Ejo #73 – An Indian Wedding In Dubai (Part 1)

I have two buckets lists. A reality bucket list – with just one item on it. And a fantasy bucket list with lots of items on it. The difference between these two lists, if you haven’t been able to glean it from their descriptions, is that one of them is achievable through my own action and will. Here is a copy of my current reality bucket list:



The other is basically wishful thinking. Here is my fantasy bucket list:



As you can see, these are things that aren’t really very probable at all.  They’re not impossible.  Just not very likely.  They are things that I have a very low-level, background, desire to happen – with the complete understanding that they probably won’t.

So, something happened recently that got me rather excited.  I got a message out of the blue from someone that David and I had met when we first moved to Dubai (way back when), a great guy called Love (yes, that’s his real name).  It had been a few years since we’d caught up, though I’d maintained a friendship with him on social media (yay Facebook!!!).  Here’s the message:

“Hey, u been to an Indian wedding before?  I’d like to invite you & David to my sister’s wedding in December.”

Imagine my delight!  I literally jumped for joy.  Fantasy bucket list, bitches!!!!!!  Naturally, the first thing I did was start researching what to wear.  Love had said that we could just wear regular western style clothes to each of the events, but that’s not my style.  If there’s an excuse for dress ups, I’m going to get dressed up (hell, sometimes I like to do it for absolutely no reason at all).  And I’m lucky enough to be married to a man that doesn’t mind getting into it either.  Damn, we were going to an Indian wedding!!!  Of course we were getting dressed up.

The parts of the celebration that we’d been invited to were the three main events, held over three days.  The first event was the sangeet, a pre-wedding function where the bride’s and groom’s respective posse’s have the chance to mingle and get to know each other.  It’s basically a monster party full of music, choreographed dancing, tonnes of food and loads of drinking.  The second event was the actual ceremony itself, a more subdued affair, but no less colourful or joyful.  And the third day was the wedding reception, the bride and groom’s first event as husband and wife (which is basically just an excuse to throw another big party – did I mention that Indians like to party?!).

So, my hours of meticulous research led me to the conclusion that I would be suitably attired if I chose to wear a ghagra (which consists of a long, embroidered skirt, a cropped blouse and a dupatta (or shawl) draped over the shoulder) to the sangeet party, a sari (which you’re probably more familiar with) to the ceremony and western clothing to the reception.  Perfect!  Now all I had to do was get myself a ghagra and a sari.  Lucky for me, we live in a city where more than 40% of the inhabitants are Indian so there is no shortage of places to shop.  It’s just a matter of knowing where to go.  Too bad for me, I had no idea.  But, I do know a lovely Indian woman at work called Dayini.  So I asked her if she could recommend somewhere to buy these exotic threads and to my delighted surprise, she offered to take me clothes shopping herself.  How wonderful!!!

We ended up at Karama Centre, a small mall in old Dubai which houses a number of Indian clothing and jewellery stores.  When we walked into the Silky Calicut shop my eyes widened at all the beautiful fabrics lining the walls, creating a jewelled rainbow of colours.  Crimson, purple, aqua, sapphire, chartreuse, gold, magenta.  So much beading, so much embroidery, so many sequins.  How on earth was I going to choose something?  My friend asked the assistant to show us a selection of ghagra fabrics.  He fanned out a golden lace skirt with green accents, and bright red fabric for the blouse.  I fell in love with it instantly.  But I couldn’t possibly choose the first thing I saw, so we insisted he show us a few more options.  Wouldn’t you know it, none of them dazzled me like that first golden skirt, so I tried it on (with a sample gold blouse for sizing).

Check out that shit-eating grin.

Check out that shit-eating grin.

The tailor came out to measure me up and, with Dayini’s help, asked my preferences for buttons, zips, edging, sleeve length, blouse length etc.  I was so grateful that Dayini was there to translate and help me make these decisions, or it would have been a lot more difficult to convey what I wanted – or to even know what I wanted at all.  I mean, I know what I like, but I’m no expert on Indian attire.  So, thank you Dayini, for all your input and recommendations.

With the ghagra sorted we returned to the shelves to select a fabric for the sari.  Once again, I chose the first one I saw (hey, when you know, you know).  It was a beautiful magenta and gold number that I just couldn’t say no to.  Now, for those of you who aren’t aware, wrapping a sari is a nightmare of an ordeal.  There are several YouTube video tutorials about how to do it but it’s difficult as hell AND there’s always the chance that it will come undone at the slightest provocation.  So I’m more than happy to admit that I chose to have my fabric sewn into a “cheat” version of a sari.  Basically the tailor stitches the yards of fabric into a skirt which buttons up (thus preventing an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction), leaving the rest to be draped around in the traditional style.  Unless you’re looking very closely, I think it’s pretty hard to tell the difference.

A week later, Dayini and I went back to the store so I could try on the finished product.  I was thrilled.  Looking in the store mirror, I felt like something halfway between an exotic princess and a character at a themed costume party.  I am quite conservative in my day to day dress.  I wear a uniform of jeans and t-shirts, in predominantly dark colours (Melbourne girl alert!!!), which might be why I like the opportunity to exhibit a little fashion flair when the occasion calls for it.  But wearing those sparkling, colourful clothes, even with just the shop assistants as my audience, I was transformed into a different person.  I felt regal and glamorous.  I felt amazing.

But hey, I hear you ask, what about David?  I was sorted, but now we had to find something for him to wear.  Male guests to Indian weddings have their choice of kurta, a posh sherwani or a suit.  The store that had made up my clothes didn’t do male attire but they recommended a few shops in the area that did.  Unfortunately, while we did find a very reasonably priced kurta in one of those stores, it was one size too small so we had to keep looking.

Just a little small around the shoulders and the calves.

Just a little narrow around the shoulders and tight in the calves.

We bade Dayini farewell and went strolling through old town Dubai.  After a well-earned pit-stop at an Arabian teahouse, we set out on foot again and serendipitously happened upon a clothing store that looked like it might have what we needed.  We explained to the assistant what we were looking for and he pulled out a kurta that not only perfectly matched my outfits and fit David like a glove, but which made him look like he was born a Raja.  Why are men so much easier to buy clothes for??!!!  Too easy.  We were ready for the wedding.

Tune in next month to hear all about the actual event itself.  I promise you, it’ll be fun.

Ejo #14 (Part II) – Invited To An Emirati Wedding; An Inside Look At What Happens Behind The Curtains (Plus: A Very Dry Valentine’s Day)

So, last time we spoke, I was describing how the white room had suddenly turned black as all the women threw their abayas and headscarves on.  This augered the imminent arrival of a MAN, and no man could be allowed to feast upon the glorious bounty of skin and curves on display in the room!  So a swift cover up took place.  And indeed, a moment later, the beaming bride and groom entered the room to wild applause.  He was dressed in the national dishdash and ghoutra.  She was glowing in what looked like a Vera Wang strapless gown.  Arm in arm they slowly marched down the red carpet, through the meringue tables, onto the catwalk and finally to the stage where they sat down beside each other on the chaise lounge.  All the while, a camera on a 30 foot hydraulic boom captured their every step and broadcast it onto a massive screen so that even us plebs up the back could get a good view.

Then the entertainment started.  A troupe of male and female dancers twirled up the red carpet and onto the catwalk where they spun around, accompanied by a drummer beating a tribal rhythm on a massive drum which was slung around his neck.  It was hypnotic and not dissimilar to what I imagine a whirling dervish is like, the drum beat pounding like a giant pulsating heart.  Wow – it didn’t last very long, perhaps five minutes, but it left a lasting impression.  And it was reluctantly that I snapped out of my trance-like state when it came to an end.  The dancers collected the groom and they all skipped out of the ballroom leaving us ladies to ourselves again.  Their departure heralded the prompt flinging off of the abayas, producing the effect of a sun, rising on the black dawn, to reveal flowers of every colour in bloom.

Suddenly, one of the lovelier blossoms, draped in a dusky rose, slinky sheath, was standing before us and introducing herself as Omran’s wife, Khulood.  She apologized profusely for not being able to come earlier as she’d been with the bride, getting ready.  I was amazed that she’d even come to talk to us at all, but if I’d learned anything from this experience it’s that Emirati hospitality is second to none.  Once you are welcomed into the fold, you are treated as a very special guest and taken very good care of.  Khulood was so warm and open and lovely, just like her husband.  I simply couldn’t stop smiling at her.  She quite possibly thought I was deranged.

Regardless of what she thought though, she didn’t show it, and in fact she asked us if we would like to go and chat with the bride who was still reclined on the white couch, graciously receiving visitors.  So we all made our way over to the catwalk.  I took a step onto it and realised it was somewhat shiny and slippery.  And so it was that my fate flashed before my eyes.  I would be strutting up the catwalk towards the bride, 550 pairs of eyes on the woman wearing overalls and 5 inch stilettos, and as I approached the blushing bride I would trip and fall onto her, knocking her (and the lounge) over, arms and legs akimbo, dress up over my head and my Spanx exposed for the whole world to see (Svetlana, I could already hear your hysterical laughter echoing through my head as I took my next step).

OK, so it didn’t happen, but that’s only because I very carefully, very gingerly and very self-consciously tottered the length of that catwalk to the stage.  I’m positive I looked like an idiot – but, oh well, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.  I joined my colleagues around the beautiful bride and we congratulated her, complimented her and posed for photos with her.  Again, I was bowled over by Arabic hospitality.  This woman had never laid eyes on us before and yet she treated us as she had been treating all her friends [all 550 of them], with warmth and generosity of spirit.  She truly was a beautiful bride, inside and out.

I tottered off the stage, and with the formalities over, it was time for dinner.  Yep, at 11.30pm.  Those Arabs sure know how to party.  In the ballroom’s anteroom, a full buffet had been laid out and there was plenty to choose from though unfortunately not much of it was local cuisine.  A sample: butter chicken, lemon chicken, chicken biryani, mutton biryani, fish biryani, fried rice, beef stroganoff, beef fillet, dahl, dim sum, fish & chips, jumbo grilled prawns, pasta and much more (including the token Arabic bread, dips and salads).  Then, there was the dessert table, groaning under the weight of mini versions of crème brûlée, chocolate fondant, panna cotta, summer pudding, caramel tarts, pecan pie, cookies, cheesecake, meringue, chocolate mud cake, sponge cake, jellies, fruit salad and about ten million other sweets that I dared not even look at for fear it might bring on a sudden and acute case of diabetes.

After the meal the lights were dimmed even further and a spotlight was focussed on the catwalk where a number of pretty young ladies holding the trains of their gowns had gathered to dance.  It was awesome to watch the pure abandon with which they moved their bodies in time to the music and I was struck with the contrast of seeing them here in a room without any guys in it, comfortable in their revealing dresses, comfortable showing off their gorgeous hair and even a good amount of cleavage, as opposed to when I see them in the outside world all wrapped up, demure and modest.  And I felt really lucky to be a witness to it.  I got a glimpse into a world that not many outside people ever get to see.  I know words are never going to be enough to describe it properly, but I’m hoping that by reading about it here, you too can transport yourself there and see it all in your mind’s eye.

OK, so before I go I’d like to say Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone for whom it actually means anything.  It’s never meant much to me but particularly since getting together with David it’s meant even less because his birthday falls on the 15th so if there’s to be any romantic dinners or gestures I usually save them for the next day!  Usually Valentine’s Day is quite a big deal in the UAE.  All the hotels and restaurants have romantic Valentine’s packages and of course they make a bucketload of money out of it because people are (for some reason) willing to pay premium price on this day.  Now, Dubai might make concessions to the expats for these kinds of occasions but they are first and utmost an Islamic state.  And this year, the Prophet Mohammed’s birthday (Peace Be Upon Him) happens to fall on the 14th February.  Oh, how nice, you might think, a double celebration!  Well, think again.  This is a very religious holiday and thus the entire day is decreed a ‘dry’ day – which means that no alcohol is allowed to be served on any public premises anywhere.  At all.  No matter what!  So, anyone wishing to celebrate Cupid’s Day witih a glass of something special will have to make do with that something special being orange juice.  Don’t worry about us though, I’ve put a bottle of something very special indeed in the fridge to chill and we’ll be having it tomorrow to celebrate my lovely husband’s birthday. 

Next time, more on Doug (by popular demand)!

Bye for now


PS David says g’day.

Ejo #14 (Part I) – Invited To An Emirati Wedding; An Inside Look At What Happens Behind The Curtains

So, it’s 2011.  Happy New Year!  This year, I didn’t make any New Year’s Resolutions.  Nope.  Inspired by a friend, I sat down instead and came up with 11 goals that I wanted to achieve by year’s end.  11 for ’11 (see what I did there?).  One of these goals was to publish an ejo a month for the entire year, so you’ll be hearing a little more from me in 2011 than you have the last couple of years.  But that’s a good thing, right??

So, Australia has the Logie Awards.  The USA ups the glamour quotient significantly with the Oscars.  But let me tell you folks, both of these events pale in comparison beside the extravaganza known as an Emirati Wedding.

In the Middle East, families have been known to go bankrupt in order to put on the most lavish, the most flamboyant, the most grandiose wedding.  Bank loans are common and prices around the 1,000,000 dirham mark are not unheard of, with some escalating to 10,000,000 dirhams and beyond.  It isn’t just about creating a memorable day for the bride and groom.  It becomes a matter of family pride to put on the best wedding of the year.

As an expat, an invitation to one of these things is as common as hen’s teeth (i.e. not very common at all), so if you do get invited to an Emirati wedding, make sure you go.  It doesn’t really matter if you have open heart surgery scheduled for that day, postpone it.  If you are being knighted by the Queen, send someone else to get tapped by a sword.  And if you’re on your deathbed, well, what can I say?  Toughen up princess!  Get out of bed, shake yourself off, put on your Sunday best and get to that wedding – sandstorm, smog or shine!

What I’m trying to say, in case I’m not making myself clear, is that you should go.  It’s an amazing experience.  One which I was lucky enough to be a part of last week when my Emirati manager Omran invited me to his wife’s niece’s wedding.  In fact he invited all the women that work here in the Air Traffic Control tower – I think he did it as an opportunity for us to learn more about the local culture and traditions, and as always I was a willing student.  So, last Wednesday night I donned by best dress (a knee length, silk, Kate Sylvester shift in case you were wondering), slipped on my highest heels (elevating me to a formidable 6’3”), put on my party face and headed off to the Mina A ‘Salam, a five star resort hotel on the beach.

Now, an Emirati wedding reception is just like any other reception in several regards.  In others it is completely different.  The biggest difference is that the couple has usually already been married for the last couple of months.  The marriage ceremony itself is basically the signing of the wedding contract to make the union legal in the eyes of the law (the bride and groom sign separately as they are never in the same room as one another).  After the contract is signed, they are officially married, however they are not permitted to consummate the marriage (wink wink, nudge nudge) until after they hold the reception.  So usually they want to hold it as soon as possible, but convention dictates that they wait a couple of months. 

Just like at the contract signing, at the reception the sexes are kept apart; the men party in one place and the women party in a completely different place and never the twain shall meet.  OK, fair enough; I get the whole Muslim tenet of keeping women’s modesty protected from the hungry eyes of men.  The other major difference (for me anyway) is that of course alcohol is not permitted.  One of my colleagues sweetly suggested that perhaps they would serve booze on the expat table, “out of consideration”.  Yeah, I’m guessing that our needs don’t feature too highly on their list of priorities, and as I suspected there was no liquor at the party.   Not to worry, a few of us got together an hour before the reception at one of the hotel bars to socially lubricate ourselves, the expat way!  So, when we got to the Johara Ballroom, we were by no means raucous (after all, there’d only been time for two cocktails), but we were certainly far more relaxed and receptive to the evening that lay ahead.

OK, allow me to set the scene: At the door, we handed our invitations to the female security detail and were granted entry into another world.  Thousands upon thousands of white rose petals were strewn along the red carpet (yes, red carpet – and the Oscar’s don’t have rose petals do they!) leading into the main room.  Ah, how do I describe the ballroom?  Well, first of all, it’s big.  Very big.  Probably the size of a football field, with cathedral ceilings.  There were 60 tables, each seating 10 – though we were early so the room was empty.  Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING was white.  The chairs were covered in white silk fabric with big bows tied into the back.  Each table had a candlelit mini-chandelier with a large, basketball sized bouquet consisting of white hydrangeas, roses and peonies in the centre.  Two more similar bouquets adorned each side of this.  There was a white catwalk winding through the tables from the centre of the ballroom to the front stage on which was placed a white leather chaise lounge, looking for all the world like a giant throne.  The entire catwalk and stage area was embroidered with a skirt of countless more white flowers.  The overall impression of the room on first entering was like walking into a big, giant, fluffy pavlova.  Yummy!

Even though most of the guests had not yet arrived, there were a great many female servers, divided into two groups.  The Filipina servers were decked out in white shirts and pants, with cute little sequin vests which sparkled under the light.  The Arabic servers on the other hand were all wearing the traditional abaya but these were no ordinary abayas.  They were disco abayas – a brilliant, bright white, and the shelas (headscarves) were all a shimmer from the silver thread and sequins sewed into them.  They dazzled.  Before long my eyes started to hurt and I wished I’d brought my sunglasses to protect them from the glare, but only a moment later the lights were dimmed and the fluffy pavlova turned into a twinkling winter wonderland.

The Filipinas job was to clear the tables and the Arabic ladies poured the tea.  It became increasingly apparent to me that tea serves a very important role in Emirati life.  Gallons of it were being poured all around the room (into cups of course!).  Mint tea poured into beautiful, embellished Moroccan-style teacups.  Tea, sweetened with condensed milk, (a local favourite) served in tiny, porcelain cups and saucers gilded with silver leaf.  And another local traditional tea, the slightly bitter but still delicious za’atar tea poured into tiny crystal-cut goblets.  Of course Arabic coffee spiced with cardamom was also available.  There was no shortage of refreshments (of the non-alcoholic variety that is), and I availed myself of every single offer whilst we waited for the rest of the guests to arrive.

And this, people, is when the show really started.  Let me explain it this way.  When I put on my $400 dress that evening, I got dressed knowing that the wedding was going to be a glamorous affair.  What I didn’t expect was that my little outfit by a New Zealand designer would be put to shame by the sophisticated confections of sartorial giants.  Chanel, Versace, Dior, Gucci, Armani, Dolce & Gabbana, Lanvin, Louis Vuitton, Balmain, Givenchy, Prada.  Every single person that walked through that door looked like they belonged on some Hollywood best dressed list.  They looked better than movie stars.  They looked amazing.  I might as well have turned up in overalls.  And guess what?  I couldn’t exactly hide or blend in, as when I stood up I was at least half a foot taller than anyone else in the room.  Damn those 5” heels!

What I’m attempting to say is that these women weren’t wearing dresses or frocks.  They were wearing gowns.  Stunning, drop-dead-gorgeous, worth-thousands-of-dollars, gowns.  They had all, without doubt, spent their afternoons reclining for hours while someone had tended to their hair and make up.  And I’m not even going to talk about the diamonds.  Suffice to say that the contents of that room were worth millions of dirhams – I don’t even want to try to calculate how many.  Let’s just call it LOTS!

So this red carpet parade took a couple of hours, and by 10.30pm, 550 perfectly groomed women had sat down at their tables, the room now a sea of jewel-coloured dresses.  Emerald, sapphire, ruby, amethyst.  A rainbow of couture.  It was beautiful to behold.  But no sooner had I started to admire all the colours than a veritable Mexican wave of black spread over the room from back to front.  The ladies were all throwing their black abayas back on and covering their up-do’s with their shelas.  This could mean only one thing – a man was about to enter the room!

And that dear friends, is where I shall leave it for this month!  To find out what happened next, tune in to February’s ejo.

Bye til then