Posh Wedding

I went to a pretty decent wedding this past weekend, probably one of the best so far.  Okay, and it wasn’t just because the color theme was purple and I arrived in my nice long purple dress, with matching purple Bagillini bag and newly acquired folding purple umbrella. Although that did turn some heads and caused a few women to ask me if I had known the theme was purple…they were just jealous, being there in their sorry blues and greens and such.

Seriously.  I almost didn’t make it, but I had promised my friend Florence, chair of the Taung disability support group and older sister to the groom, the Kgosi of Taung himself. I still don’t feel so hot (actually also way too hot) and the idea of trekking there seemed so arduous. Well, the idea didn’t but the doing of it did. No. I take that back. Even THINKING about going hurt in some way.

I had originally been invited to go Friday night to help with the cooking, but that had been quickly nixed by yours truly. I would have certainly lost any remaining German cookies if I had had to partake in a goat and cow slaughter.  This meant arrived relatively fresh for the wedding at 1300 hours, instead of being on my feet for what would have felt like 1,300 hours. 

I had luck with a hitch. A fellow originally from Bangladesh, living in Lobatse and operating a car repair shop. I had just missed the bus – not being able to walk my usual brisk pace I could just watch it go and eat its dust. We had a pleasant conversation about why he hasn’t been back to his country for 20 plus years, the fact that there are about 3000 people from Bangladesh (“Bangladeshis”?) living in Botswana and that they almost all know each other, and that he is Muslim.  I asked if he was harassed for that here, and he said no. He said that 65% of the Batswana when asked what their religion is say “God.”  I don’t know if that is true or not, but I like it.  I think perhaps if we really want peace on earth we should try to get that number up to closer to 90 or 99% and encourage the fine people here to expand their efforts outside of Botswana.

He dropped me at the stop where I would try my luck with the combi into Taung. As I was getting out of the car, he was already reaching for his cigarettes, which he had been kind enough not to smoke during our ride. I don’t think our conversation drove him to it. It looked like they were there for an already existing habit and not simply as an antidote for irritating passengers. I caught the combi and it left immediately without waiting to jam the last possible body into it. And poof, magic, I was early.

I waited for Tom at the bus stop and we walked to Florence’s mom’s house together, where all the festivities would be taking place in a large decorated tent nearby.  Tom lives in Ramotswa, just down the road from Taung.  With the vagaries of travel in Botswana without one’s own set of wheels, it took me only 30 minutes to get there being about 20 miles away, while it took him a bit longer being about 3 miles away.

We were greeted like royalty, but at least this time it didn’t feel so bizarre because I actually knew some of the people there, having met most of Florence’s quite large family at one point or another. Tom knew people too, because this was practically Ramotswa and he attends the Roman Catholic church there and this was a catholic wedding.  So why was this such a great wedding, as they go, besides my clothing coup?

Exhibit A:  We are welcomed and brought into the mother’s sitting room where we can get out of the crowd of commoners and sit with the area’s Catholic Bishop and one of his nuns. Okay, they aren’t really HIS nuns (are they??), but she was, well, hanging out with him so, I just kind of assumed…

Exhibit B: When it comes time to sit at the tables in the tent, we are again directed to sit with the Bishop and his now TWO nuns, along with the District Council Secretary, the Director of the Land Board for the region (the folks that give, and then sometimes taketh away, land to individuals and others), some other important guy, a fellow who might have been a semi-retired Kgosi from another village and eventually the Kgosi from Ramotswa herself. She trumped the Bishop, so to speak, as the protocol of these things go but they both got to give long speeches. I think we ousted the Kgosi from my own village and the priest from Tom’s church because they both arrived later than we all did. They had to sit at a slightly less front table.

Exhibit C: This was the first wedding I have been to where they put a bottle of wine on each table, along with lots of water, juice, and soda. Okay, the fine nun sitting next to me ended up quietly cleaning all the glasses on our table because they were filthy (it would not do for her Bishop to drink out of that, nor me, thank you!) but we had plenty of libation.  When the bride and groom took their ceremonial glasses of champagne, the remainder of the bottle was also placed on our table.  Tom, the semi-retired Kgosi and I drank most of it, and our bottle of red wine ended up at the table next to ours, but only after they very politely asked ME if they could have it.  Later Tom said he had hoped to nick it for later. Shoot, I had totally forgotten my PC poverty vows, sitting among all this pomp. Of COURSE we were supposed to nick it. That must have been why I brought my big purple bag that can carry anything.  I blame the champagne and my head cold for my slowness.

Exhibit D: there were the usual plates being served with the food, but the bride and groom’s table, our table, and the wedding party members, all were able to serve ourselves from a special secret table just behind us.  This meant we got lots of what we liked and none of what we didn’t. It had totally different things on it than what everyone else was getting. Although everyone got seswaa and it was GOOOD seswaa – no bones suddenly in your mouth for you to quickly and subtly decide if you can swallow or should better extract  before you choke in front of the Kgosi and Bishop both. Of course, invariably, we all wanted to have what was on the plates of the commoners’. And so it was brought to us, just like that. Later, dessert arrived as well– cake, ice cream, fruit salad or all of the above. It was a pity I couldn’t eat most of what was offered – as a safety precaution for my potentially long trip back and the vagaries of my digestive system since what will now forever be known as my German Cake Incident.

Exhibit E: They had a fellow playing acoustic guitar and singing outside the tent as we left. The neighborhood kids gathered around him in rapt attention.  No loud screaming jungle beat, disco, boogie, or I can’t hear myself think music.  This guy was great and people could hear him sing and themselves think at the very same time, if they felt like it.

We walked over to say our thanks and good byes to Florence. God bless her, she never changed into her fancy purple wedding attire and looked about ready to drop. And drop she would, as soon as about 200 people left her mother’s front porch and the tent area and everything was cleaned up. We couldn’t wait that long, so parted ways.

 I also saw there a woman I have seen before at various events there who is just about my age but who I think looks much older. She has a 14 year old daughter in a wheelchair who has cerebral palsy.  The woman’s life is about caring for this child, who is very sweet and happy every time I see her. Today the mother was telling me about her child needing shoes.  I have given her a small bit of money before, but there is no way I could do any such thing with every eye within eyeshot watching me talk to her.

Tom reminds me I have to think with my head and not my heart all the time, or I will be overwhelmed and probably poor(er) as well.  He has a point; the pit is bottomless. Later, I thought about it some more and realized that the various pits I was trying to fill at home were seemingly bottomless too, and it never meant I stopped trying to fill them. The millionaire decides carefully what to do with her money in terms of charity, just as someone like me does. I may have fewer Pula, but they are still mine to give and will be my choices to live with.

 If the Roman Catholic Church (and others) want to see a 10% tithing, and I now can list my religion as simply “God” (see, another recruit in Botswana already!) and God doesn’t have a bank account for me to deposit to, then with my Pula 1850 a month salary I have P185 to donate as I see fit, right?

Great plan. Tomorrow I am taking two of my Girls shopping for Christmas.  They really helped me with a project for World AIDS Day, and since I know how poor their families are, I decided to “thank” them, with a trip to Lobatse and something special for Christmas.  The third girl can’t go, so we will have to shop for her…..This is going to take me through more than  a few months’ worth of tithing to be sure, but it is worth it.

I went to speak to both of their parents about the trip to be sure it was okay and to find out what they felt the girls needed so we stayed focused.  At the first girl’s house I ended up speaking to someone who I just thought was way too young to be my friends mother. Turns out, I was right. She was the older sister. The mother sat silently under the tree while we were talking.  At least I had greeted her first and was including her in the overall conversation, but she doesn’t speak English so the daughter did the talking. I felt like a doofus afterwards.

The other girl’s father seemed a bit bewildered by the whole concept and mostly wanted me to explain why we were going to Lobatse and not Ramotswa. I should have told him that Lobatse was easier to get to, but instead I said I liked Lobatse and did’t like Ramotswa.  My Setswana doesn’t allow for nuances.  Of course it turns out he is from Ramotswa, so score one for me.  He was surprised I had no car and then took my phone number down. Hope he doesn’t used that ever. I never saw the mother.