May 13, 2003
Vuda Point Marina
Viti Levu, Fiji

Sen’s Wedding
By Lois Joy            

We attend a Sunni Muslim Wedding in the hinterlands of Viti Levu, Fiji

Shelly and Sen are seated in the at the cockpit table of Pacific Bliss sipping juice. Sen looks normal now—dressed in simple shirt and pants—so different than last Sunday, when he took on the appearance of a potentate, in full Indian wedding attire. His image has reverted to the 27-year-old taxi driver that I have depended on now for two cruising seasons. He is less serious today, occasionally turning to me with his familiar shy smile. Shelly, his bride of two days, is wearing yet another of her trousseau outfits: a sari, tunic, and slacks in a gold-and-burgundy cotton print looks; it looks brand new and stiff I am relieved when a breeze comes up, ameliorating the typical 90°-plus afternoon temperatures. Privately, I continue to marvel at how the Indian women can withstand wearing these outfits in the tropics. Shelly smiles at me—the relaxed, wide smile that I had hoped for, but had not seen—when I had photographed her during the wedding festivities.

“She’s already becoming accustomed to Sen and her new life, living with his family,” I’m thinking, relieved for her. I bring out the digital photos that I had printed out yesterday and hand them to Shelly in a protective plastic package. She sets them down on the table without looking at them. Then I hand her a little gift, a geometric-design wooden bead necklace—handmade, I explain—by native Indians of the American Southwest. She places the bag on top of the photos and thanks me, without examining the gift. But I can tell that she is pleased.

“This is Shelly’s first time on any boat, other than a little fishing boat,” Sen says.
I proceed to give the couple a tour of our catamaran. Then we seat ourselves as we were before.

My curiosity is getting the better of me. I realize that this is my last chance to learn the story of their courtship. I had heard pieces of the story from various relatives, but now I am eager to put the puzzle together. We will be sailing off tomorrow.

“So Sen,” I begin. “Tell me again the story of how you met. You said that your marriage was arranged by your parents, but then you also said that you selected Shelly.”

“Both stories are true,” says Sen. “I was at the house next door to Shelly’s, on the porch drinking kava with my friends. We go into the back country to fish in the river nearby.”

“And then did she come over?” I asked naively.

“Oh no! She wouldn’t do that! I just saw her from a distance, from the back of her house, going to the kitchen.” (By now, I had seen the ‘kitchen’; it consisted of a few wooden stands to cook and wash dishes—outside—in the back of the house.)

“So that’s all you saw of her. You didn’t actually get to meet her that day?”

“No, but that day I went over and met her father. That began the process. Then my parents followed up from there and arranged the marriage.”

“So it was love at first sight, as we say in America!” Gunter interjected.

Sen laughed shyly, but he didn’t answer. I turned to Shelly.

“Then, Shelly, how many times did you meet Sen before the wedding day?

“Four times. We got together at my place and then a couple times in Sigatoka,” she answered.

“For how long?”

“Oh, about twenty minutes or so,” Sen answered for her.

“And you also met Sen’s sister, Nazia?” I asked. (Nazia had been so instrumental in helping prepare both the bride and groom during the wedding day.)

“Yes, twice, in Sigatoka.”

“But you had never been to Sen’s family home before your wedding day?”

“No.”

“And now you are living there with Sen.”

“Yes.”

I realize that they are becoming uneasy with this line of questioning, so I change the subject to our lifestyle as cruisers. After less than an hour, they leave together in Sen’s taxi. After a mere three-day break from work, Sen already has his first fare waiting, bringing his other kaivelagi wedding guest, Steve, to the airport. Shelly and Sen have been entertaining out-of-town relatives, so there has been no chance to skip away for a night or two in a near-by hotel for a ‘honeymoon.’

“Perhaps later we will do that,” Sen adds, as we wave goodbye.

Saturday night, May 10th, the night before the wedding:

We are at the home of Sen’s family for the Mehendi Night celebration.

All I knew beforehand was that Sen’s brother would pick us up at the Marina for ‘the henna ceremony.’ “What is the significance of placing the henna designs on the bride and groom’s hands and feet?” I had asked him.

“It’s custom,” he had replied.

Steve, Gunter and I have been treated like honored guests from the time we arrived. First, we were introduced to Sen’s parents, his two younger brothers, and his sister, Nazia, and her new husband of six months. Then we met countless relatives. Altogether, there were about 75 guests, most of them related. Everyone was very open and friendly toward us.

The guests other than the immediate family are seated on row upon row of planks set onto red upside-down coke containers. A tarp covers the area, which faces the cement block porch attached to the rambling L-shaped, one-story house.

Sen is the center of attention. He is seated in a straight-back chair in the middle of the porch, in front of a huge home-made banner saying MEHINDI NIGHT. The porch has been decorated with balloons and artificial flowers and lit with strings of pastel lights. Sen’s feet are being soaked in a pan of water; he holds a ball of henna in his hands. His younger sister Nazia cleans his feet and then applies henna to the toes. When his hands have absorbed the henna, she draws it out to cover his fingers.

Then the food is brought out: bowls of a spicy chicken-and-rice mixture, curry, and a salad resembling pickled cole slaw. A table is set up on the porch. Steve, Gunter and I—the only whites present—are asked to eat at the table with Sen’s family. Our places are set with dinner plates and utensils. The other guests, still seated on the wooden planks, eat with their hands from paper plates.

Afterwards, I mingle among the many pre-teen and teen-aged girls. They beg me to take their pictures again and again, delighting in seeing their likenesses replayed on the back of my Nikon digital camera. Two delightful sets of twins—cousins—who are part of the family ask to pose for me again and again. Towards the end of the evening, a few little boys and girls hesitantly ask me to take their photos as well. The twins eagerly offer to pose the small-fry.

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Sunday, May 11th, Wedding Day:

Sen’s brother meets us at Vuda Point promptly at 0700. He brings us to Sen’s home, a few miles away, where the expanded family is eating breakfast. He asks us to join them. The benches are still set up. We sit down on one of them and help ourselves to more of the rice-and-chicken mixture along with a delicious sweet tea.

“Where’s Sen?” Gunter asks.

“Getting ready,” his mother responds. “You can go in the house to watch.”

Sen’s sister and brother-in-law are helping him dress. They button the collar of his long sleeved, crisp white shirt. Then they fuss over the green-grey gold-braided vest, which fastens—with a mandarin style collar—tight the neck. Over that goes an extra-long ecru jacket—also gold braided—that matches the pants. Then a regal white-tan-rust paper lei is hung around Sen’s neck; it reaches to the bottom of his vest. The final touch is a golden crown. By the time they are done, he looks like a king or a potentate rather than our favorite taxi driver!

We join a caravan of five cars to go to the bride’s home for the wedding ceremony. Sen’s car has been decorated with hearts pierced with arrows and “Sen Loves Shelly” much as in an American wedding. But there the resemblance ends.

As we enter the cars, I realize that all of the women—except for Nazia—are staying behind. The home is three hours away, past the village of Sigatoka on Queen’s Road, then up a dirt road, and off onto a soft, rutted trail that winds through forested land. It would be impossible to traverse in a heavy rain. Some of the cars brave it down a final hill to the home. Others stay on top.

From the hill, I have an overview of the little subsistence farm: one small building with a flat corrugated tin roof; a lean-to cooking and clean-up area covered with more tin, and a small lean-to porch covered with still more tin. Planks have been placed over the mud, leading to two outhouses, one for a rain barrel shower, the other, a hole-in-the dirt toilet. The home was surrounded with mud, the ground not yet dried from recent rains. Sen had told me that Shelly came from a poor family; I had not realized how poor!

As I come closer, I see two areas crowded with guests: one in a covered porch full of board seating for women and children, another under a makeshift tarp tent decorated with vines and stems of fresh red ginger—one of my favorite tropical flowers! I am directed to seating under the tarp and once seated; I realize that only men surround me! Yet, this appears to be the area decorated for the wedding ceremony. “The women will surely join us here later,” I muse.

Sen and the Caliph are seated behind a small oilcloth-covered table. The Caliph pulls out a huge legal-looking briefcase and sets it on the table. He leads the men through a prayer, gives what appears to be a sermon, then two witnesses come forward to the table. The procedure in a Sunni Muslim wedding is this:
• The two witnesses go into the women’s area to ask the bride three times if she will marry the husband selected for her
• If she says yes three times, then they go back and notify the groom.
• The Caliph asks the groom whether he still wants to marry the bride.
• If he says yes, the wedding is consummated and the Caliph then fills out the papers.

All this was done, and now I expect that the bride will soon appear in all her finery. We are just sitting here, waiting for what I do not know. “She’s not ready yet; you can go there,” one of the men finally says to me.

“What happens next?” I ask.

“We will have lunch.”

————————————————————————————————————
leave the assembled men gratefully and walk toward the covered porch. The older women and children are still seated on the wooden planks, talking. They stare at me as I walk through. I take off my sandals and place them on the pile at the doorway to the house proper.

“Auntie Lois!” Nazia cries, rushing toward me as if I am one of the family. She enthusiastically introduces me to Shelly’s mother and aunt. “Did you meet Shelly’s father? He is the one in the wheelchair without any legs.”

I had seen that person, but unfortunately did not know that he was Shelly’s father. I regretted not having talked with him. Later, I found out that he had lost his legs due to diabetes and could no longer work the farm. His brothers were now supporting the family.

“Follow me,” Nazia commands.

Soon I am in the bedroom of the bride. Shelly is seated at the edge of her bed in the cramped room, the walls painted a pastel green over cracked plasterboard. Her little sister—most likely this is her room too—sits cross-legged on the bed, playing with dozens of gold and neon-colored bracelets. Nazia introduces us. Shelly looks up, awed, and nods slightly. Then she stands up and kisses me on the cheek, the common greeting among women who are close. I realize that she is a full head shorter than I, petite with huge dark eyes, and cute as a button. She looks so much younger than her eighteen years!

She sits back on the bed, carefully straightening the folds of her delicate pale-purple wedding dress. It is wonderfully designed, with insets of white lace and intricate golden threads winding throughout. Nazia is preparing to apply her veil. Other women come into the small room and introduce themselves, also kissing me on the cheek. They act as if they have all the time in the world. I realize then that this will be a long process, as with Sen. It is stifling hot in the small room packed with women. But I unpack my camera. “May I take photos?” I ask.

“Yes,” Shelly responds shyly.

Nazia works as confidently as a professional make-up artist. I photograph her applying an arch of silver stick-ons to accentuate each brow line. Then she lengthens the lashes. She adds a light make-up, then blush. A gold ornament is placed at the forehead. After the veil is adjusted, a gold headband is added to hold it in place. Nazia pins the fringed sides of the veil onto the shoulders of Shelly’s dress, artfully framing her face. She adds her lipstick as a final touch and hands her a compact for a look at her handiwork. Next, she carefully fills a golden purse with the make-up items. The bride is ready to go.

But where?

The women beckon me to come out for lunch. As I search for my sandals in the huge pile outside the house, I notice that the women and children are eating with their hands from paper plates. The meal consists of seasoned rice with goat (bones and all) which is a common wedding dish. I am brought to the table of Sen and the Caliph, where they serve Gunter, Steve, and me. Again, we sit at a table as honored guests and are offered eating utensils. I am relieved because I wonder how I will handle the camera with sticky fingers. A male server comes around with a big bowl of water. We are to hold our hands over the bowl, then he pours water over our hands from a smaller bowl. The procedure is repeated after the meal. Napkins are not necessary.

After lunch, four wooden chairs are placed in two rows under the roof in the non-decorated “women’s porch.” Shelly and Sen are seated in the front two chairs and their parents are seated directly behind. Shelly’s little sister, pretty in her long black hair and orange frock, wanders about, first going to her mother and later to her sister. She obviously has no clue about what is going on. She’s not the only one!

I had expected that now the kissing of the bride might occur, or at the least, a show of affection. But there is none. Nor is there any formal bride-and-groom photo-op. Sen sits there stiffly, looking straight ahead, serious as can be. Shelly looks down toward the gold purse on her lap, clutching her bouquet of artificial flowers, never meeting anyone’s gaze. Sen took off his shoe and various relatives came forward to put money in it, or in his lap. Then the four of them abruptly stand up. Mother clenches daughter and they both begin to cry. Then all the women relatives come forward to hug Shelly and sob away, pulling out their handkerchiefs. Then the wedding party (Sen and Shelly, Nazia and her husband) stand for a few minutes outside the porch in the muddy driveway, saying good-by. Drying her tears, Shelly is gently pushed forward by Nazia into their waiting wedding car. The bride and groom sit in the back, chauffeured by Nazia’s husband.

The rest of us who traveled from Vuda Point head back to our cars. The women are still crying and little sister is still wandering about, forlorn. We understand the need for the five-car caravan during the three-hour drive back, since there are numerous stops along the way for flat tires and other car problems.


Evening of May 11th, Wedding Reception at Sen’s Home:


We have the opportunity to collapse for a brief siesta back at Vuda Point before being picked up again by Sen’s brother for the evening’s festivities. By this time, we are warmly welcomed as ‘family.’ Sen’s mother hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. We talk. The two sets of twin cousins ask if I can take more photos of them—portraits this time—they evidently have the evening’s photo sessions already planned!

Popular Indian music is emanating from a huge boom box and floor speakers set up on the porch. More balloons and paper Mache decorations have been added. A fabulous three-tier wedding cake with a bride and groom on the top is carried out and is set on the table. Soon Shelly and Sen appear. Sen is wearing the same costume. Shelly has changed to a filmy mauve wedding gown and matching veil trimmed with red accents. She is holding a bouquet of fresh red carnations, and I sense Nazia’s influence here.

The newlyweds are seated at the head table on the porch. We listen to a carefully crafted welcome speech delivered in a flowing oratorical style in Indian and English by an invited guest who runs a law practice in Fiji. This is followed by a long sermon (in Hindi) by a different caliph. Then there is a prayer and the traditional cutting of the cake. We are then served the same meal as the night before, set up again at the special table just for us.

After the meal, the socializing continued. Some men in the back plank seating were drinking kava. No liquor, of course, was served. Servers came around with pitchers of a juice drink.

One conversation will remain in our memories forever: We were talking with the attorney, the only person we got to know who was not a relative. “I hope that this gives you an idea about Muslim people,” he said. “All of our blood is red and when we are in our graves, our bones look alike.” He had added that there are no radical Muslims in Fiji and that he hopes that it will remain that way. We do too, for we have grown to love Fiji and have made many friends here, including Muslims, Hindus, and indigenous Fijians.

We trust that you will enjoy flipping through Sen’s Wedding Album and living vicariously through our two-day experience.                                        (click on image below)

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