Left at the Alter

So Iraque and I decided to elope, but the bastard didn’t show.

Kidding.

In reality, we were supposed to go to a wedding of Iraque’s family friend, but the poor gal got ditched by her Mozambican Miner who works in South Africa. I mean sure, we are all still reeling after Burk left Christina, but I didn’t think that happened in real life. Besides, Burk at least had the courage to get to the chapel and turn his lady down, not call from another country.

Personally, I am not really a big fan of Mozambican parties in general because they just involve eating lots of meat (which is not my fave food group), talking to people I don’t know, being the only white person in a massive group, and then they usually devolve into a massive dance party (which can be fun, but my moves really need work in comparison to the fantastic African booty dancers that all Mozambicans seem to be).

Also, there is the whole “what do I wear?” aspect. Which, I wasn’t even worried about at first because I have this cute little dress that I bought in the used clothing market in Xai-Xai. Well Iraque poo-pooed that, saying I was just going to run around showing my coochie to everyone. Ok, I am an adult thank you, no longer the little girl on the playground in her flower print, big lace collared, homemade dress with peep-show prevention spandex underneath. I think I can manage a skirt.

But I acquiesced, because he assured me there would be a lot of walking and, more importantly, chapa rides involved. Such conditions do make a skirt a bit more difficult and choochie shows a bit more likely.

“Ok, so what do I wear then? Wait, why are lots of walking and chapa’s involved?”

Well, apparently a wedding in Mozambique is a full day commitment for guests. First, you go to the registry, their version of city hall, early in the morning. Directly after, you go to the church for the actual wedding. And finally, the party, which, if done properly, should last from about 1pm to sunrise. Now that is one long dance party.

I have been to Mozambican weddings before, but just in Namaacha, where I was never a real invited guest, more like the kid that tagged along with mama, and thus just attended the party portion.

Returning to the question of clothing, what on earth do I wear if dresses/skirts are out?

“Jeans and that little blouse.”
“Iraque, I cant wear jeans to a wedding, and I certainly cant wear jeans in church!”
“Maybe in America, but you are in Mozambique.”

I didn’t trust him one bit. Men, yes, they can wear jeans with a button down. Children, yes, they wear jeans because hey, they are kids, whatever. Grown women don’t wear jeans. And, on top of questions of proper clothing etiquette, the white American girlfriend making her first public appearance doesn’t wear jeans.

It was the day before the event and the whole thing was honestly giving me anxiety. I just couldn’t be the jeans girl they would gossip about. I even went as far as making Iraque go with me to the used clothing market to look at dress pants (Because I have a very limited and not so cute collection here with me in Moz). But he wouldn’t let me buy any because he kept telling me that I looked like a “senhora.” Newsflash buddy, I am a teacher, and a full grown woman, and we are going to a formal function, am I supposed to look like some sexy little sequin-clad pita in the discoteca? (pita is like ‘chick’ in Portuguese… it sometimes is also what men call the women they are casually sleeping with)

But I also didn’t have a mirror and was relying totally on Iraque’s perception of me, and the last thing I want is to buy some old lady pants. So I gave up.

We went to visit the future couple that evening. Apparently it is custom to go say hello, see how preparations are going, and just generally wish the couple good luck.

Well preparations were well underway. A massive green tent was already up in the yard. I am not really sure what they were thinking when they rented the thing, because it took up the entire yard, and was super low-hanging so you had to duck to get in. Then, once you were inside you could barely see anything because the low-hanging-ness not only was cumbersome to your entrance but blocked just about all sunlight. I felt like I should be packing a machine gun and dressed army fatigues or something the minute I got inside.

Inside the army tent, the bride was having her hair braided so a weave and tiara could be worked into it the next morning, the granny’s were peeling garlic to marinate the meat feast over night, and the boys were sorting out wires and speakers.

“Katarina!”

I have met the woman once in my life, but she was quite excited to see me. So I sat, and witnessed the hair-braiding for a while, while playing with the grandbaby and being introduced the family of 2049835459334908.

I realized after a few minutes, that with all the introductions, I hadn’t yet me the groom.

“Where is the groom?” I asked, thinking he must be inside, or taking care of last minute details with the refrescos and cerveja or something.

“He is still in South Africa, he will get in late tonight.”
“Well that is cutting it awfully close,” I silently thought to myself, just picturing car troubles spoiling the big day.

Well, between this silent criticism and all my attire anxiety I think I jinxed the poor lady. Sure enough, as we woke up early in order to prepare for the day’s festivities, we heard through the grapevine that they guy didn’t show.

The official story is that he got sick. Now, I don’t want to speculate, but lets be honest, I have been in Mozambique too long to be above the gossip chain, so here goes. If I were a miner in South Africa, I would not wait until the night before my wedding to make my journey home. And I certainly wouldn’t miss it because I had a cold, or diareaha or something common. It would take a SERIOUS illness to curtail my travel/marriage plans.

So, I’m going with the other story that has been circulated. The jerk didn’t show that night, and instead called and told his fiancé to marry one of her other boyfriends because he was not coming. Harsh.