny boot, covered in sand and ribbon and containing two toothpicks.

Hundreds of plastic chairs are set up inside a boundary of  rope and coconut fronds.  The deceased don't miss as the family graveyard is inside the compound and offers extra lounge seating.  The host tries to usher us to the front row and we gently decline in favour of an outside seat for a subtle getaway when the formal proceedings are over.  These events have a habit of dragging on way past my bedtime.

Cold fluorescent bulbs set the mood, and the bridal party sit front and centre on a stage framed by fake flowers and badly draped curtains. The majority of the extended family are out the back preparing dinner and having their own behind the scenes party, leaving the distinguished guests to suffer through the speeches.

The banquet table is set with a water-cup dome sculpture, cutlery wheels and stacks of plates with single ply napkins the thickness of a tissue. 

  

What's a party without a few hungry dogs?

There's an outbreak of typhoid in town and we seriously question the idea of dinner, with an unknown number of hands involved in its preparation and presentation. We figure the vegies have been boiled to within an inch of their life and as we are avoiding the more questionable meaty offerings we should be ok.

And to the highlight of the proceedings - the cutting of the cake.  I find it sad that they follow such a stale western model of weddings at the expense of any traditional celebration. Long live the dream of the princess bride.

Despite the fact that pre-marital pregnancy is very common, the big kiss moment in public is painful to watch.  It begins with the local custom of nose rubbing, then to the roar of the crowd the groom steals a quick peck.  Definitely no tongue. It is like seeing two primary school kids fumble behind the lunch shed.  The bride looks like she is about to faint.  The youngsters look on from the shadows with a mixture of awe and disgust.

The cake is cut and the night reaches its crescendo.  The groom takes a small forkful of sponge and feeds it to his new wife, then goes in for the seagull swoop and attempts to eat it from her mouth.

dowry payment

The dowry payment event is a vegans nightmare.  The whole village has turned out to see four pigs slaughtered, hacked into bits and boiled in half a 44 gallon drum over an open fire.  Fun for the whole family.  Rice is cooked in woks the size of a small bath, and served as the glue to accompany the hunks of pig fat and skin.  All this at 9.00am before I have had my green smoothie...

Local custom is that the groom's family pay an agreed amount to the bride's family, and then the groom's family hold a huge shin-dig to raise the money.  An "office" is set up at the front of the house, and a record made of each donation.  The village chief keeps the record book, and a check is made on those who do not show up or make a  generous donation.  The adage is, what goes around comes around - if you donate now, when your daughter is ready to wed, you will reap the benefits in return. For your money you get a free bowl of rice and pig, a glass of water and a take-away bag of pig fat.  Mmmm, hold me back.

Just like an Australian barbie, the men hover around the meat and the women do everything else.  A great fuss is made over the meat table; animated discussion over the who gets the prize chunks and how much should be bagged up for later.  Sticks are waved to shoo the flies and various dismembered pieces are prodded and siphoned off into baskets to be handed around to the hungry crowd.  Just grab a greasy chunk and chew.  If you would like more sauce with your breakfast, head on over to the boiling vat and spoon out some of the pork water and scum.

marriage request

I was asked by our washing lady (and friend) to photograph her brother-in-law's "masuk minta" celebration.  The literal translation is "enter request", and is the first of a three step process in the local marriage tradition.  The groom-to-be and his family travel to the bride-to-be's house in order to discuss arrangements for the wedding and officially ask for their blessing as a couple.

Jacob Seli-Lenggu : groom-to-be

travelling to the bride in style

The bride is hidden behind closed doors in her house, while the groom is tucked away next door.  The groom's party, dressed in skirts made from a heavy ikat weaving, offer gifts of make-up, plastic kitchen containers & hair accessories to the bride's family.  The  presents are draped in crocheted doilies and plastic flowers that will become cherished table decorations in the newleywed home.

The "best man" holds a flourescent lamp, and much fuss is made over the "light of the Lord" coming down to bless the union.  The fluro disappears into the dark room where the bride is sweating, and the best man's duties are done.

After long speeches and prayers by the village chief and the priest, the immediate families, each with with an elder uncle spokesperson, sit down to chew the fat over cake and sickly sweet coffee.  I am trapped in the small room, the air still, hot and clouded with cigarette smoke.  The discussions go for over an hour and cover the date of the wedding, venue, how many people each family can invite and who is going to provide the food.  "I've got one cow, but that won't feed 300 people...can you donate some goats and chickens?"

Outside, a large crowd waits patiently for the announcement, and the promise of a meal and piece of cake.  Finally, the groom is summoned to grab his girlfriend and appear before the elders and community, to hear what plans have been made for their big day.  Each is asked in turn why they wish to get married, and they both reply "for love."  I am guessing there are three possible answers to this : for love, because she's pregnant, or because our parents said so.

thank god you got me out of that hot box

when's the food coming?

There are hand shakes and nose rubs all round, then a feed of rice, boiled beef, noodles and wilted greens.  I graciously decline, claiming the cake and coffee filled me up, and I really must be going home to see Tom. 

The next event is the "belis", or dowry payment; held at the groom's house with more rice, boiled pig and painfully long speeches.