JANUARY 10, 2010: Nothing prepared us for the scene at the Tlotlo Conference Center, best described as pure estatic bedlam. Outside the entrance, a group of tribal dancers dressed in brief costumes with bare bellies performed in a chanting rhythm, their legs covered with a sheath of white shells that made that chinking sound you hear in the movies. Chinka Chinka Chinka and boom boom boom, someone had a drum, and soon I noticed it was attached to the legs of the male leader. They whooped and hollered and sang and chanted while the guests stood aside, waiting for the bride and groom to walk in procession into the hall.

Colleen was radiant in a rented dress similar to her New York finery, adorned with pearls and satin flowers. Her traditional veil flowed in the breeze and Kenny took her arm as they slowly proceeded through the cheering crowd. The first of many shrill tribal whoops erupted from a lady who appeared to be well into the golden years, walking with a cane behind them. Children zoomed around while all the cameras came out, and we watched the dancers perform their intricate moves. There was a lot excitement in the air, and the star of the show - aside from the wedding couple - was a tiny girl decked out in a pristine white dress with shoes to match. Her hair was done in two ornate buns on the top, braided tightly into a ball. She carried a basket of rose petals and looked a bit overwhelmed, just like the rest of us.

We entered the large room behind the bridal party, and were directed to the family table in the front area. Yellow roses and calla lilies adorned the tables in oversize vases shaped like a wine glass, with eucalyptus cascading down over fresh pitchers of ginger beer, water and some pink champagne.

The program informed us of events to come, and soon our hostess Dorothy was warming up the mic for the show. Most of the women were dressed in the traditional garb, which features one of the blue or brown patterns in cotton, but nobody had a white one like mine. It turns out that Kenny and Colleen picked out my outfit together, and the white tunic stood out like a banner that said “visitor from California”.                       

We began the festivities with a prayer from the catholic priest who read from Isaih, and the hushed room was reverent during his prayers. Peeking up at the head table, I could see the bridesmaids in their black dresses and groomsmen in their black suits and yellow ties. They were a perfect duplicate of the Manhattan adventure, but far more relaxed on their own turf, and smiling broadly at the crowd of loved ones.

                        

Kenny and Colleen sat at the center, radiantly glowing amidst the pomp and circumstance. Below them on a tier above the stage floor was a cake on a pedestal with cupcakes on top, something Colleen had dreamed up for her guests. She has taken to baking in her new home, something she later told us that was left over from her days of teaching at Hotchkiss.

The first orator was Kenny’s father, who does not speak English well enough to communicate in public, so he had an interpreter translate the words of love and welcome to the guests and the wedding couple. Since the actual ceremony had been performed in NYC, there was not a second nuptial passage. This was more of a party about recognizing the marriage in the Botswana culture, and welcoming the new extended family. Throughout the day, the main theme was that we are all family now, and we glanced around the room in awe. Each person at every table beamed a welcoming smile, ready to celebrate the union of two very different cultures.

The advice given by Mocachana Majermane was sage and to the point, warning his adopted son of the necessity to take care of your wife, and keep your troubles private. Over and over during the afternoon, we heard in one form or another about making the marriage skirmishes (when they happen, as they always do) a conversation in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Never take that news out to the street, warned the woman who was translating. It was a simple, direct message from those who have been there. It is well known that this man is Kenny’s stepfather, but one who in every way has raised him as his own. Next came introductions by each family, and in our case, Uncle Richard did the honors. He had promised to keep it short, but ended up with an analogly of Colleen’s life as a river, flowing across many boundaries before finding her soulmate. It was not as cliché as it sounds, but rather humorous for the most part, as he introduced all of us to the crowd. Each time we stood up, the cheers and wild hoots filled the room. It seems that the women are most responsible for this shrill tone (performed by a skilled vibrating tongue) that pierces the eardrum, while the men nod and laugh.

Since Kenny has two families, one from each father, there were words from both sides, and some harsh warnings of the consequences of bad behavior, no holds barred. It would appear that one says what he pleases at such times in Botswana, skewing the tradition of sugary romantic wishes and imaginary relationships that are portrayed in the cinema. This is real life, and it is forever, so get used to it. A slightly different but much more realistic approach.

After lunch, the best man gave a toast to the newlyweds, and they departed to change their clothes from Western finery to traditional outfits. This gives everyone a chance to dish about what’s going on, table hop and enjoy a libation or two. In my case, the homemade ginger beer was a big favorite, straight from the kitchen of Mickey, mother of the Groom. She has promised to give me the recipe, and I will share it at home with my friends and family. This spicy sweet/tart liquid is just exotic enough to get you going, without any alcohol involved. By the time the dancing starts, you would swear that some of these people are three sheets to the wind, but it is not so. They are drunk with a passion for the music, expressing the native sentiments with those fabulous moves. It’s really true: they got the rhythm.

Before the wedding party departed for the next step, there were gifts to be given, all from the families of the groom. My cousin John got a handmade bow and arrow, which along with his remarkable walking stick and chair will be shipped back to the states. There was also a large framed shadowbox, with Botswanan carved figures inside. Lynn was also honored with several local gifts. It must be noted at this point that she was remarkably serene and lovely all day long, which must have been a feat of pure grit on her part. She literally rose from the sick bed in a miraculous way that can only be attributed to the mothers of brides! My hat was off to her, she performed like a queen and a professional Mom. What a woman!

There was one more package for “last but not least”, and this final gift was for me! I tore open the gold paper and spied something I really wanted: a beautiful necklace, bracelet and earrings made of Ostrich shell! I had seen several necklaces at the hotel gift shop, and restrained myself. I had gifts to buy first, so it was doubly wonderful to open the jewelry box and find these native pieces. I did my own whoop, and they loved it.

Eventually, we departed with the bride, being in the company of the wise woman of the tribe, for a private marriage counseling session. I had been hesitant to attend, given my track record, but they insisted. The parade on foot consisted of woman carrying various items on their heads and in traditional packages, each denoting a part of the woman’s place in the home. Colleen marched in the middle, surrounded by tradition.

When we all arrived, the home of Mickey was full of people eating and drinking and sitting around watching us. This is another local pastime, and it is not unusual to find a group of folks sitting on a corner or walking on the road, staring at the sight of strangers with unabashed enthusiasm. When I asked what was up, I was informed that this was the extra guest group, since they were only allowed two hundred people at the wedding party. I hesitate to speculate on the number that might have showed up without this restriction, it would be amazing. There were small children and old ladies, men and women in hats and fancy costumes, eating and drinking and having fun.

The ceremony of the bride and the advice on marriage was actually confined to about twenty women, with Colleen sitting in the center on the floor, on a goatskin rug that is part of her traditional gifts. She must listen as each woman speaks, but say nothing, and some of the advice was right to the point. These are ladies who dish out some hard core advice in a loving way, the Botswanan version of tough love. When her mother began to speak, Colleen cried and so did we, watching the bond between Lynn and her daughter for ourselves.

I was not planning to add my words of wisdom, since my life experience in the area of matrimony is less than stellar, but suddenly all eyes were upon me, and the elder woman tapped my shoulder. The emotion that filled the room was concentrated in that moment and I felt the tears begin to sting my eyes as I searched for the right thing to say. Colleen was so vulnerable and willing to listen, not her normal spitfire self, but in deference to her new family and mother in law, she did as they asked in the Botswana tradition.

I will probably not recall the words I said exactly, but for the most part it went something like this: You have always been a strong girl, Colleen, and now you have developed into a wonderful strong woman. This is what your husband was attracted to, this is what makes you shine, your feeling of independence and belief in yourself. You excelled as a leader with your friends, you coached and played sports like a champ, and now you carry the traditions of our family and our lives to this country. It will not be easy to stand your ground at times, but you know you have the support of us, the family in America who loves you. We are proud that you have followed your heart, and that you have so much support from your new family, but we hate that you will be so far away from us. So life is full of choices and you have made yours. I will stand behind you now and in my heart always. Give it everything you’ve got and you will never be sorry.

We ended that wedding day with a trip to Colleen’s new home, and what they call the bed making ceremony. It is the last step in the long traditional day, and the elder ladies carry a broom, some new sheets and blankets, and more advice. It slowly dwindles down to those people who are closest to the bride, with the exception of her new Mother-in-law. That final step is scheduled for the next morning, when the bride goes to the home of her husband’s mother, and sweeps the floor of the house. It is the final gesture of submission to a new culture, and not one that I could picture my beautiful niece accomplishing with ease. I would be proved wrong.

We arrived at the house in a small group which included Lynn, several older tribal women and one aged grandmother. I was the final member, included because I had made the long trip and offered my love and friendship. It was an honor to sit and listen to the story of why the women show the bride how to make the new marriage bed. The idea is that the young bride needs such instruction, but since these two people were married in July, they cut her some slack. The new sheets were unwrapped while there were more comments on keeping your troubles private. The bedroom is a sacred place in their eyes, and one to be honored. It is where your children are conceived, and where your arguments explode and are healed.
As we drove home in the darkness afterwards, it was Colleen herself at the wheel. She changed out of the traditional garb and appeared in her favorite tank top and jeans, an expression of herself in a quiet way. It was then that I was sure she would be alright. She has the love and the grit to succeed.

Go to PART... I, II, III, IV, V, VII, VIII