A verbal glimpse of the wedding.
Please bear in mind that right from the word go, we were both agreed that this should be a quiet, low key, intimate (and inexpensive) affair. I think we reached one of those targets.
I had initially been expecting monks galore festooned with orange robes and shiny heads, but fairly recently discovered that we were to be married 'Isaan style'. Instead of the monks we had an elderly chap covered in tattooes (no anchors or 'I luv Mums'), dressed in a grey safari suit that made him look a bit like a bus driver.
But I'm leaping ahead of myself. Go back to Thursday, which is when things really started to happen. People turning up to help prepare the house and garden (not to mention the road). Gas rings appearing all over the place to cook the vast mountains of food obviously required for about 40 people... Awnings/canopies/sunshades all over the place, flower arrangements, special pieces of furniture to hold bowls of water and flowers (lots of water and flowers involved). A large, shiny pink wallcloth with Welcome to the Wedding of Philip and Khammuan on it; not garish at all.
There's nothing of the hermit in my current lifestyle, but I have to confess that I've become less gregarious since I've been here. Mostly because so many expats appear to have so few braincells and such over-developed imaginations about their heroic former lives in the SAS or MI6. And I've come to appreciate my privacy and my personal space. Hmm, forget that for 3 days. People, dogs, children all over the bloomin place. Just smile, Phil. So we get to Friday evening and our little house has been transformed into a shrine. 3 a.m. on Saturday morning the cooking started. 4 a.m. on Saturday morning I'd had enough of being polite and walked up the road to my 'family home' - the house of my French neighbour, away working in Africa. I had a book and a bottle of water and relative peace and quiet for a while.
The plan was for me to be escorted, at 9.09 a.m., by my 'family' from my 'family home' to my bride's home (our house). There I would hand over lots of gold and piles of cash to my bride's mother and hope she approved. My parents were Henry and Linda, colleagues from the university. Bee's real parents live in the UK and Australia, are divorced and haven't seen her for donkey's years, and her grandparents are too old for the journey from Isaan. Her stand-in parents were Widar and Edle, an elderly, very active Norwegian couple who 'adopted' us a few years ago.
At 7.30, as I was sitting on the verandah, reading, listening to the birds and the distant laughter from my bride's garden and generally pondering the meaning of life, the universe and everything, my peace was shattered by the (unexpected) arrival of my extended family. With a significant quantity of cold beer. They were a happily noisy bunch - I even knew one or two of them. No adult males, just women and kids. Lots of women and lots of kids. It's true what they say; you can't choose your family. They kept nagging me to get dressed (I was in my most comfy shorts). "It's nearly time, Ajarn!" (I've stopped trying to get people not to call me that.) 'Nearly time' meant more than an hour to go, and I was beggared if I was going to dress up in my fancy outfit a minute earlier than necessary, i.e. 9.08.
Just to be sociable I joined them in a breakfast beer or two. By now my 'parents' had turned up - frankly, they have never set me a good example.
The propitious moment arrived and, suitably attired and carrying a long-stemmed flower between my palms, we set off on the procession to my bride's house. It's only about 50 yards, but we made the most of it. Lots of hooping and hollering to announce our approach, to which my parents contributed very enthusiastically. My surrogate granny (I still haven't worked out who she was, and she seemed to have forgotten her teeth) was holding an umbrella over my head to keep the sun off. She was also chanting and cackling quite a lot. I'm sure she was giving me lots of good pre-wedding advice, but I'm delighted to say I didn't understand a word. But a nudge and a wink is the same in any language.
As we approached the house, it was a bit like two neighbouring tribes coming together. Hers was bigger than mine, but that's the story of my life... They eyed each other challengingly and there was lots more hooping and hollering. This time I could understand enough to make out that they were crying "Maa leao!" - he's arrived. I was led to foot of the steps, where my shoes were removed, I was told to stand on two palm leaves and much to my astonishment, my feet were washed very thoroughly by two charming young ladies. Weren't they the lucky ones. Granny produced a couple of envelopes containing my hard-earned cash and handed them over - I doubt it was enough.
I was then led further toward the front door, but stopped by two more little beauties holding a 'gold chain' barring my way. Granny produced a couple more envelopes and we were allowed past, but only a few feet to the next barrier - string this time. More cash changed hands, and I started to wish I'd found out a bit more about the procedure in advance.
Right, I'm in. No sign of the bride. More hooping and hollering from the bedroom.
Now I'm really getting nervous, things seemed to be moving too quickly... The bedroom door opens and the bride is there in all her glory. Stunning. I developed a sudden irritation in both eyes. Mother-in-law and bride are happy with the dowry and the gold, so it's on with the show.
This is where things started to get a bit uncomfortable for me. I consider myself to be approaching (cough) middle age with dignity and decorum, and it's only a comparatively few years since I was pretty fit. But I'm blatantly not up to extended periods on my knees in a hot and crowded room.
The bus driver is now directing operations and positioning the various families. First of all, Bee and I have to light candles and incense - we have to do it together, which is just as well because Bee's hands are shaking. Back into position A (shuffling inelegantly on knees and mopping brow) where we and the large floral display (prepared by Granny the previous day) are linked by a long circle of white thread held by yet more young ladies (all, of course, far outshone by the true star of the show). Now all of the guests come forward one by one to tie a piece of thread around our left wrists. Once again, a lack of preparation on my part let me down badly. Had I known that varying quantities of cash would be attached to these threads on our wrists I would have (a) forewarned my ignorant western guests and (b) invited a hell of a lot more people...
My 'father', while clumsily trying to tie a thin thread with fingers the size of Cumberland sausages, whispered discreetly (and beerily) "No cash, mate - I'll slip off to the ATM later, OK?" Yeah, right on, Henry. You see what an Eton education does for you?
Phase 2. The vows. Lots of chit-chat which was totally beyond me. Then the bus driver starts speaking in a sing-song 'recitational' voice and pausing for Bee to repeat. I'm listening carefully, as it will be my turn next - I can't understand a word, but I'm thinking it will be no problem to simply copy him. But my turn never arrives - when he eventually finishes, we move on to phase 3. It turns out that we should both have been repeating his words together. Oops. So Bee has promised to love, honour and obey me, to wash my feet regularly, clean the pick-up truck and never burn my toast, while i've promised absolutely nothing. Fair dinkum.
Phase 3 is delayed because a vast blue floral display (yet another one) hasn't been delivered. I couldn't be more pleased, because this allows me to stand up (with considerable difficulty and quite a lot of help) and hobble outside for a beer and a fag, while some poor soul gets a right bollocking.
Phase 3 is delightful because it involves sitting on a stool (bliss) and having cold water poured delicately over my hands (every little helps when it's 40 degrees C and you're dressed up to the nines). Each guest pours water from what looks suspiciously like a gravy boat with a teapot spout over our hands and quietly gives us a personal blessing. My father let me down again, but I refuse to divulge quite how disgracefully. He wasn't quiet enough, because I heard him get a right rollocking from Mum.
The bride's mother (Edle - a wonderful lady who's a real hoot and must have been an absolute cracker in her youth! - her English is awful and Bee's isn't great, but somehow they seem to communicate perfectly on some mysterious subliminal level that surpasses my inadequate male understanding) had warned us that she'd cry, and she didn't let us down. It wasn't loud, thankfully - no sobs - but it was certainly copious. An emotional bunch, those Norwegians.
And after about an hour and a half it was all over. Nearly.
We were led into the bedroom by the bus driver and Granny, who had created a large heart from red petals on the bed and sprinkled vast quantities of differently coloured petals all over the place. The bus driver asked which side of the bed I slept on (don’t we all sleep on the right, chaps?) and then clambered on and lay down. A young lady lay down a respectable distance away from him (thankfully it’s a big bed) and we got more general instruction on how to have a happy and fruitful marriage. At least, I think that’s what it was.
A quick change into shorts and a t-shirt, lots of food and chatting for an hour or two, then 25 of us piled into a few pick-ups and went off to the boat. But that’s a tale for another day.
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). Don't fart about (when I was in Pakistan, this process could take days if it involved carpets or furniture and involve copious quantities of sweet tea), remind her of the best price she offered you (minus 50 baht or so - she won't be fooled, but she will be impressed), then ask her what the real best price is. Take it or continue haggling, but don't expect much better.
-- I LOVED IT !!