A Rwandan Wedding and Ensuing Shenanigans

Providence was invited to a wedding this weekend for a friend of hers from church, and Laura and I were welcomed to tag along.  It was nearly 1p.m. by the time we got to the wedding because there was an umuganda, or national day of service, scheduled.  This traditionally means that roads and public transport are shut down while volunteers clean the roads.  (I learned that only certain people participate in this, upon invitation.  Otherwise, I would have been in the midst of it.  You might know how I love neighborhood cleanups!) 

The first part of a traditional Rwandan wedding takes place at the home of the bride’s family.  The walkway was designated by something like pine brush, and the yard was set up with three tents: two long ones on either side of the aisle and facing it, and one smaller one in the middle for the wedding party.  Of course everything was in Kinyarwanda.  Providence explained that in the beginning, the bride’s family accuses the groom’s family of being dishonest, and the groom’s family must defend itself and convince the bride’s family to allow their daughter to be wed.  This dialogue took place between the fathers, slightly moderated by a sort of emcee character who was very funny (judging by the laughter he received).  We were on the groom’s side, and applauded several times when dear old dad seemed to be making headway.  This went on for maybe half an hour; I wondered if they had practiced these speeches or if it was off the cuff.  Finally, the bride’s family agreed that their daughter could marry the guy.  (Whew!)

The next stage was a ceremonial and theatrical transaction to seal the deal.  You guessed it….the giving of cows!!  Unlike the day before, where the cows were very, very real, these cows were only symbolic, but Providence says that the groom’s family probably did actually give about 200,000 francs to the bride’s family, which is roughly $1000.  For this part, the emcee guy and another friend were draped as shepherds and wandered around the center aisle, singing the praises of cows, and even adding some “mooooooos” for effect.  This got a laugh every time they did it.  The mood was jovia; it felt like this was an essential but not-to-be-taken-too-seriously part of the ritual, like incessantly clinking forks for the new couple to kiss or tossing the garter and bouquet. 

Only then could the bride and groom actually enter, with major pomp and circumstance.  The groom and entourage entered first, with gold and red capes and ornate staffs.  For the bride, there was an armed guard (yes, with spears) along with a maid of honor, an army of bridesmaids carrying all manner of baskets and boxes, and sweeper girls (like flower girls, but with brooms).  The bride’s dress was a deep red wrap with gold running through it, and she wore a beaded band across her forehead.  The bridesmaids’ dresses echoed the bride’s red in a big floral print over cream-colored silk.  Just wow.

Then a second army of bridesmaids served us plates of delicious plantains and beef and beans and rice and vegetables at our seats.  Then there was a little more talking and a tradition of trying to make the bride cry over leaving her family.  She managed to eke out a tear or two, but it felt a little like watching Hillary Clinton trying to cry.

Part two of the wedding was at a protestant church in Kigali.  At this point, there was a bit of a hullabaloo because Laura and I were anxiously attempting to procure from Providence the etiquette of Rwandan weddings.  We didn’t have a gift: did we need one?  Could we give cash?  What would be an appropriate gift or an appropriate amount to spend?  Should we go to the church or would it be better not to since we are strangers to them?  Would it be worse to show up at the church late but with a gift or on time but empty-handed?  As far as I could tell, it turned out that none of these things mattered or needed to be fussed over.  The church was crowded and restless, with about three times as many people at the church as there were at the house.  People kept wandering in for about twenty minutes after we got there, (and we definitely took some time to fuss around in the store before Provi got frustrated and we left without a gift.)  Nobody especially cared who was or wasn’t there or when. 

The bride was in a white gown this time, and all the bridesmaids had changed as well into cream-colored dresses with blue and gold trim.  It was pretty incredible.  This must have been an expensiive affair!  We did get a chance to greet the bride and groom and give them some cash in a collection basket at the end of the ceremony.  By this time it was 7p.m., and Providence decided that she had better head home to her brother’s instead of going to the reception.  This sounded crazy at the time, but now I think she may have been right on: the wedding party was going to take pictures before arriving at the reception, and since Providence goes to bed at 10 o’clock sharp every night, she might have had to leave before they arrived.  At any rate, I was disappointed, because of course I wanted to go to the reception, but couldn’t very well attend without Providence, (right?).

So Laura and I walked in search of the One Love Guest House which wasn’t too far away.  It’s run by a pretty cool Japanese NGO that raises money for prostheses for disabled children.  Kigali is a weird city.  Its many hills are steep enough that there are large swaths of highway you can walk along but not build along.  It isn’t unsafe, but it doesn’t feel very friendly or interesting in those stretches because there’s not really anything to look at.  In Manhattan, by contrast, you are always walking through something interesting even as you go from something interesting to something else interesting. 

We found the place, though there was no entrance from the street where you could see it, and then we had to pass through a labyrinthine (and poorly lit) bridge-parking lot-restaurant complex to actually find the guest house from its entrance.  The patios and walkways were and lovely gardens, though nearly deserted, but the room itself was slightly creepy, big and red and empty except for a ramp up to a dwarf entrance to the bathroom.  I had an actual hot shower, after some hilarious challenges with the overzealous shower nozzle.  We fell asleep to the lullaby of a pack of wild dogs.  I slept well, then woke up this morning to a trifecta of roosters crowing, cars passing, and someone sweeping outside.  The wonderment never ceases!  Also, we discovered a menagerie of several caged tropical birds and about a dozen cats within our guest house/labyrinth.  We decided that the place would be really great if there were more people around. 

Don't worry: I didn't go to bed at 8p.m.  The guest house host, Daniel, recommended a restaurant called Car Wash.  We needed additional directions on the way but were a little creeped out by the groups of men we kept passing, so we asked the nearest woman and immediately afterward realized she was most likely a prostitute.  She was impressed with Laura’s Kinyarwanda, and we paid her twice what she asked, enough for two Fantas.  So there’s another big one to list on my Adventures CV: patronizing a practitioner of the world’s oldest profession.  I think I’ll put it between the all-night fence-a-thon in college and jumping off a bridge high enough to bruise my tailbone in Durango. 

But I digress.  Back to Car Wash.  Laura and I were welcomed in by a musungo (white) guy who I thought was a manager, then a creeper, but then luckily I was right the first time.  The place was big and open, with colorful neon lights, two bars, a big courtyard, and three different semi-sheltered areas.  There was also a stage, and before we knew what was happening, we were watching some insane lip sync/dance performances.  We giggled because one of the dancers looked exactly like Providence, if she ever wore spandex and honed her chest thrusting skills.  We were in time to catch the last 20 minutes of the Rwanda/Canada soccer game, an exhilarating but scoreless match.  Needless to say, we both rooted for Rwanda.  Fortuitously, we had some company because we ran into John, the teacher at Geshora High School, and two young women on holiday from Belgium.  They were all staying in a hostel at a church.

And I just have to assume that everything that happened this weekend was completely normal, even though my head is still spinning.