A wedding

Wiyono, one of Alice’s assistants, got married. For a series of circumstances, that day we were coming back from TK, it was getting late, that hour when you won’t be able to walk to camp before dark, but we decided to look for the little kampung where Wiyono lives, to briefly pay our homage. We had stayed in TK for longer than expected, we had no clean clothes, we were dressed like dirty, trashy Americans, we didn’t have a wedding present. Quite embarrassing. But we were welcomed warmly, all of the innumerable family members smiled at us, they decided that it was too late to go back to the forest now, that they would feel worried on account of us, and that we should spend the night in their home. We accepted.

The only gift I could give Wiyono were photographs, since I had my camera (with dying battery). I told him to let me know what he wanted immortalized, and he accepted with a glimpse of a smile, and in his quiet and composed way took my arm and led me around the place, away from the “main hall” and where people were cooking, washing, preparing decorations, hanging out. He would softly point at a person or group of people, murmuring their identity, and proceed.

We were politely asked if we wanted to take a bath (a ritual before prayer, and in this case, the vain hope we could reappear wearing more appropriate clothes). One of Wiyono’s cousins took us “there”: a well, surrounded by a low mud wall and a loose wicker fence, and dozens tiny chicks and hens running excitedly around. I wore my forest pants (smelly and not completely clean) as they were the only long ones I have.

Here is how the wedding works: a large patio is built and decorated. Right outside the house, on a row of elegant chairs, sit the couple, the parents, and other notable members of the family or important persons. In front of them are placed seven or eight rows of plastic chairs. To their left, an imposing (and frail) entertainment system, including two TVs (facing opposite ways), DVD/VCD player and big speakers. To their right, a large box with a small opening on top, and a long table with refreshments and food, preceded by another small number of “welcoming personnel”. I am not sure about the time this starts, but people come, are welcomed by this avant-garde, are given a package with food (rice, vegetables, egg, a piece of chicken), sweets (a strange sort of merengue, one made from rice wrapped in banana leaves, another very heavy made from a local fruit), and drinks (water); then they place a folded envelop (with money) in the box, and ceremoniously shake hands with the family/important people. Then they sit down on the plastic chairs in front of them and eat. And then they leave. Sometimes, a member of the greeting committee stands up, to give orders or rest, and is replaced by another. My feeling was that it is important to leave a valuable representation there at all times. We arrived at 16.30 (when we were told that a lot of people had already showed up and left), and at midnight they were still coming. Music was played continuously, and then movies, narrating edifying tales of powerful and pure Muslim heroes. I was constantly offered food, every 15 minutes Wiyono would come and say “Luca, makan!” (Luca, eat!) and present me with some new treat. Then we had the proper dinner, inside the house, with the family. A great honor. Then we sat down on the greeting committee, an even greater honor, though I also hope we were being helpful, by replacing flagging members and giving an exotic touch. What you do is pay attention, and when the people come, you raise, shake their hand and take your hand to your heart, with a large smile (and possibly some nodding and a little bowing). One difficulty is calibrating the force of the handshake: what you receive goes from a manly clasp, to a firm grip, to a weak limp hand, to an even deader squid-like pulp. And you have to be good at guessing the kind of handshake you should deliver to each person, and extremely quick to adjust when you make a mistake. An additional honor was to be seated next to the chief of the village, beautifully dressed, a friendly and self-assured look, willing to talk about life, siamangs, the movie we were watching, the village and his experiences with the forest and WCS. I was kicking myself for the poor control I still have of the language (the million dialects don’t help..). At around 1 a.m. we retired, we slept in the common room, on the floor covered with colorful carpets and rugs, we couldn’t refuse pillows and sarongs, with the family. Music and movies played all night long, and then people started cleaning up, and when we woke up at 4.30 most of the work was already done. A trip to the bathroom (a hole on the ground, covered with cut palm trunks and protected by (low) palm leaves, some distance from the house), and then Wiyono and his cousin took us to the entrance of the forest by motorbike.