A Big Fat Wedding (Indonesia - Part 4)

Somewhere, a butterfly flapped its wings — and now I’m walking beside the bride in a street procession that’s brought traffic to a standstill in both directions.

The chain of events began with me switching surf instructors for the 4th time. I had my reasons - one almost sent me to Atlantis (ie surfing mishaps), the other wouldn’t send me anywhere (ie scooter mishaps), and one I just didn't like.

Fast forward to my second day with instructor #4. He casually mentions he will be off for a week - he's getting married. During the session, my Australian lesson mate sees a surfer take a fin to the head. When the surfer climbs back up on her board, half of her blonde head is now red - fortunately the shark species in these waters are shy and stay away from humans. A good samaritan helps the lady get back to shore.

The Lombok version of Jersey Shore’s "GTL" (Gym/Tan/Laundry) is "SNG".

Surf. Nap. Gym. (and Eat). A tragically difficult existence.

Kuta is a remarkably small town with one main street, so over the course of a few days familiar faces start popping about.

That day, after the S(urf) and N(ap), came time for the G(ym). The Australian came for a surf strength class, where she struck up a conversation with the Canadian who also saw the accident that morning. After class, as we were discussing the day’s events, the good samaritan walked by. The Canadian points and yells “that’s the one who helped the girl” - and so the Brazilian gets roped into our conversation.

And that’s how, for a week, we became the inseparable quad.

The Canadian was here visiting friends - two local surf instructors - and mentioned she was trying to tag along to a wedding her friends came to attend.

Could there really be two different weddings in one weekend on an island that you can cross in 2 hours?

No - they were referring to the wedding of instructor #4. Turns out that out of the dozens of surf companies, they worked for the same one.

And that's how we all got wedding invitations.

We spend the next two days frantically trying to find appropriate outfits for a Muslim wedding. While we were told they will dress us there in traditional garb, in not so many words we were advised to not show up in our “hoe” (ie western) clothes. Outside of the tourist regions, shoulders and knees are scandalous even when the temperature is 80F.

On a bright Saturday morning we pile into a rental car - the plan is to visit the local waterfall and then head to the wedding.

At the last minute the boys say that we will stop by the wedding first to “say hi”. We see the bride and groom come out of their formal religious ceremony. In traditional Indonesian fashion that “hi” turns into lunch with their family and friends.

Now the bride will have a costume change, which will take a few hours, so we detour to a local waterfall to kill time, and come back for the big celebration.

Fast forward to our return. We are ushered into the bride's house where the bride appears to be transforming into a geisha.

A lady grabs each of us one by one and starts wrapping us in a large piece of cloth - also known as a Sarong.

I can barely breathe.

I can hardly waddle.

And most troubling, I can’t do more than a quarter inch squat.

It’s basically a straitjacket for my lower half.

So once we are all swaddled in layers of fabric, we shuffle out to the outdoor area. While the women were getting ready, it appears the men have already been partying for hours.

Some observations:

- The elderly and slightly inappropriate uncle is a worldwide cross-cultural phenomenon.

- There sure is a lot of homemade rice wine being passed around in a large plastic bottle for a Muslim country.

- Grandma is the life of the party.

- Very glad I peed before we got here.

Sometime after, it’s time for the walk from the groom's house to the bride's house.

For background, this Indonesian Muslim wedding tradition is a procession called the Nyongkolan - signifying the newly married couple's first public appearance together. After the wedding ceremony, the groom's family leads a parade to the bride's house. This procession is highly structured, with different tiers representing various groups, including family members, community leaders, and the bridal entourage.

However, their houses are actually two minutes apart by walk, which just won’t do.

So we walk out to the main street in the village, going down to the “center” - marked by a convenience store.

As the rest of the party gets there, along with the speakers, the cars, and everyone the newlyweds are connected to by 4 degrees of separation, a snack would be great right now.

With convenience store bags in hand and an assortment of snacks like fried chicken and ice cream, we join the back of the procession. Why would anyone be paying attention to us when they are already having the time of their lives?

Before we know what’s happening, a few ladies grab us and pull us forward. We accidentally joined the boys section of the procession, led by the groom.

Now we’re at the ladies section, which is significantly more prim and proper.

I’m thinking here is where we stop - discretely sequestered in a gaggle of people. But we are still getting pulled to the front.

The very front.

To the honorary position next to the bride.

It’s not family or her besties that will be walking down side by side with her. It’s four white girls who met the bride an hour prior and met each other three days ago. With snacks and plastic bags in hand, that they now are shamefully trying to hide.

This procession is led by a kindergarden, with two lines of children under 7 in the front. At first they appeared to be organized by height. Whoever thought this was a brilliant idea was not at all thinking about efficiency or speed.

It took us 2 hours to make it one mile. It was like being led by a herd of cats who got high on catnip and alternated between zoomies and micro naps.

Traffic was stopped in both directions at some points. Many passersby were watching, taking photos and videos. There were cameras and even a drone filming every angle.

Many years from now, the kids of this couple will look at the wedding photos and have a few questions.

“Mom, who are these bules?” (white people)

“Are they eating… fried chicken?”