Drowning in Saspol

It’s past 6 AM and Max (a new volunteer) and I are dragging what is left of our sorry corpses to the neighbouring home where we were previously greeted with chai and children in metal bathing tubs.  Ladakhi weddings are a force to be reckoned with especially if you find yourself under the wings of groomsmen.

The previous day, Chosang, a SECMOL staff member, had extended an invitation to the volunteers to witness the marriage of a friend of a friend (of a friend?)  Details were sparse but nonetheless my interest was stirred.   Becky warned me against the affair, recalling boredom and the social mores where women make dull conversation and men indulge in gaiety, superior meals, and a spot of chhaang (the homemade brew made from barley).  However, I wished to see the event for myself and was also resigned to partake in all male friendly activities. 

The bus ride to the village of Saspol was decent and no more than two hours.  However the last 5 minutes were cut short as a rogue military wagon flirted precariously with the edge of the cliff which resulted in a Ladakhi traffic jam and those gawking with their own ideas of entertainment.  Fortunately a slow moving crane was called to rescue the situation, but we didn’t have the time nor the patience to observe the scenario played out to completion.  

Our journey on foot was short and pleasant and Saspol offered more of what is expected in a small village.  With several hours to kill, I make my way up to the caves carved inside the nearby mountains.  Enticed by the prospect of seeing my first cave adorned with 11^th century paintings, I tried to race the setting sun for this (possibly) once in a lifetime moment.  I am relieved by my solitude, not only because I bask in it, but because my impatience had led me to forge my own path, which although scenic, is somewhat of a fools route.  After stumbling through thorns, backyards, conduits of garbage, and a wide stream that was not made for leisurely crossing, I find myself in a breathtakingly enigmatic space.  Wary of taking on my inappropriate trail in the dark, I cut my thrills short in the name of sensibility.

When I returned, I was ushered to another house where they others had already started sipping chhaang and grazing on fried barley.  Chosang was dressed in his traditional costume and had taken on an air of austerity.

Chosang’s role in the lead up to the ceremony was an important one.  It appeared that he led the procession to collect the bride to be in the late hours of the night.The bride was a 2 hour drive from the village, but it is the tradition that she stays at her home with the bridal party.  When the procession arrives at her house they must bribe her with the bridal accessories and a large cash sum to come accompany the party back to the village.  If there are any items missing from the bridal booty then the procession will be charged for each missing piece.  The groom’s family pay for all these wedding expenses.  This takes place late at night (after midnight) and during this time, after a rousing game of smack the balloon with small children, we (Max and myself) are invited to join the groomsmen in the adjoining room where they have clearly made bedfellows with a cocktail of rum, beer, and of course chhaang.  They warble on about community and the glories and pitfalls of Ladakh, but the outstanding feeling is one of friendliness and joviality.  

Whilst the procession is driving back we are offered heavy blankets and most people assume a sleeping position on the floor.  My all things wedding weariness is cut short a couple hours later to the loud blasting of Ladakhi music.  My blanket is swiftly ripped off me and the same woman who demands that I try to sleep is now ordering me (pleasantly) to get up and dance.  Dance we do to an odd combination of traditional Ladakhi music, Bob Marley, and poor hip hip.  Shortly afterward everyone gathers outside in anticipation of the bride’s arrival.  By this time it is 4 AM and it is quite cold outside.  Many women and children bring jugs of chhaang to be offered to the procession as it is tradition that they must be paid by the groom’s uncle and father for these offerings.

It seems that years pass when the bride finally arrives, but there is a long period in which there is no sign of her.  I’m told that her aunt is refusing to get out of the car until she is paid a hefty sum (7,000 rupees to be exact).  I still struggle to see why the aunt is able to call the shots.  I love my aunts, but doubt that they would consider themselves to have a financial interest in my matrimonial proceedings.  With a hearty shout, Chosang eventually leads the party to the entrance where the bride and groom bow their heads and receive a blessing.  I am further informed that the bride and her family need to appear to be upset about this whole charade as the family are meant to be losing a daughter.  A whirlwind minute later, the crowd is shouting joyously and money is being thrown in the air.  While everyone is scavenging the ground for financial prosperity, a man thrusts a 10 rupee note into my hand and smiles gleefully.

As everyone is seated inside, the bride and groom sit in a period of meditation whilst everyone watches.  Personally, I would find the whole thing very uncomfortable and I’m told that this bride actually feels quite shy about the whole thing.

Another meal and bout of dancing later, my body is completely spent although in high spirits.  I’m asked if I would ever attend another Ladakhi wedding.  Why not, but preferably with a little more sleep.