Indonesia officially has two seasons, rainy and dry. But in the market it’s more evident as mango and avocado season. Delightfully, we are in the midst of mango season. In the states we’re deprived. I’ve lived nearly 27 years without knowing that there exist numerous mango varieties. Different shapes. Different smells. Different colors. Subtly different flavors.
However, I propose that there is indeed a third season. Wedding season. It’s arrived. On the fringe between soaking rains and the chilly nights of dry season. The avocados are sparse and the mangos teasingly still dangle from trees… almost ripe. The locals live for Wedding Season. But as a foreigner I can assure you that weddings are incredibly awkward events. People come from all over the island on short notice. The event is ‘planned’ a day or two in advance. The invites hand delivered and word is passed around.
The plentiful massive bamboo is cut and plastic blue tarps strung overhead to create a pavilion of sorts. Multi-colored plastic chairs are set in perfectly straight lines facing forward. Leaving a middle aisle for the guest to make their way to the front to congratulate the ‘new’ bride and groom. From my understanding, the couple has two types of marriages. The traditional. And the formal, legal, religious. The later takes place when the family has secured enough funds for the event. Or rather enough to buy the buffalo. It may be years. Recently I attended a wedding where the bride breast fed her 3 year old child on stage in front of the wedding guest. It was the only time she removed her white gloves.
People arrive by motor cycle. They arrive by foot. They arrive by the truck load. There’s no time set. It begins when people arrive. Someone may know of someone who has yet to appear and thus the party must wait. The bride and groom sit at the front of the pavilion. Slightly elevated on a platform. A colored cloth draped behind with their names displayed in cut-outs. Reminiscent of a high school graduation party. Sometimes there are plants and flowers. Sometimes there are pictures. But these are extravagant. As one greets the couple there is a box. A box for collecting gifts of money. It’s done discreetly. Even if one leaves nothing, everyone pretends to put something into the box. Young children and babies included. I left 10,000 rupiah for a couple I didn’t know. Later asked how much is appropriate. 5,000 rupiah for friends. That’s 50 cents… for friends!
Sugar-fied coffee and tea is served. Later tables are filled with stacks of glass plates, rice (in a container large enough that I could easily crawl inside), and plates of various meat. One table may have pork and dog. The other chicken and goat. Religious tolerance.
A set of speakers that would likely look more at home at a rock concert. Towering. Intimidating. An emcee calls out the couple. Then a list of people are summoned forward into two lines. The wedding dance. Jahi. A traditional line dance complemented with strategic hand waving. No one smiles. It’s serious. Almost scowling.
The party begins.
There’s jahi. It’s traditional. Loved by all.
There’s waltzing. Lot’s of waltzing. It’s readily assumed we also do a lot of waltzing in the west… their shocked when I divulge otherwise. A reaction equivalent to revealing in one clean sweep that there is no Santa Clause, Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny.
There’s cha-cha. But it’s not cha-cha at all, rather somekind of line dance with just two steps.
There’s ‘disco’. Really not disco. No flash. No fros. A bit more modern but with sexual undertones that one finds on the dancefloors at home. It’s all innocent and almost childish.
After each song everyone returns to their chairs only to rush the dirt dance floor at the next song. Water is splashed on the ground sporadically between songs to cut the dust. There’s one mixed tape… repeated all night. It’s the same tape heard everywhere. A random arrangement of traditional and English songs I’ve never heard.
I’m known as the ‘Queen of the Party’. They laugh at me. They point. They shriek. It’s ok. I didn’t come all the way across the globe to fit in. I’m a good sport. Waltzing with the Kepala Desa (Chief of the village). Cha-cha with work collegues. Jahi with the old men and women. Disco with my mass of new friends. Everyone wants a picture with the white girl… as if I’ve stepped into the shoes of Britney Spears. Paparazzi at every turn.
A bit like a junior high dance. The men and women separate. The women pass around sleeping children. The men pass around cups of the local ‘arak’ or ‘moke’, alcohol made from the plentiful palms and coconuts.
The repetition continues until morning. The same music. The same dance. The same the same the same. But they’re smart. The parties are weekdays. And since all are invited, work the next morning is optional. Although that isn’t completely different from any other morning...
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