I imagine in general

If anyone on the verge of action should judge himself according to the outcome, he would never begin. S. Kierkegaard

Memory from the desert : A traditional weddingparty.

The end of november. We`re staying in a traditional guesthouse in Toudeshk.We know it`s traditional because that`s what Mohammed`s card tells us. I always find it very strange when people call themselves consciously traditional, but bref, we follow our new travelfriend, Kurt, because he`s nice.It`s a relief to be in a western man`s company for a while. (As a woman in Iran, men don`t address directly to you when travelling in a man`s company. Well, some men don`t.)
Mohammed tells us stories, asks us where the end of the world is (it appears to be in the middle of the carpet in his house), tells us about a British gay whose arm had been chopped off and after that his leg, but in the end it`s a myth...
The first night in Toudeshk, Reza, Mohammed`s brother proposes to go to a traditional weddingparty. This time the word traditional doesn`t cost us anything so we say O, yes, without knowing what to expect.
With Mohammed, Reza, Fatime (his wife) and their two children and Maarten, Kurt and Kim we walk through the dark little desert desertstreets. I realize that a few houses can create a feeling of safety, even in the middle of nothing.
We arrive in the street of the party. Better, the parties. Reza`s wife and daughter and Laura and me go to the women`s party. The men go to the men`s party...
In a room of barely four by four a thousand women are sitting on the ground. Maybe a little less.
Before ten seconds could pass, our coat is out, our scarve on the ground, our gloves lost, we are in a hundred pictures and sit on eachother on the throne next to the bride whose face is covered with white make-up and whose breasts don`t want to stay in her dress.
They look at us, point at us, laugh with us, talk or try to talk with us. `Aks,aks`, picture, picture, there are fights for the best pictureplace.
One of them makes a sound that I know from Indianmovies when it`s time to go fighting. Another woman joins her.
I don`t feel quite comfortable and look at Laura who doesn`t seem to be very happy either, sitting there with a plastic plate of rice and shish kebab and me on her lap.
I feel bride. Well, I almost sit on her.
Suddenly, music. I think I know what`s next. Yes, I know. Before I realize what`s happening I`m standing in the middle of the room with the majority of the little less than a thousand women sitting and watching. Laura could escape to the toilet but will soon be dragged out.
In the mean time I try to act as comfortable as possible and move my arms like they do and my hips, well not exactly like they do, but I try I try.
Now the bride (23) is also dancing. Soon I don`t see her anymore and try to dance as discrete as possible not to offend the bride but not too discrete as not to be lynched by all the rest.
It`s difficult sometimes to satisfy everyone.
Meanwhile I find a little second to wonder how it would be for two Iranian women at a belgian weddingparty. They would be looked at briefly, a lone drunk uncle would try to talk to them without realizing that it`s not dutch they`re speaking, most of the people would eat their own piece of cake with their own friends. I imagine. In general.
But that`s not the case here, now, with us. All attention goes to us, our blond hair,our age and our marital status. "Not married? Very good!", a woman shouts to us. She`s standing almost on the bride`s feet. Who is married. Just.
I`m stunned. Haven`t they seen a stranger before? Most of them come from a big city. But still. The West isn`t quite present in Iran. I have the impression that not a lot of foreigners come here, except for touristy reasons.
In Belgium, we know foreigners, women with scarves, we live next to them. We don`t ask them every second where they come from, how long they`re staying, and if we can take a picture with them.
Maybe we ask them too little, but that`s another story.
But here, we`re in the middle of the lioness cage. Hier we experience in concentrated form what we`re experiencing already for three weeks. Excessive attention. Only because we`re westerners.
A child is being pushed in my arms and a flash goes off.
Fatime decides to take us out. The gloves I lost in the first ten seconds are still lost so I run back inside to find them. Rejecting some pictureoffers I wrestle to the bridesthrone. The bride`s sitting there, a friend next to her. Before I can mime a glove, I`m being chased away by their eyes. I have to go and make space for attention for the bride.
I go and find my gloves on the way out.
The hospitality here is immense but I just became acquainted with its boundaries.
Understandable. She`s marrying. I don`t. I just come from the West. Without a present.
A group of the men`s party is standing outside. One of them confuses Laura`s personal space with his. Time to go.
At Mohammed`s home we meet our male travelcompagnons.
We exchange similar stories.
They too were the attraction of the night.
We thank the family for taking us to a traditional wedding, say shab bekheyr and go to sleep on our traditional floor of the guesthouse in the desert.