So this is love...

We had the great good fortune to gain front row seats to Day Two of a Berber marriage in the very small town of Mezourga, on the edge of the Sahara, on the dunes. In the states, I would honestly just assume that the event was staged for the benefit of tourism… but considering we were two of only four non-Berber people in the vicinity (with hotels full of tourists nearby, completely oblivious), I have to conclude that we really were fortunate to be a small (hopefully unobtrusive – except for that awkward barging in on the bride just minutes before her groom arrived) part of this couple’s happy day… or days, as a Berber marriage lasts three days. 

There were similarities to our Western-style weddings. A fussy-looking photographer carried a camera mounted on a very tall stick. The bride wore white (with her entire head sandwiched inside a bright red square potholder - not even her eyes showing). And the guests were dressed to the hilt, which encompassed everything from dirty jeans to traditional black-with-embroidery Berber robes to stylish and lovely teen girls with their hair exposed.

The biggest common denominator was the happiness and excitement that clearly pervaded the event.

Y had entrusted us to the care of amiable Adair the previous evening before disappearing with the car. (No matter, we knew we would be sleeping in the hotel that night and the dunes the next, and the Hotel Moyahut, where Adair worked and was the only English speaker around, was fabulous.)

Adair insisted on repeatedly introducing himself as “Idiot.” (“Elliot?” “NO! EEEEE-DEEEE-Oh.”) OK then. Honestly, I didn’t figure out what his name was until later, and felt extremely awkward referring to such a friendly, intelligent and helpful person as “Idiot” all afternoon. 

Adair.

Adair escorted us to the village in order to buy head scarves for our impending desert adventure (later that evening). We spent half an hour walking to town from the hotel (there are NO paved roads; NO sidewalks... just sand) through the village’s gardens. We followed this route either because Adair knew we liked gardens or because this is simply the way you walk from Hotel Moyahut to the village without dying of sunstroke. The small, hand-dug irrigation canals were interesting, the walk leafy and green, and the pointing at various vegetation and attaching names was delightful (us English; Adair mostly English and lots of picking herbs for us to taste). It became known as the Tour of the Frogs, as each amphibian was meticulously discovered, exclaimed over (“so large!” “so small!”) and then animatedly forced to jump into the irrigation ditch. (“Ha-hah! He like it!”) One got the distinct image of a much younger Adair spending joyful afternoons as a boy harassing frogs in the gardens.

As we finally arrived at the village (three or four square blocks – but some of the tribe live further out and the area has grown in the last 20 years to include many hotels); and heard a great commotion. “A wedding?” we guessed, having seen something similar from the car a few days earlier. A small swarm of people, men and women, in all manner of dress from fancy traditional to dirty jeans, was trudging very slowly up the street, the women chanting and shaking tambourines.

“Yes! Yes!” said Adair, pointing out a large tent we happened to be walking past, pitched in someone’s small, enclosed backyard. “The tent for the men. The women all together in different house. You want to see Berber wedding?” Adair seemed genuinely surprised when we said yes… we assumed we would peek discreetly from an alley as the procession passed – that would have been fabulous. Instead, Adair led us right past a group of women (who never did anything but smile at us), into a small courtyard, and then poked his head right into a large room filled with women… “This the bride! Come look!” Oh dear.

Notice the goat's party mask?

With lots of smiling, apologetic bowing and murmurs of “shokram” (thank you), we briefly peeked in. We were greeted with more smiles. No one seemed distressed by our presence. I sincerely hope that was the case, but we beat a hasty retreat to a further remove as the groom-parade drew nearer. A sheep in a fancy black leather mask was being dragged along reluctantly at the front of the group.

“This day, they take photo and sacrifice a goat. Then they are marriage.”

Oh. Wow.

I figured the groom-parade would merge with a large group from the bride’s side, and they’d go off to a ceremonial site… maybe that nice new town square? But no, they stayed right there in the street. The chanting never ceased… the group milled around as the bride came out. The groom was all in white (long robe, turban that hid all but his eyes – which were definitely smiling); and a red sash. The bride was in a white robe and red square headdress that hid her entirely. The sides of the robe extended like white bed sheets, and were held out wide on either side by other womenfolk. (“See – they show you how big is the bride,” Adair explained and/or joked.)

A clearly-professional photographer with a camera on a high stick took many formal photos which encompassed roughly 40 people, the bride and groom standing totally apart in the middle of their respective groups.

The bride in traditional dress.

Then a large man with a dagger took center stage and as I tried to keep my face neutral (though even the photographer was looking as grossed out as I felt); killed a sheep in front of everybody. Thankfully, I couldn’t really see the killing because everyone else crowded around, anxious not to miss it. It was silent. The man held up a super bloody hand, the crowd went wild, and the sheep flopped quietly for a minute before being carted off in a waiting wheelbarrow.

“A good killing,” Adair gushed. “He is the good man for this.”

Along with tambourines and chanting, dancing women, the groom’s entourage included an older woman holding a blue circular tray aloft. It was clearly ceremonial, and was now placed at the happy couple’s feet, in the blood of the sacrificed sheep. I'm not sure what it signified, but there was a large bottle of Fanta Orange on the tray. ("May your marriage never lack sugary carbonation?") Pieces of candy (or maybe they were nuts) were tossed in the air, and children scrambled (in the blood, I could not help but notice) to pick them up.

A smiling, happy Adair rubbed his hands together. “Now, they are marriage. Tonight is a BIG party.” And he whisked us down the street to see the communal bread oven, then to the gift shop to buy totally unnecessary and wildly expensive authentic Berber scarves.

“Are you married?” we asked Adair.

“Oh NO! I too young! Maybe five years when I am maybe 30.”

We then invited ourselves to his future wedding, which seemed to delight him. "YES! I call Youssef and tell him when I marriage! You come!" And so we now have legitimate pretext for a return to Mezourga. Inshallah.

PS) I am SO NOT making any of this up.