Wedding Bells in Khongolote

Wedding bells chimed in Mozambique for Paulo and Olga this weekend, figuratively speaking, anyway, and Laura and I travelled to Khongolote to witness the nuptuals.

The wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin at 11:30am. On our way to the ceremony, our colleague Melvin, who was driving us, got a telephone call from Raul, hoping we could give him a ride. That would save him the trouble of catching a chapa (the local minivan transit service). Even though it was already 11:10am and Khongolote was another 30 minutes away, we circled back to pick him up.

When we finally arrived at noon, we were surprised to find the wedding had already started. Meetings never run on time, and even less so weddings. In fact, weddings are notoriously late in part because the groom must first make a trip to the provincial capital of Matola to take care of the legal documentation. The length of the wait at the government office in Matola is unpredictable.

Weddings also tend to run long. We witnessed some potential causes for that: first there were the congregation members who felt that certain songs needed to be sung. They would just start belting them out from their pews, and everyone would happily join along. Almost everyone. Even in Africa, some people were seen rolling their eyes.

Next were the people who walked to the front of the church to provide miniature soliloquys. Since they were in Shangaan, we didn't know what wisdom the speakers were imparting on the newlyweds, but hoots and guffaws from the benches were common. The presiding church leader stood up and sat down several times, unsure of what would happen next.

The wedding included an interesting mix of African and western elements. The bride wore a wedding dress which is shared around the community for such occasions. Same for the suits that the men wore. And there was an exchange of wedding bands which, since I've yet to see anyone wearing rings, were likely borrowed as well.

We stayed after the ceremony for the reception, which was a late lunch of rice, beans, and chicken or fish. A guest on my right found a chicken foot in his rice. A guest on my left received the glare of a fish's head staring up at him from his bowl. Everyone had generous portions: nobody would leave hungry on this day.

The guests of honour at the head table received special luxuries, like bottles of Coke and Fanta. The children were overjoyed that they were treated with the leftovers.

All of the guests were packed tightly into rows of the ubiquitous blue benches. Weddings are fancy, but the community has limits. The guests ate out of plastic bowls, which we balanced on our laps since we didn't have tables. Most of us were given one piece of cutlery to use. There wasn't enough to go around, so some people used their fingers.

After the meal, gifts were presented to the couple by groups of people singing and dancing their way to the head table. The gifts were simple: a group of a dozen women purchased a box of patio glasses, and each woman presented one glass to the couple. Another group presented a set of pots and pans; each woman carrying a pot, or a pan, or a lid, or a spoon.

The newly-wed couple have been socialized not to smile at such a serious affair as a wedding, though their guests had a boisterous time.

At the end of the celebration, the couple was chauffered away in a small white Toyota, spinning its tires on the rain-soaked mud roads. We followed behind in a four-by-four truck, going very slowly. When Melvin, who was driving our truck, suggested passing the bride and groom, the Mozambicans in our car were shocked. Pass a bride and groom on their wedding day? Bad luck, I guess.

We turned down a side street and sped away.