Wedding Gabob

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Another wedding in Chi Phat. But this one is different. The beautiful receptionist from the CBET office is getting married, and I received an official invitation, all wrapped in clear plastic. There's a heart shaped sticker on the outside, inviting me to the procession where the groom brings 32 kinds of food to the bride.

For me it starts the day before. The family of the bungalows where I'm staying locates appropriate attire, complete with a lacy shiny top and sompot, or traditional skirt. The mother and daughter alter the fasteners, then fuss over me, use safety pins and make folds here and there so I look just right. I feel so good and confident, now I have the two outfits I need to participate. I long for a gabob, a handbag, and one appears. It is perfect, shiny vinyl with a gold buckle. I think about carrying it as I dance, just as I have seen Cambodian women do.
I am so excited as I awaken early the morning of the big day. The bride and groom must be ten times more excited for their long day ahead! The family members of the bungalows each compliments me when I appear, swinging the gabob. I point to my dirty Keen sandals. The women go through several pairs of shoes in their wardrobe, searching for something for my size 11 feet, and we settle on some heeled sandals with the Apple logo all over them.

The father, whom I started calling Bong Papa, drives me and the middle daughter Sreynen to the wedding location. I swing my feet as I ride side saddle on the moto in the rising sun. People on the road see me in the sompot, and they yell "sa-at"---pretty!

Pretty girls, pretty women, they're all gathering. My friend Rachel, a Peace Corps volunteer with fellow volunteer Mary, are there. They're heavy with makeup, like the local women, and look beautiful.

I see lots of movement. The men line up plastic chairs and cover them with fabric, set up tables, erect the wedding tunnel/shelter. Lots of people chop and tend giant pots and woks; dead pig parts add bloody red to the food preparation tables; men gather around fires and talk as dogs lounge; kids scamper; motos pull up and drop their beautiful cargo.

I saw and heard the wedding pigs the day before at the bungalow family's house. They were screaming, they knew they would be a part of this.

The groom and his attendants emerge, dressed in glimmering pink. More beautiful women appear, then rush to the gift distribution, where platters of fruit, heads of cabbage, bottles of alcohol, soda, flowers, and other items are passed to the people who hold out their arms. I get a platter of green papayas, then line up with everyone on the street. The music starts, and we walk to the bride's home, where we deliver the gifts from the groom.

After the food is presented, everyone eats bawbaw, rice soup with pork. I pass on this part, I have not been eating pigs in Cambodia, especially when I know they screamed.

Later in the morning the bride and groom appear again to wash the feet of the parents and cut the hair. Wedding singers drone on, accompanied by traditional musicians, then they try to do comedy for the crowd.

The bride and groom repeatedly change clothes through the day, I just have one change, in preparation for the reception. That evening the women gather at my bungalow family's house, where there is a flurry of activity. They braid hair, apply white skin foundation, paint eyebrows, and use a palette of 25 different colors to shade their eyelids. They each go through several wardrobe changes, and fuss over each other and inspect minute details on their faces. They all say I look very pretty. Of course, I've darkened my eyebrows, put eyeliner on, and I have the special gabob. They select appropriate shoes for me, and now I'm perfect.

We whiz off on the backs of motos, arrive to a blur of food vendors, loud music, glittering dresses, hundreds of wedding gawkers who come to enjoy the music but will not partake of the wedding food.

We greet the groom and bride in the wedding tunnel, pass by tables filled with platters heaped with food, cans of beer, happy people. About a dozen women sit at a circular table. We wipe our glasses and spoons, straws are passed, beer is poured. The first of many cheers begins, we raise our glasses, and join the celebration.

These women drink, and drink, beer over ice, they cheer, and eat. We reach over each other to pick out the food from the platters. Anything goes, dish it on and pile it down. All delicious. We take photos of each other, we laugh and smile, and joke, and appreciate the beauty of one another. We hop up and down, people we know come over for photos, they tell me I'm beautiful. I love it, I love them and it's not just the beer feeling it, it is me, I feel the delight, and the passion, and the joy of joining in celebration.

Several of the guides come and ask for a photo with me. Maybe it's the beer, but they put their arm around me, and we pose cheek to cheek, and for those moments everything is so very perfect.

Later the music starts, and there's a rush to be near the giant speakers, belching out loud techno noises, sometimes Khmer songs, and we snake around in a circle. My eardrums hurt, it is too loud. Old and young dance, they smile at me, I smile back, my shiny gabob dangles from my arm. I fit right in. A woman tries to show me how to move my hands in a beautiful rising and falling fashion. Another rather drunk man slips beside me and tries to teach me too, then another teacher appears.

What, am I not getting it? No I'm not, but no matter, I'm dancing along, shuffling along in the plastic bags and empty beer cans, used straws and other debris gathering on the ground. Gawkers abound on the sidelines, but I'm in the inner circle, in the center, making it happen.

I'm exhausted, I rest at a table, people shove used glasses of beer at me, encouraging me to drink, my gleaming gabob is still with me, and I feel complete. I find another circle of dancers, farther away from the speakers, and a man from the office joins me dancing.

"Terry," he says, "like this." One two three four, stomp. Easy, yeah, I can get the feet movement, for awhile. "See my hands, Terry? A flower, closed, then opening. Goooood." He used to teach traditional dance, so now he's using his best encouraging voice with me, the student who can't put her hands and feet together. I feel better doing the free form dancing.

Exhaustion, finally. I'm so sweaty, and I blot the makeup on my face, hoping it is still intact. I head back to my bungalow with Bong Mama, and her son. I'm cold now, but so alive, my ears are ringing, my slick gabob rests on my lap as I ride.

I was a part of it, I was there, I shared that remarkable day with the wonderful people in Chi Phat who gathered to bless and celebrate the marriage of their own.

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Photos

Bride beautiful
She's perfected the pose