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Published: August 25th 2007
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Since I wasn't expecting the following to happen, I didn't have my camera on me, so you will just have to imagine this in your head.
It goes like this:
Last night I bunked down at about 1030pm (yeah, WAY earlier than my normal bedtime back home, but its up with the sun and down with the sun (ish) here due to my lack of electric lights).
I was woken up around 1130 by the sound of music. Yes, the hills were alive with the sound of music! No, I'm not talking about Julie Andrews in her gray dress singing her heart out; I'm talking about loud, awful North American dance music being blared out of a sound system (a good one, I thought) nearby. So I drag my sorry butt out of bed, put on some clothes, slip on a pair of flip-flops and go out in search of the noise makers.
As it turns out, the noise makers are the Catholics across the road, who are hosting a massive wedding party. So I go up to the gate of their property, intending on telling the guard to tell the people to turn the music down (not that it would work, because a) the guard doesn't speak French, and b) like heck they would kill their party just because some muzungu asked them too....I mean, sure, people here like muzungus, but not THAT much). However, before I even open my mouth in what I know to be a useless endeavour, the guard just waves me in. OK...shall I go complain to the bride? I could....but that wouldn't be nice. But I go in anyway, intending to have a brief peek at the wedding then run for it before they set the dogs on me.
One of the first rules of Wedding Crashing, according to the movie Wedding Crashers, is to have a good cover story. Trust me, I had nothing of the sort. I was expecting to be thrown out promptly, and that the guard would be warned against letting in anymore random strangers. But I went anyways, just wanting to see what it was about.
So here I am, walking along a gravel path that leads towards the church buildings (this being a Catholic property) in my shorts, dirty muscle-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. I arrive at the wedding party, which is going down outside the buildings in one of the few available flat spots, and, very predictably, everyone there is all dressed up and looking snazy. They are also ALL black. Not only am I the only muzungu, but I am terribly under dressed. I would later compare the situation to being a flea-bitten, black alley dog in a party of pristine Persian cats.
This is where it gets really interesting. What happens next is a measure of how different this culture is from North American/European culture, where I would most certainly have been immediately thrown out.
What happens next is that not long after I arrive a man in a dark suit comes walking up to me. This guy is BIG. I found it interesting how quickly they got the biggest guy present to chase me out.
HOWEVER, far from chasing me out, he invites me in. SAY WHAT????? I felt SOOO uncomfortable walking into the party in my grubby clothes when everyone else was all pretty and snazy (not to mention the fact that I didn't know a single person there and I wasn't invited). They were nice people, though, and I was soon sipping a Coke and chowing down on a few brochettes. WOW. If I live a hundred million years I doubt that I will ever again find myself in a situation that was simultaneously that awkward and that comfortable.
Vince, Owen, you should be HERE. Wedding Crashing is SOOOO much easier and no food on earth can beat a free, midnight brochette.
I spent about the next 45 minutes chatting with a few people (some of them spoke English, which isn't uncommon in among the richer residents of this country, and trust me, this was a RICH wedding), eating more food than I should have (soooo good) and laughing at the antics of a few of the more drunken guests on the dance floor. After that I headed home, stuffed, happy and loving life.
And so, for the very last time:
From sunny Equatorial Africa, this has been the Ramblings of Kevin B.
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Jess
non-member comment
Impressed...
That is one of the coolest travel stories I have EVER heard. That's the kind of thing you will be telling your grandkids in fifty years. Unreal. I have to get to Rwanda.