Chapter IV - Gastroenteritis and Princeling Behaviour

We bid our goodbyes and rickshawed our way back through the now quiet city, catching glimpses of the bush fire inducing lanterns as they sailed on their merry way. With the roads now empty of shenanigans, we traversed the city back to the hotel where I encountered my first spell of food poisoning but thankfully, a quick squirt and the body readjusted to its rightful glory. The same could not be said for my trusted traveling gypsy.

Whilst I slept a sound sleep guided into dream land, assisted by melatonin and scotch, my dear Sarah spent the night back and forth from the bathroom with the onset of stomach pains and gastro, providing for a restless night of small prayers and no doubt tears. It would seem that a body conditioned to an unusual raw food diet enjoyed back home did not agree to being subjected to the far east delicacies of sweet treats and spiced local goat. In between wiping the sweat and illness with towels and feeding the dazed wild beast medications from my knapsack of goodies, I proceeded to dress up in the traditional garb provided to me the night before for the next adventure of third world wedding festivities.

The garb I speak of consisted of a long red tunic, covered in beads and sequins, with red tights, snug at the ankles and baggy at the waist, tied with rope designed to fan downwards. The shoes themselves were ornate leather strapped sandals. This provided much amusement to the bewildered she-beast as the transformation of derelict death metal vagrant to imperial princeling was complete. And thus, I was ready to attend the second program of the wedding festivities.

It should be noted that by this point, the government had proceeded to execute the opposition leader the previous night. In their defense, for all stories that were exchanged, the opposition leader sounded like he was a bit of a cunt back in the day. A local version of Pol Pot, involved in civil war and genocide and slightly trigger happy when it came to the local civilian population. So really . . . this was probably a long time over due. Good riddance. Sadly, after the war of independence with Pakistan back in the 1970s, this individual was not prosecuted but was permitted to continue participating in facets of the government and as a result, these days he had acquired a lot of followers and quarried a sense of self-legitimisation for his wishes to return Bangladesh into Pakistan with hard line Islamic teachings. The past however was not forgotten. For he indeed found his firing squad.

And with that, the police presence in the town was increased and our desired route of transport changed on a dime . . . whenever we came across the locals having their communal bon fires in the road and causing a ruckus. We finally arrived at the community hall organised by the brides family and were warmly greeted by dozens of people gathering at the entrance, separated into two groups by way of a rose-laced rope strung across the threshold. Both families proceeded to engage in heated banter and whilst I could not speak the native tongue; I just merely smiled and nodded and tried to follow what was happening before me. I was informed that this was an old traditional custom that was performed to herald in the new marriage, though these days it was taken as light-hearted and just a bit of a laugh. It was basically a bargaining agreement for the cost of the bride which would be paid to her family. A dowry if you will. A price was set and agreed to and concluded with Tanveer cutting the roses to a cheer from both sides. And so we were thusly granted entrance into the building.

Moving through the main hall towards the back room, there were, as was now tradition, many stunned faces staring at the pale thing creature swanning through in the sparkling red tunic, whilst the now familiar small children ran around excitedly, peeking around corners with their impish faces. We soon arrived at the throne room, which according to it's designated name, was a room consisting of regal chairs around the perimeter, a stage in the centers, with two thrones that were hemmed with flowers and lights. The males in the bridal party sat in the chairs to the side as Tanveer took his position on stage, whilst a procession of people came through to give their blessings and have their photo taken with the groom. The children continued to stick their heads quizzically through the doorways and chatter amongst themselves until peace offerings were displayed in the form of kangaroo key rings. In a swarm of excitement, they surrounded me to collect their gifts before running off to show each other their prize. With this act of kindness, I suspected that I had won the approval of the adults in the room . . . I was clearly a heathen but at least I was a good-hearted heathen. Or at least this was the impression displayed. Three more missed calls. I would not be answering.

The question I was asked repetitively for most of the day was: “Where is Sarah?” and the disappointment in the women's faces was palpable as they were informed that she had succumbed to what was no doubt food poisoning and was laid up back at the hotel. Alas, they were stuck with me. Whilst having a pale face attending the wedding was no doubt a novelty and some apparent form of leveraging your social standing, the attendance of a wild blonde haired beauty with multiple facial piercings was really just a step above. There was no competition there.

We were whisked off into the main room where we would be seated for dinner. It was agreed amongst the males of the table that we would attempt to create a food shortage for the rest of the tables, as it was tradition that we would be fed first . . . and what was not eaten would trickle down to the others tables. So naturally it was decided that we would attempt to eat as much as we could possibly stomach. Being informed of this translation in English after the decision was made, I voiced my agreement and so the feast began. A bulging dish of assorted rice, goat, chicken and fish was brought out to the table and again was dished out to all involved. As I perused the table, I realised that the eating skills and techniques mastered from childhood would not help me here as eating with the hands was the done thing. Despite my vigorous attempts, I could not compete with the locals as they stripped the meat from the chicken and balled the rice into bite sized potions with the speed and endurance of a hungry orphan, where at best all I could achieve was to spill food down my front and smear sauce on my face. Thankfully, a spoon and fork was soon brought out to save me from a pitiful state. Never have I felt so uncouth for using cutlery.

After the dinner it was back into the throne room where we sat and the crowd gathered as we awaited the re-arrival of the bride. The sea of people parted as Linda made her way through the crowd and took her place in the throne next to Tanveer. The endless task of taking photos with the bridal party continued until the crowd went silent as the bride’s parents emerged and approached the stage. Words were spoken in which I didn't understand and the two on stage began to look slightly awkward. It was at this point that all was revealed when the wailing and crying of the parents erupted and it became now apparent that this part of the festivities involved the ceremonial “handing over” of the bride to the groom. From here on, Linda now lived with Tan and the age-old practice of property ownership was complete. The crowd shuffled out of the room to let the families do their thing and have a moment alone. We all bid our awkward farewells and departed back to Tanveer's house. We arrived to find his room had been completely gutted, stripped of all its items and replaced with more suitable “adult furniture” that was then covered in a plume of flowers.

Escaping back at the hotel, I found that my traveling gypsy child had somewhat recovered from the days expulsions and was coherent enough to be relayed the stories of the day and partake in the last of our duty free scotch. While she indulged in copious amounts of naan bread graciously provided by the hotel kitchen, I eloped onto the roof to huff down on some smuggled cigars. As I made my way up the multiple flights of stairs and then through multiple signless doors, I caught the notice of the employees and so one chap came out to enquire if I had lost my way. He quickly became somewhat perplexed when I informed him that I would like to be up on the roof. After a quick discussion regarding my desire to see the city lights, he brought me through the employee area and up to the front section of roof, where I found myself standing underneath the bright red neon hotel sign and our pleasant conversations turned to the local political situation.

We were able to spot the chaps house from our vantage on the roof and he informed me that due to its close proximity to his work, he was generally unaffected by the riots . . . but anyone out to the distance was far more than embroiled in the unrest. Upon the exchange of cigars, the question was raised of whether I would like to engage in a hard drink. Being a westerner in a dry country and amidst the situation where I had just finished the last of the alcohol in my possession, I graciously agreed that I would indeed like to partake in such activities. And indeed, I would like six of them. What was brought back was extra strength Hollandia beers, and while knocking back a couple of them standing on a roof engaged balls deep in talks of education and the benefits of hard work, I soon found myself stumbling down the stairs and skipping down the hallways back to my room with treasures in hand. More melatonin ensured that lucid dreams awaited, whilst the two further missed calls from old mate were successfully avoided.