Wednesday 4 July 2007

The Wedding

Yes yes, the PURPOSE of the trip to Iran was to attend a wedding – how on earth did I lose sight of that?

It is a big affair. The invitations were printed without an address just in case the printer told the police even though the venue is a government building and the organiser works for the government...

Maryam and her Mum were in charge of bringing the Mullah to the ceremony. Maryam’s Mum, with the feigned naivety of someone who has lived well, spends the car ride demurely soap-boxing with the Mullah demanding that he explain why the Islamic Republic allows men to have four wives. I think it was probably the best journey of this poor Haji’s life…

We are in a garden with roses, it is dark, the air is thick and the night is happy. My hair is coifed complete with five finger discounted rose and I have borrowed some Max Factor colour stay red lippy from Shadi’s Aunt to match my nail polish. I wear a short black cotton dress with scenes of flowers and birds. There are ball gowns, skimpy strapless numbers, false eyelashes, loose hair, head scarves and long coats – depending on your religious preference.

The ceremony itself is a mini-version of the religious ceremony that happened a few months ago, with added symbolism. A cloth is held over the head of the couple to catch falling sugar as married women rub two blocks of sugar together to sweeten the marriage. There are announced gifts of gold coins, dancing for money, licking of honeyed fingers, feeding of sweets and obligatory kisses.

The ceremony is only attended by close friends and family, so we wait on the persian carpeted benches in the garden for the other guests to arrive whilst Shadi's dad's friends promise to rustle up some fire water to warm our spirits...

A jacket opens and there is a white plastic bag inside and a smile is looking down on me...

Doogh is an Iranian sour milk drink (a bit like a stale breathed lassie).

I don’t like milk.

Since a night of too much Spanish speaking fun - I don’t like tequila.

Nevertheless as I take a sip from the jacket I cant help but smile as he gently says - ‘Doogh-elia’…

After dinner the only place to be is on the dance floor moving with the best of them to a strange blend of traditional music and orientalist euro-pop. MashaAllah I cannot understand the lyrics otherwise I am sure the sentimentality of the words mixed with the doogh-elia would have made me loose my kebab...

***

I am now back in the UK where I hear from my housemate that our new neighbour who lives above the coffee shop might be a rival for bicep man and the kebab shops seem a little afraid of their customers.

I hope you have enjoyed these stories (I have enjoyed sharing them).

I promised Maryam and Babak that I would have a drink for them – for Babak I choose whisky and I think for Maryam I will choose a cocktail that includes a word like ‘muddled’.

So a toast: ‘To adventures and to friends’.