So, without any further intervention we fixed the wedding plan. As an ex Project Manager, what could be more simple; the committee had agreed the terms of reference, the project leader had fixed the completion date and provided the resources. All I had to do was find the finance, and with the party now the difference between air conditioning, or not, that was secured as well! Result.
On Tuesday 24 August 2011, we woke up to the sound of raining. It was no surprise as it had not stopped for almost a week and the villagers were passing worried glances at the rising river levels, but this was going to be our day. My designer wardrobe extended to a pair of old Wrangler jeans and a trendy Next long sleeved shirt. Luckily I had the Merrell trainers recently purchased as a 'goodbye gift' from the world's leading Food Travel Experts, otherwise I would wear an ancient pair of Clark's 'Jesus sandals'. Khamma's choice of clothes was a summer dress purchased from H&M in Singapore
As we locked up the house, Khamma reminded me not to forget the ring. Ahhh the ring I hear you ask. We had purchased this the previous Sunday in Ubon Ratchathani at the gold shop near Big C. The choice was not as extensive as we would have liked, but with Pell and Yo (Khamma's daughter and son) in tow, we had an excited committee to make the choice for us. With the ring safely tucked in my jeans and my plastic useless crash helmet velcroed round my chin, we set off on the motor bike to meet up with Khamma's mother, her cousin and the village leader. The rain had eased off a little bit, but there was more than a threat of a heavy shower languishing and ready to pour down at any time.
After two minutes we arrived at Khamma's mother's house and I mistakenly assumed the pick up with a length of drain-pipe in the back was our limousine.
After a few minutes, Khamma's cousin arrived in his pick up, without a drain pipe, and Khamma, Khamma's mother and the village leader squeezed into the back of the cab.
I climbed over assorted builders merchandise (called 'watsado' in Thai) into the co-pilot's seat and Khamma's cousin glided into his shiny leather driver's seat and off we set for the twenty minute drive to Don Mudang, where the local 'Town Hall' is situated.
This was my first experience of a Thai wedding and all I had to base it on was my limited knowledge of Registry Office weddings back in England
We arrived at the Town Hall (called the amphur in Thai) and found our way through a series of grubby corridors to what I can only describe as the Registrar's Office.
Inside the office, along one of the walls, there was a string of chairs stretching its whole length. We sat down and Khamma explained this is where people wait their turn to meet the 'Registrar'. Luckily, for us, rainy Tuesdays in August are very unpopular for Amphur style weddings. We amused ourselves watching the news on the office television, not that I made any sense of the latest market rice prices!
Soon three members of the office invited us to a desk. I could see that the size of the chair accompanying each desk regulated the office hierarchy. From small plastic chairs to a top executive recliner, everyone knew, and accepted, their place.
The first part of the procedure, sorry ceremony, was to check the paper work. At this point, it crossed my mind that I might not able to do anything if my papers were not accepted. I just handed over the file and hoped everything was in order. Khamma did the same, but there appeared to be a snag. After much debate, Khamma announced that my papers were fine, but hers were not! She needs the original divorce paper, and a copy was not sufficient. There was no other choice but to return to the house. We summoned Khamma's cousin who had disappeared into the corridors of power trying to find his friend in the planning department and wended our way back to Thamuang.
During the journey, I learnt that divorce Thai style is a question of both the man and his wife turning up to the same office in which they married, sitting on the same chairs, meeting the same office staff and signing the divorce book. It is that simple and that scary!
Luckily, Khamma soon found the missing document and we retraced our steps back to the office. Because it was a rainy Tuesday morning (soon to be an afternoon) in August, we had not lost our place in the queue of one. The attentive ladies of the office re-ticked the boxes and began to write in the big books of recorded marriages. The computer’s printer produced marriage certificates; the bride and office staff exchanged idle chitchat, including the revelation that I was the first foreigner ever to be married in this Amphur. I took that, rightly so, as a great honour to be bestowed upon me. After several minutes, the office staff recalled the absent witnesses from their wanderings around the great corridors of local government to sign the register. At the same time, I had to sign my name on several pieces of paper and several books against statements written in Thai, the meaning of which was about as decipherable as the Clingon language. During these moments, the precise one I know not and passed by me forever, we became man and wife. The giving away of the bride apparently gave way to just turning up at the office. The exchange of oaths was, apparently, exchanged for signatures in the Big Book of Thai Weddings. The 'You may now kiss the Bride' cliché was kissed goodbye to the matter of fact comment and statement of the not so bleeding obvious, 'That's it, and now we are married'.
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| The precise moment will never be confirmed, but about this time we became man and wife |
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| Or was it this moment? |
Of course, everyone was very happy, but there was no shaking of hands, no kissing the mother in law on the cheek; just a universal declaration that it was time for lunch!
Next time - Our Wedding Reception - Our Way.
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