Botswana Wedding!!!

I recently crashed my first Motswana wedding here in the village. I had secured my invite (or really just the information that the event was happening, which I parleyed into an invite -from the sister of the bride- it's considered rude to not invite the entire village to a wedding celebration in this culture, but I still feel like I sort of crashed it) the way I do most things in this village, and really the way I did many things in the states, by wandering into the room (or yard in this case) and smiling in such a way that I hope no one wants to tell me to leave. The Bride’s sister had told me the festivities would be starting at 9 am and I was still early for the party when I smartly arrived at 3:30 in the afternoon.

I followed the sound of blaring music and saw all the children huddled as they do around the opening to the reed fence that comprised the yard. Once the adults inside noticed me they invited (or rather commanded) me to enter, and ordered a small child to find me a chair. As many of the older men and all the women were seated on the ground, I knew I had probably unseated someone important with my arrival. I kept on the stupid winsome grin so through the language barrier they knew I came in peace, and with openness, ready to do what they were doing, whatever they indicated was appropriate, that I was here to respectfully learn about and participate in their culture and this wedding. Can a smile say all that?

I've come to realize that no matter what I do or how much Setswana I learn, I will never completely be treated as an average member of this community. I will never completely blend in and will always be treated as an “honored” guest where ever I go. I will always be given a chair while women that are older or should demand more respect are seated on the floor or in the dirt. I will always be introduced and thanked as a guest of honor. They will repeatedly ask if I eat goat, the portions will always be embarrassingly large as a child looks hungrily on at my feet. I’m “special” here, for better or for worse. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a bit hard to accept when you feel a bit undeserving of all the fuss.

I would imagine that this is one of the things that make it difficult to go back home, to being "normal" and "average" again. These social niceties and signs of public respect are nice, if sometimes unnecessary. I go back and forth in my demeanor. Sometimes I want to be seen as a consultant who can help them come up with new ideas for helping things run more smoothly. I often crave the respect I feel I should be given for having four years of college, and having travel experience, and living in other cultures. I have a tough time deciding if I want to be seen as someone who’s the same as them, no expert, no one special, my white skin and American citizenship don’t mean anything significant. At the end of the day they still do and always will.

So the wedding. The bride and groom were dressed in what appeared to be their finest apparel, long dressy everything despite the fact that they were heavily perspiring in the heat. Their wedding party included all the children I had seen the day before dancing at the reed hut in town. They were now decked completely out with pink dresses (burgundy shirts and black pants for the boys), new hair, and occasional earrings or necklaces. The bride and groom walked out of the reed hut and everyone from the village was singing loudly, almost to the point of shouting, and if I hadn’t known it was a wedding celebration I would have been frightened. The wedding party and nearly everyone who wasn’t cooking piled into the back of a few trucks, which became loaded down to the point the axels it appeared the axels might break. The sing/shouting continued down the road. I was told they were going to take pictures of the wedding party down by the river. A note about photographs in Botswana. Unless specifically instructed to, people don’t smile for photographs. Even wedding photos. Every picture you see people are staring blankly into the camera or nearly glaring. This is why I try to take candid shots.

The wedding party was gone for nearly an hour, and everyone still back in the yard was milling around waiting or cooking. Just outside the reed fence where we had been sitting earlier someone had set up a canvas shelter with a few tables and chairs under it, and then a head table for the bride and groom, complete with upholstered living room chairs set like thrones. The thrones sat behind a table filled with several plastic flower arrangements that light up and change colors, as well as those plastic things that vaguely resemble fireworks operating on the same principle as the flowers. Around the rest of the area were traditional reed decorations and baskets here and there. Someone turned on the music and that continued to bump. One old woman danced feverishly by herself, seeming to be lost in the music, oblivious to the small children mocking her. I stopped to wonder if I would still be that cool when I am her age. I hope so. Finally the bride and groom returned, everyone yelling and jumping off the back of the dangerously overloaded trucks. The bride and groom walked unsmiling down the aisle, followed by their wedding party, who proceeded to dance for the next hour straight, performing the routines I had seen them doing the day before. The women of the village who are married wore brightly colored shawls to indicate this, the men had nothing in particular to denote their marital status. After the dancing the men gave speeches, and the dinner was served. As usual there was much pointing and whispering at me at this juncture amongst the women who were serving the food, undoubtedly wondering if I “et goat.” I smiled and waited patiently for the one who spoke the best English to approach me and ask (which is unfortunate because my taste for goat is something I can actually articulate in Setswana). I accepted the plate offered to me and declined the jar of mayonnaise and bottle of ketch up that came next (these are considered sauces to be used on rice, palache, or maze meal, they use these condiments as a sort of gravies.) As it was now dark and nearly 8PM I knew I had to make my way home, and paid some of the village children to lead me there.