And then you open your eyes a little bit, and you see a beautiful girl, and then you die a little more

Every Monday last summer, I’d walk into the office, exchange three kisses on the cheek, and inquire into Susan’s* weekend: “What did you do?” “Oh, I went to a wedding,” she’s respond, “some time I’ll have to invite you.”

Last weekend she delivered a personal invitation to a wedding of her own.

The day began with a trip to the salon, a traffic jam, and an uncharacteristically forgiving bureaucrat. As in the US, there are myriad ways for a Rwandan couple to celebrate their love and commitment, but only the State confers the official marriage statute. Susan’s “civil marriage,” the first of two ceremonies of the day, was supposed to begin at 10:00 a.m. at the local District office. Susan, conspicuously tardy in her sequined emerald gown, arrived at 10:23, dodged eye contact, and dutifully took her place next to her fiancé James.

Three other couples had also gathered with family and friends for the civil marriage ceremony: two hours of legal jargon followed by question-and-answer from the proctor. “It feels like class,” grumbled one of Susan’s friends. Finally, the couples placed their hands on the flag, took the oath, and signed something along the lines of: We, as consenting adults (21 years of age), do agree to abide by Rwandan marriage law and faithfully live as husband (man) and wife (woman). Susan stumbled a bit with the oath but, like Obama, emerged unscathed.

Needless to say, given widespread intolerance towards homosexuality in Rwanda, the traditional marriage debate is manifest very differently here than in the States. Upholding “traditional” marriage in Rwanda means negotiating cows rather than questions of equal rights. Thus, for most Rwandan couples, the second ceremony of a marriage is the traditional “introduction.” Since dowry is usually agreed upon in advance these days (two cows is pretty standard), the modern introduction ceremony is a nod to tradition and an opportunity for both families to gather and officially announce the union.

Susan’s uncle hosted the festivities under the tropical umbrage of his garden. Two groups of men—the male elders bestowed with the authority to negotiate on behalf of the family—sat facing each other beneath an awning resplendent with flowers and traditional décor. Guests arranged themselves according to affiliation with the bride or groom. When everyone had been seated, the festivities began.

In essence, the ceremony is simply a ritualized introduction of each family and opportunity for the elders to announce a noble match. Although much of the nuance was lost on me, I was able to decipher a fair amount of the discussion with the kind assistance of Susan’s sister Sharon.

An orange-tie-clad Master of Ceremonies directed much of the afternoon, which generally followed the standard script. After the elders met and exchanged overtures of good faith (champagne and Fanta), it was on to the search for the bride. Feigning ignorance as to her identity, the elders scanned the crowd for candidates. Is it the young girl nestled in her mother’s lap? The old auntie basking in the news of Susan’s good fortune? The muzungu in Rwandan garb huddled up close to her translator, attempting to avoid attracting attention (They made me stand; I cringed but smiled sheepishly and everyone laughed)? Oya, oya, oya (no, no, no).

Then there was the investigation of the groom’s character. To the crowd’s delight, Susan’s uncles spun tales of misfortune and woe, attempting to pin the blame on a young man who may or may not be the husband-to-be. Was it he who robbed my friend’s brother’s cousin last weekend? Oya. Was it he who crashed my uncle’s boss’ car? Oya. Was it he who failed to pay the Electrogaz bill two months in a row? Oya. On to the negotiations.

Since the dowry had actually been decided in advance, this portion of the ceremony entailed a mock investigation of cows, some haggling, and a bit of hilarity. When everyone seemed satisfied, it was finally time to bring out the happy couple.

Susan and James emerged with their respective entourages of close friends and traditional dancers, radiating joy and grace. More speeches, more kisses, more Fanta, more dancing…more speeches and more overtures…and all of a sudden, their families were bound together by a happy union.

Congratulations, Susan.

It will be “officially official” (in the eyes of God) after the church service, to take place when James returns to Rwanda next year. To be continued…

* My wonderful friend/housemate/guardian angel

When it rains

(Pour tout le monde qui connait bien la saison de la pluie.)

Those of you who know me well are onto my penchant for mixed cds.  I made one, once, called when it rains.  Part excuse to share the title track (an earthy song by Meg Hutchinson—thanks, Beth), part tribute to the rainy season in La Réunion, and part peace offering to the drops that trammeled my unsuspecting bike and I on our way to work in Sainte Marie, it tells me the rainy season is arriving in Rwanda.  Early.  My internal cd player just can’t get enough of that track.

And I’m a Portland native, remember?  When those azure-sky-for-as-far-as-the-eye-can-see-why-make-such-a-big-deal-about-rain Coloradoans or fair-weather Ohioans would say, “Portland?  Doesn’t it rain out there?” I would scoff and reply that, to the contrary, I find rain to be quite beautiful.

I can be rather self-righteous about rain.

The soothing droplets born from the convergence of cool Pacific air and shimmering eastern heat were my childhood lullaby.  I’ve set my watch to the afternoon thunderstorms that shake their lightning rattles at the American plains at 4:00 p.m. sharp in the summers, only to dissipate as quickly as they emerged (just enough time to emerge from the pool for a coconut popsicle).  I’ve literally danced in the rain to celebrate the downpours that bring relief from the oppressive humidity of August in the Midwest.  I have (still) fantasize about waterlogged camping.  I’ve driven around tropical islands for days at a time in a futile chase of sunshine (mon Dieu).

But Rwandan rain is not to be scoffed at.  It is not one dealt with by mere human implements like rain-jackets, umbrellas, and galoshes.  Even the mighty Gore-Tex jacket cowers in its glare. 

This is rain that drowns out my voice on a Skype call and then traps me in an internet café and forces me to accept the assistance of an all-too-accommodating hotel desk clerk who loans his umbrella and steadies me as we navigate the rivulets-turned-waterfalls along the footpath to my house and sends shivers down my spine and turns my hair turn to ringlets as I pray that our night watchman hears my feeble pounds on the gate and…finally…lets…me…in.   Shelter.  I stand under the alcove of our porch and watch the water and revel at the awesome power of Captain Planet’s fundamental four: earth, wind, water, fire. 

 

I dare not wax poetic about Rwandan rain.