Wedding Crashers

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate weddings. I prefer graduations. They’re less personal, more permanent; they’re cheaper. I hate weddings and other starchy polite occasions that involve distant family and other distant relations. Unless I’m in Botswana of course. At home, I think I hate weddings so much because in my adult life I’ve never been to one for someone I cared about. I’m always a guest of a guest, usually the man I’m dating at the time. We get expectant stares. It makes me uncomfortable. All of my family members are either already married or confirmed in their unmarried lives of fornication and other categories of sin. I haven’t been to a wedding for someone I knew and was emotionally connected to since I was the flower girl at my Aunt Janel’s wedding in 1993. In Botswana, I’ve come to enjoy weddings. They’re western enough for my comfort, but still Batswana enough not to be American. Past and present run parallel in Botswana but don’t intersect, and sometimes I feel like I’m in opposite world. I need a letter inviting me to a meeting or workshop, but weddings are free game. Everyone in the village shows to a wedding. Barefoot children show up and eat. Elderly women bring Tupperware. Prepare to be eaten out of house and home in a celebration of love. I’ve been to five weddings since April although I’ve been invited to none. You can just show up and something about it feels so wrong, but its okay, and the food is free. Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson don’t have shit on me.

 

A brief rundown on Botswana weddings: There’s no ceremony. All the legal work is done beforehand at a government building. The nitty gritty cultural stuff is done before hand in the form of a bride price called Lebola. Its an exchange of cows or the cash equivalent if you don’t have cows, but cows are the preferred method of payment. The number of cows depends on several factors. I claim I cost 100 cows when I get proposals but those have waned. 6 cows is the standard. If you had a child out of wedlock that means the bride costs more. Its called paying “damages.” If there are any Batswana out there reading this, correct me if I’m wrong. I’m still not sure how Lebola works but from there, you pitch a tent and have a party. A well decorated tent looks like the inside of the Genie bottle on “I Dream of Genie” sans pillows. The food is free. There’s loud music and elderly people talking on the microphone—elderly people like to talk on microphones for extended periods of time. Everyone respects their right. I like that. They’ve earned it. The bride and groom shake a bottle of champagne and let it burst forth in a majestic arc of alcohol that looks strangely similar to an ejaculation. Coincidence perhaps. There’s a Best Man and a Best Lady, not to be confused with a Maid of Honor. I’m not sure what their responsibilities and roles are, but above all the bridal party gets to don a Setswana German Print outfit and dance in and out of the wedding tent. The bride throws the bouquet. The groom doesn’t throw the garter. There’s no special dance. The cake is diluted with alcohol and has a shelf life of forever. The happy couple will eat it on their anniversary—which anniversary they eat it on depends on the alcohol content. Of course, there’s always the option of hiring out a cardboard cake that looks strangely authentic. Much to my chagrin, you don’t get to eat cake in either case—real or fake. That’s what makes American weddings bearable. I’ll get a slice of cake. That’s what I repeat to myself as I’m sitting in the pews during the ceremony. That’s what I tell myself when I’m hiding in the bathroom during the bouquet toss. I’ll get a slice of cake, rubber chicken or a vegetarian dinner option, and a free glass of champagne. If I’m lucky, I’ll get multiple free glasses of champagne. Higher end Setswana weddings require an invitation and are likely more “western” but I like the anonymity and warm fuzziness of a Botswana block party under a tent elaborately decorated with cloth. No awkward conversations about how much the Maid of Honor loves Grease 2. No. No, no no no. Sit. Eat. Dance. Drink. Dance. Get another plate. Drink some more. That’s what a wedding should be. God bless Botswana.