Camping Out Part I: The Wedding

This weekend I had the rare but challenging opportunity to experience episodes in Saudi culture that relatively few expats have the opportunity to witness. I had been invited to spend an overnight at the ancestral farm of a Saudi colleague, AS, outside a small town, Al-Majma'ah, 200 KM north of Riyadh. The occasion for the trip was for  AS, his son, his four brothers and several nephews and cousins to attend the wedding reception of a relative. This took place on a Wednesday evening and the plan was for me to spend the night with the guys and attend a Camel Festival the next day in a small community on the fringres of the desert, Um Rogabiyah. I met and had a brief chat with AS's wife (full veil) before we left but no women were on the guest list.

I characterized this venture as challenging for several reasons. As most of my family and close friends are aware, I am not comfortable in large social settings, especially absent the social buffer Janet provides so expertly. Furthermore this was a stretch for me well outside my new (Riyadhi) comfort zone. As a creature of habit I have developed a comfortable and sustaining routine (campus to compound to market to compound) which would be shattered by this trip into the heart of Saudi culture. Nonetheless it was an offer that I could not refuse without compelling reason as that would have been a major affront.

The 2-1/2 hour trip to the farm provided late afternoon and twilight views of what I can best decribe as scrub desert - flat, sandy plains with occasional small trees with horizontal canopies similar to those seen in National Geographic views of the African savanna, and close to the road an unfortunate zone of consumer detritus, trash bags, plastic bottles, retired truck tires. This was not Lawrence of Arabia vistas but it was a taste of things to come later. Once we left the lights of Riyadh and other thana small University campus near Al-Majma'ah, the Region was relatively unpopulated but for occasional groups of tents used by urban campers.

As a manifestation of my nervousness about the trip I was alert to the placement of gas stations, which fortunately were relatively frequent on this main highway which led eventually north to Kuwait. My colleague apologized for the inadequacies of the gas stations which he found unacceptably far below Western standards (as he had lived in the States for several years earning his advanced degrees). Having been forewarned, I avoided the "restrooms" with religious conviction...

Having arrived at the farm, which was primarily the responsibility of and weekend retreat for K, the eldest brother of the family, after dark it was difficult to sense the layout and extent of the property. I was invited to enter one large room (actually a permanent tent with hard walls) and was greeted by K who was watching a camel competition on a US tavern-sized TV screen. The room, at least 18' x 25' was carpeted in a dark red with beige geometric patterns. The seating was provided by low carpeted benches along the long sides of the room with moveable rectangular hard pillows used primarily as arm rests. Dark green and gold curtains covered the windows along the perimeter. Except for the TV the ambiance was, if not exactly Arabian nights, at least a more rustic equivalent... Even before the other brothers had arrived we sat on the floor enjoying dates and ginger tea. In truth, I don't enjoy the fresh dates - though being able to spit the seeds onto the table cloth provided is rather liberating - but the ginger tea, now that's another matter. The warm ginger is accented by an unknown (to the expat novice) spice with a hint of lemon leaving a peppery aftertaste. To say that I enjoyed it and willingly took three small cups is a small miracle, given my disdain toward tea being a bold coffee addict and advocate.

Slowly the family assembled having changed into thobes appropriate for the celebration. I was wearing the conservative sports jacket and slacks as my on-campus uniform, realizing I would blend in like a lump of coal thrown onto a snow bank... tension was mounting in spite of the ginger tea!

The wedding reception was held in a wedding hall, not unlike the suburban Pittsburgh equivalent except for the absence of a bar, wedding gifts, band and females. Men and boys were seated in red and gold upholstered chairs and love seats the length of the marble floored hall. Four elderly gents were seated in the row of chairs facing the entrance but appeared to have been offered choice seats and otherwise had no discernible role in the ceremony. Well, actually what was most notable - other than the expected (but for me, unforgiveable) exclusion of women - was the absence of ceremony in a formal sense. The basic ritual was an endless walk-around of guests expressing greetings to family, friends and acquaitances with handshakes and kisses on the cheek for close friends. While waiting to greet or be greeted and for the groom to enter, we sat sipping Arabic coffee and munching on the ubiquitous dates offered by tea boys dressed in robes, an image that for me evoked Kipling more than 1001 nights... Finally the groom and his entourage arrived, evident primarily by the timely appearance of the official photographer who had also been taking shots of small clusters of guests. [I would love to be a fly on the wall when the groom shares the photos with his bride showing a graying Western expat in coat and tie who crashed the party.]

After a final round of tea and mamouls (date-filled cookies, the local Oreos) and heralded by the teaboys goiung through the crowd with large censors of an acrid incense, we were urged to sit for dinner in an adjoining room. The groom, his father and other members of the groom's party sat at a banquet style head table but there were no speeches, toasts (considered haram along with alcohol), smooches between bride and groom since no bride present. The food was good and filling - and the excess of food was the primary link to the Western style wedding reception. The major entrees were camel and rice, beef and chicken strips, Arabic flat bread, a humous and vegie salad plate and an overflowing desert station where I opted for a tiramasu-like custard.

As the only expat in the place - perhaps the only one ever to be in this small town wedding hall - I consider it to have been a privileged experience, reflecting the unfailing courtesy of my colleague and his family. Nevertheless I left feeling both relieved - having apparently escaped without committing any obvious cross-cultural blunders - but also disappointed. From my outsider perspective, the celebration was oddly joyless, the atmosphere more of a subdued political rally for a novice candidate running in his first election but without the press or speeches. I'm confident that the men found it rewarding or at least satisfying, i.e., that they had participated according to custom and expectations and maintained the good name of their family... But I cannot describe what I observed as a celebration of the central focus, the joining together of the couple - impossible since SHE was absent and unspoken.

To be continued...