Claude ties the knot (photos to follow!)

Feb 16th

Last night I had three hours’ sleep in the worst bed in the world. Dished bed boards, rock hard pillow, and the bed so short I could barely fit into it diagonally! Glad to get up. Shower didn’t come hot, so wide awake by end of cold shower. Did without breakfast and off to VSO office by 7.45 – waiting to be let in. This meant I was first at the computer, which was working fine, and, hooray, hooray, at last!, I’ve been able to read all my emails, send a few, send my blog and even load a bunch of compressed pictures. Life is good already and it’s barely nine o’clock in the morning!

But today is Claude’s wedding. I need to explain here that Rwandan weddings come in four parts, and I only went to two.

The first part of the wedding usually takes place a week or so before the church service. The bride and groom’s fathers come together to negotiate brideprice. (Very often it has to be representatives of the fathers – remember the recent history of this country; a huge proportion of fathers no longer exist and a lot more are currently in prison……) Vast amounts of Fanta or beer or fermented banana juice (depending on which denomination you belong to) are drunk in the process. Many of the churches here condemn all alcohol and even weddings are dry, as was this particular one.

Brideprice is still measured in units of “inkas”. An Inka is a cow. A calf is worth around RwF40,000, and a fully grown, fine adult around RwF120,000*. This in a country where a primary teacher’s basic salary is 60,000 a year. (There’s another whole chapter I could write here about the plight and poverty of rural primary teachers, especially the men, and their inability to afford to get married). Nobody actually gives or receives cows; the whole thing is a cash transaction and may take many years to realise. Quite often the full amount is never paid. The whole “cows” thing is a tradition from the not-quite-so-distant past; an even older and more important aspect is the psychological need to assert your importance as a family and your daughter’s virtue by holding out for a ruinously high price. (*£1=RwF1000)

But let’s get back to the church service. Start time is one o’clock. I arrive at one on the dot after a fruitless quarter of an hour trying to get my moto driver to decide which church it is (Gitarama’s full of churches, all known by their initials. This one is known as EAR (Église Anglican de Rwanda), but it’s also known as EER (Église Épiscopal de Rwanda). It’s actually the cathedral of the Anglican church in the whole country, so it’s big and airy.

The church is at Shyogwe, a suburb town about three miles out of Gitarama. (Quite funny, really – the Anglicans are at Shyogwe, just out of Gitarama to the north, and the Catholics have their cathedral at Kabgayi, about a mile to the south. In both cases they are the ecclesiastical centres for the whole country; this means Kigali, the capital, doesn’t have a cathedral church at all).

The church at Shyogwe stands on top of a prominent hill (reminds me of Colmers Hill but without the topknot of pine trees). I’m just starting up the dirt track from the main road to the church when there’s a huge commotion of hooting behind me, coming up the main road. Damn! It’s the bride arriving, and I’m going to be late. A convoy of four or five cars, Mercedes and posh Japanese types, and all decorated with green and yellow and white ribbon, swings up the church track. I’m not the only one who’s late; I can see plenty of other people in their Sunday best just arriving at the entrance to the drive. The first car swooshes to a halt beside me, scattering gravel. Inside it are not only the bride and bridesmaids, but Claude as well. He is overjoyed to see me – the presence of muzungus at his wedding will definitely impress the relatives. He’s grinning from ear to ear and we shake hands. The convoy chugs off up the hill and I charge up behind, sweaty and feeling guilty that I’ve mistimed my arrival.

Now what you all need to know is that NOTHING which applies to an English wedding seems to apply here. When I get to the church, expecting to creep in at the back, the place is three quarters empty. Everyone is milling around outside, chatting. From the west door to the altar they’ve laid a red carpet; nobody uses this door except the bridal couple and their retinue. We all use the side doors. The church is light and very plain. The only decoration in the whole building is a huge banner in Kinya behind the altar, and cruciform decorations of ventilation bricks and green, yellow and blue stained glass windows. (But plain coloured glass, no pictures). The views from outside it are beautiful, but a thunderstorm is skirting the hills a few miles away and the air is too thick to take pictures of landscapes. There’s no chancel or pillars; in another life the building could double as a warehouse. But it means everyone has a perfect view, and things like signing the registers are done in full view of everyone. In terms of enabling a public witness of commitment, the layout knocks spots off our system.

They’re all surprised to see a muzungu, but I recognise some of my mates from the District Office, and they all make a fuss of me. Claude is a senior person at the Office and it’ll do their prospects no harm at all to be seen at his wedding! When I explain to some of the others who I am and why I’m here they’re all chatty and nice to me. At the moment I’m the only VSO here, but I know there are several others intending to come. They’re all at Kigali with various degrees of hangover from last night; some of them may well not make it!

Meanwhile Claude and co are sitting in their cars while people arrive and slowly, slowly, the church begins to fill. At 1.45, when the couple have been sitting outside in the car for three quarters of an hour, the service can finally begin.

While we’ve been waiting in the church, the choir has been singing. There’s no organ even in this big church, so music comes from a keyboard plus drum machine. There’s also an enthusiastic guitar and bass player, who play along to the karaoke accompaniments to the singing. Think Bradpole Church’s music group but with a rock band accompanying. At times they’re really good, and some in the audience are clapping and joining in; now and then it feels more like a revivalist meeting than a wedding! But you don’t really need drums when the singing is this good. And then the guitarist doesn’t know some of the choruses they’re singing, and keeps playing wrong chords (I think he only knows the standard 12 bar blues sequence). So we get crashing discords with guitarist sure he’s right, and the choir knowing they’re right. I’m the only one who’s bothered; everyone else is chatting, clapping, or singing along. They’re all very simple choruses, repeated over and over and over, but with lots of body movement – swaying in time and hand gestures – which make the words come alive.

Meanwhile, up in the west gallery (yes, we really could take the Gallery Choir to Rwanda….!) lots of street children and urchins from the neighbourhood are creeping in and standing against the railing to watch proceedings. Some definitely are dressed in rags and it makes a strange contrast with all the impressive finery below. The invited congregation are simply immaculate. All the men are in suits, some with waistcoats. The women are split between traditional robes and western dress, but almost without exception their hair has been straightened and de-frizzed within an inch of its life. The funniest thing is the men’s shoes. All the rage in Rwanda are leather shoes with enormously elongated chisel tips. From below the ankles they look like an Elvis convention!

Eventually the couple enter. In Rwanda the bride isn’t given away by her father. It’s much more democratic than that. The bride and groom enter and leave as a couple. As soon as she crosses the threshold, pandemonium erupts; even the guitarist is drowned out. There’s clapping, whooping, yelling, but above all lots and lots of ululating from every woman in the church. It makes the place ring and it’s incredibly powerful.

The whole service in church lasts two hours. (Good job they don’t have organists; imagine what they’d charge for two hours on the job!). There are lots and lots of prayers, then a full twenty minute sermon. In between, as usual, the choir gets up and sings. There’s nothing for the congregation to do; we neither pray aloud nor sing aloud. We’re audience at a performance. Unfortunately the whole thing is in Kinya-rwanda, so I can only understand the moods rather than the content.

There’s loads more yelling and ululating at the moments when Claude and Immacculée say “I do”. When he puts the ring on her finger the couple turn sideways, and he holds her hand up aloft so everyone in church can see the ring being fitted. That’s definitely an improvement on our way. She does the same to him.

Then the couple are surrounded by a posse of a dozen or so church elders, all of whom lay hands on the couple’s heads and pray lengthily and noisily. It looks just like a rugby scrum from my distance. And I’m sure some of these deacons are trying to vie with each other for who can be the most evangelistic in their blessings…..

The whole service is being filmed by someone with a video camera. He has brought a floodlight on a stand, and all proceedings have to wait while he gets his stuff into position. There’s also half a dozen family friends who are snapping away on digitals. Claude had insisted I bring my camera; I wondered if he wanted me to be the official photographer but, fortunately, he’s going to have too many pics to cope with as it is. The trouble is, every time anything interesting happens during the service, it gets masked behind the backs of the photographers. I consider going up to take some of my own, but decide against. I would be too prominent, and I couldn’t contribute anything more than what’s already being done. (It means I’ve ended up with no more than a few rushed snaps of proceedings).

Eventually the couple sign the registers and pose in front of the altar, holding the wedding certificate. Immacculée is stunningly pretty, and I the only photo I’m proud of from the whole day is a telephoto head and shoulders of her. She looks regal.

In a Rwandan wedding, during the whole series of events and especially at the church and reception, the tradition is that the bride and groom should look severe. Claude and Immacculée are very good at this. At no point does she smile at all; to all intents and purposes she could be acting under duress. Claude’s pretty good at it, too, but again I get a shy smile when he sees me in the congregation.

Now there follows a frantic rush by the photorazzi as they scramble to the back of the church to get snaps of Claude and Immacculée leaving. Outside we pose for more pictures, and finally the couple roar off to somewhere in town for yet more pictures. These will be the official ones to send to relatives unable to attend the wedding.

We troop down a steep, rutted, gravel path to the church hall where the reception is being held. By this time I’ve spotted Charlotte, my Programme Manager from VSO, and Cathy and Elson in the congregation. Cathy’s gorgeous in her traditional Rwandan robes; Elson’s scrubbed and polished in a Western suit. Ironic, isn’t it!

In the reception we’re all sat in rows, as if for a concert. We don’t need tables; there’s no food. As muzungus, and despite our protestations, we’re put in the VIP area at the front. We have a perfect view of proceedings. There’s a small stage, with tables for the bride, groom, best man and bridesmaids, and tables at right angles to them, on each side, for the two sets of immediate family. There’s crates and crates of Fanta, and a display at the front with about twenty wedding cakes ranging from massive to tiny ones not much bigger than a tin of beans. (This is another Rwandan custom).

When the couple arrive they’re preceded by dancing girls in traditional dress (blue and white sarong skirt, black top and lots of blue and white ribbon around head and shoulders). Some of them are very young, beautifully slim and pretty, and their dancing is perfect. They wear bells round their ankles and stamp rhythmically to an Intore drum. Then we have the men, also in sarongs and bells and ribbons, but more colourful with lots of red and yellow.

The reception goes on for hours. There’s a sort of duel of speeches from representatives of bride and groom, each trying to outwit the other in compliments about their protégée. In between there’s lots more prayers from he M.C. We get given a Fanta. Someone opens champagne; the cork bounces off the ceiling and everyone cheers ‘cos apparently that’s how you prove it’s a good vintage! The bride and groom drink, he gives wine from his glass to her, and vice versa. It’s the only alcohol all day.

Then the chef comes to cut the cakes. He’s wearing whites, (and, of course, his Elvis shoes), even though he’s got no cooking to do. The only food at the whole wedding is a small chunk of cake. But each cake has a candle in it, and two of the big ones have fireworks flares. These are duly set off while the ceiling space fills with smoke.

We’re nearly there. There’s dancing between every segment of proceedings; towards the end the men put their head dresses on and everyone’s dancing with spears.

One lovely moment – a formal part of the reception is when Immacculée is escorted round to face Claude up close and he’s asked to verify that she really is the girl he’s just married (i.e. that her family haven’t switched her for someone else between church service and reception)!

When the cake has been distributed there are more speeches. This time it’s Claude’s brother, and his mother, then Immacculée’s aunt. More family members get up and speak; some of these are publicly pledging cows to the couple. There’s great shouts and whoops every time someone commits themselves (but everyone knows that not all the pledges will be honoured. People do get carried away…..)

Finally we come to the bit where the guests all get to meet the newlyweds and we can give them our gifts. Cathy and Elson have bought a “proper” present; I’ve followed my VSO protocol papers and I’m making a gift of money. I get a hug and traditional three head bumps from Claude, and a very formal, uncertain hug from Immacculée. I assume Claude’s told her who we are and that she doesn’t think we’re tourists who’ve gatecrashed her big day! And even now she’s not smiling!

Having given our presents, it’s our cue to leave. Claude and Immacculée have one further part of the wedding to do, when they go to her house and formally take leave of her parents. This, rather than anything in church, is the Rwandan equivalent of the moment when her father “gives her away”.

Back home, hungry, shattered. Tom’s out so I crash into bed by eight o’clock.

High point – what can I say? The whole day was excellent and you can tell how fascinating from the length of this diary entry!
Low point – listening to so many prayers and speeches in a language I can’t understand.