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Crashing a wedding in Laos - Part 1

Author: Joseph Kultgen

Any reasonable person would think it slightly off-color to
crash a wedding. When that wedding happens to be in Laos who is
to say if it’s inappropriate or not? Whom am I kidding? I was
well aware of the potential drawbacks of dropping in on an event
that I was clearly not invited. It wouldn’t be the first time
leering eyes would be cast upon me as I casually pressed my way
up to the buffet table. Let’s regress for a minute. Some people
might not know what the word "crash" means in the first
sentence. For those of you who have been sheltered from large
community centers/bowling alleys for the duration of your lives
I can understand. It’s been my experience that a bowling alley
in the same venue as a wedding reception brings out the largest
proportion of uninvited guests or what we like to call "wedding
crashers." That certainly wasn’t the case here. No bowling
alleys in Laos! In particular no bowling alley that doubles as
a reception hall. This of course is not a researched fact, but
I’m willing to bet anyone 100,000 kip that in two weeks you
couldn’t find any sign of the leisure sport of the drunk. Lawn
bowling doesn’t count. For all I know lawn bowling or "bocce
ball" is their national sport eclipsed only by badminton and a
game of hands-free volleyball played with a wicker ball. The
name eludes me almost as much as the skill needed to play the
sport. The truth is I was hungry. A traditional Lao massage
administered by blind women in the late afternoon completely
wiped me out and I had just woken at 11PM from a 4-hour nap. If
you’re still reading this you might wonder how does one get
"wiped out" from a massage. Aren’t these things supposed to be
relaxing? Yeah and no. Primarily NO in my case. It appears
that the muscles from my toes to my thighs don’t like to be
physically manipulated away from the bone as the massage
suggests. For a mere 30,000 Kip or $3 US – an hour massage from
a skilled therapist seems like a great deal. That is if
sometime in that hour you don’t burst all the blood vessels in
your face from wincing so hard. If my therapist hadn’t been
blind I’m pretty sure she would have thought she was killing
me. I would have felt like a puss so I broke out the yoga
breathing and prayed not to succumb to hyperventilation.
Regardless, it was now 11PM and if I didn’t move from my
guesthouse quickly there would be little chance of finding any
late night eatery in Luang Prabang. Places tend to close after
the electricity cuts at 9PM. Things looked bleak upon leaving
the guesthouse. There didn’t appear to be any lights, tuk tuk
drivers or for that matter people in site. There was, however,
a clear path of music being generated from beyond the cement
building horizon. Sounded like a party. Parties oftentimes have
food. So off we went. At this stage of the story I introduce
you to my friend Paul who spent most of the duration of the
night within earshot of me. It became clear to me as we rounded
the first corner that the music was definitely coming from this
street. It was time to move beyond my usual sloth like pace
caused by the extreme heat and humidity. I could see a few
motor scooters in the distance coming and going. As we got
closer it became evident that this was the real deal. People
were hopping on their Chinese mananufactured motor scooters in
suits with beautiful Laotian women draped over the backs. They
sit sidesaddle because their silk skirts or "sins" wraps tightly
down to their ankles. A quick decision was needed as we
approached the entry gate. Just walk in slowly and pretend I’m
not with the poorly dressed vagabond to my side. This wouldn’t
work. We entered the gate, saw about 20 people sitting at
tables and another 30 or so under a wooden canopy dancing to
live music. I noticed there weren’t any people doing the
drunken "hook-up" stager that are so prevalent at weddings in
the states. The vibe was comfortable, respectful and fully
devoid of my wedding experiences. I made a b-line for the
15-foot buffet table. It was definitely the path of least
resistance. It was obvious that everyone had finished eating at
least 2 hours prior and the table was in the process of being
taken down. Seemed fairly logical that I grab a spring roll and
dowse it in some spicy papaya sauce before it becomes a
leftover. Before I could even put the first bite in my mouth a
pair of women rounded the table and handed us all the utensils
we needed. "Kop Chi Li Li" or thank you spewed from mouth about
100 times in the next 3 minutes. They either liked the way I
pronounced the phrase or had giant hearts because their smiles
stretched from ear to ear. The buffet had what appeared to most
of the staples of the Laos diet. There was a type of yellow
chicken curry, some spicy beef, spingrolls, fresh vegetables and
a giant vat of sticky rice. Within seconds of loading up our
plates the two drunkest 20-year olds at the party pulled up four
chairs for us. One for our plates and the other for our asses.
Before even taking my first bit I had a 1/3 glass full of
BeerLao between my eyes. This is where the story takes a
dramatic twist. It is not because I started drinking. That’s a
little later. The twist is because this story is being composed
for Break Magazine and they don’t allow any references to drugs
or alcohol. Therefore I have written two versions. The one
where I drink myself to a point where I believe I can understand
the Lao language is the version you are reading. Although we
were given utensils I chose to forego the westernization of the
land and eat using the dipping technique utilized by most
people. Three bites in and once again a 1/3 full glass of
BeerLao is between my eyes. The young man offering the glass
was pimped out in a black tuxedo and appeared to be the kind of
guy whom you should accept a drink from. Another "kop chi li
li", a swig from his glass and we were friends. I pulled up
another chair for the special guest and we began to speak. The
conversation took a slow start. Not because of tuxedo man, but
rather because I had been so used to talking to people who spoke
absolutely no English, that I was conversing like a trained
monkey. Shortly into the conversation I learned Pond was indeed
the honored guest at what I learned was his wedding. The
handsome 24-year old had just been hitched and he oozed
elation. As I scarified down my food I learned he works for the
Lao government as an AIDS educator. He also told us about a
cousin of his who lives in NYC and his desire to my town. My
door will always be open. Laotian men usually marry in there
twenties. The bride is usually younger. She will most likely
be from the same village and will probably be related in some
degree because most villages are small. Couples choose each
other, but the heads of both families decide when the couple
will marry, where they will live, and what bride price must be
paid to the girl’s father. This is usually in currency,
although in olden times it was in livestock or grain. The
groom’s family delivers the bride price to the bride’s father on
the day before the wedding. The groom’s relative’s parade to
the bride’s house with gifts of food, tobacco, betel and so on.
The groom makes his formal request for the bride. Her family,
after a long-winded, purely ceremonial show of reluctance
finally agrees. In the presence of a bonze or village elder,
the couple is officially betrothed. The next day, the groom and
his relatives again proceed to the bride’s house, where they
make a great show of fighting and bribe their way into the
yard. The groom must persuade the bride’s sister to wash his
feet before he can ascend the steps to the house and claim his
bride. Divorce is rare in Laos, partly because each marriage
concerns everyone in two large, extended families. If a
marriage is dissolved, the bride price has to be returned, and
there are endless complications concerning inheritance and land
use. It is much more sensible to compromise. Working things
out, in general, is the Laotian response to almost every
conflict. Isn’t that a novel idea? In the background we watched
the nucleus of the party dance. Thankfully there are no
traditions of the Marquerena or chicken dance in Laos. This is
one of the things I’m happiest about. Tonight they danced the
Lamvong. It’s a combination folk dance and courting ritual.
Girls dance in place with short, rhythmic steps, while boys
weave circles around them; no one touches. The faces of the
dancers are completely expressionless, but their arms and hands
wave in complicated patterns expressive of love and devotion.
Frankly, unless you are Laotian, you will end up looking like a
queen doing this jig. The groom apologized to us that the party
we crashed was almost over. He insisted we accompany him to the
parents of his wife’s house for an after party. The two guys
sitting next to us indicated that they would escort us to the
party. Pond cordially dismissed himself and affirmed our
attendance. As soon as the 48-ounce bottle of BeerLao was cashed
we would head out. As the pace and the amount of the beer in
the glass increased I decided to engage the transportation
question. I was pretty sure these guys had scooters. Frankly
I’m not a big fan of riding on the back of those things in any
situation. In addition, I was positive both these guys were
half in the bag. Through struggled words and gulps of beer I
asked our new friends about drinking and driving.

About the author:
Joseph Kultgen is co-founder of www.trekshare.com and has been
writing the monthly newsletter - TrekNews - for the past 3
years. He is a contributer to STA Travel and Gap literature as
well as a co-creator of TrekTV. TrekShare.com