Arabian Night
Louise Laurie
It's just past midnight in downtown Jeddah and the locals are out to play. It's pitch black, hot and humid. The street lights are ablaze and there's the usual cacophony of car horns. Lolling in the back seat of a brown Buick, I survey the scene. The Oakridge Boys are blasting 'El Vira' from the CD player and I feel like dancing.
I assume there's a pretty good chance I may be dancing soon. I'm on my way to a wedding reception. Yes, I know it's the wee small hours - but I'm on my way to a wedding reception, no kidding. Samir (my Arabic friend) has allowed Catherine (his new American wife) and myself to be guests at the reception at some swanky five star hotel. Neither Catherine nor myself know the bride and groom nor what to expect when we arrive at The Sheraton. Samir chooses not to enlighten us. We are mere women, after all ... He, meantime, for some obsure reason is dressed in chocolate-coloured corduroy trousers and a green checked shirt. I think idly to myself that he wouldn't look out of place felling trees in deepest Canada.
We arrive. All swishing silk, shimmering hair and made-up faces. Catherine's in powder blue from head to foot and I'm swaddled in eau de nil (I'm aware it's a posh phrase for boring old beige but I had no choice - the dress was a gift from Samir, reassuring himself that no cultural faux pas would occur while he was in charge). We're two floors up and the banqueting suite is the size of two football pitches, twinkling with an obscene amount of intricate chandeliers. Many well-dressed, exotic Arabic women have also made their entrance. The noisy chatter and the mingling, heady perfumes assail my senses. I think it's just as well this is a 'dry' country and no alcohol is allowed. I'm getting drunk on the atmosphere alone.
As I follow Catherine towards elaborate chairs arranged in neat rows, I think - Saltcoats to Saudi Arabia is one heck of a culture shock. More 'shocks' soon follow. There will be no men present, there will be no children allowed, there will be no music...
We stand out like sore thumbs. We are the only two Westerners there. The language barrier necessitates a lot of smiling. They all smile at us. We smile back. I didn't realize till then that your face can become quite sore through prolonged smiling. We continue to sit and smile at our fellow female guests. Someone is passing round huge platters of party food. It's all sweet, very sweet. Little almond cakes drenched in honey, pistachio nuts and a mountain of dates. I take a token morsel. I'm so punch drunk with the whole scenario that I don't know if I'm thirsty or hungry.
Suddenly there's an almighty racket at the front seats. Has someone taken ill? Has someone fainted in the heat of all these bodies? Nope. It's music, Jeddah style. The women are clicking their tongues and making music. To my ears, it sounds like Indian squaws round the camp fire. Its senses overload by now and I sit quietly and try to take it all in. I wish I had a camera but, yep, you've guessed it - they're not allowed. This 'music' is because the bride and groom have suddenly appeared - from nowhere it seems. I certainly didn't see them arriving. I feel as if I'm outside of my body looking in. I try to concentrate on the proceedings. I'm well aware that this is a one-off and that I may well be trying to remember every precious minute for many years to come. The happy couple are ensconced on ornate gold thrones (and we all thought Posh and Becks were the first, eh?) to receive their guests. I watch. I join the queue of well-wishers which is long and snakes round the room. At last I am 'received' graciously and in silence. I proffer a small gift. They smile their thanks. When the last of the guests have been received, the groom disappears and the dancing and making-merry commences.
Small huddles of women dance. This is a rare event for extended families to mix and mingle, gossip and chat, preen and prance. To strut their stuff without the restrictions of their menfolk. Having lived in the country for five years, I am painfully aware that this 'freedom' is as delicate and as fragile as a butterfly.
Protocol dictates that Catherine and myself sit demurely. We sit demurely. The 'music' continues to rain down on us over the next six hours or so. What with the brittle-bright artificial lighting and the unusual sounds all around, I find the whole event surreal.
Dawn breaks and it's the cue for the end of the party. We're all pretty tired by now. The 'music' has petered out and the food and soft drinks have been devoured. Time to call it a night - literally. Samir, our driver and escort appears at the hotel entrance as if by magic. He drops me off at our compound near the Red Sea coast. I thank him profusely and realize that I'm dog-tired. Common sense suggests that I roll into bed and sleep. It's been a long day's night, after all. But I don't want to sleep. I can't sleep. I'm too tired to sleep. The phrase 'I'll sleep when I'm dead' pops into my head. My husband has already left for work. I glance at the kitchen clock. It's 7.15 am. I want to share my experience with someone ... anyone. My head is bursting with a zillion thoughts. I have a quick shower and change, ready for work at the British Embassy.
As far as I'm aware, no current British expatriate has been a guest at an Arabic wedding reception ... until now.
