I nipped out this morning to collect my laundry ($1 a kilo, washed and ironed) and on my return saw a monk standing silently outside the entrance to the guest house. I was very taken by his robes with perfectly co-ordinating umbrella, but didn’t like to photograph him face on, so I followed him to see where he went.
He went to the next house, where a woman came out to give him alms, and then he chanted prayers for her.
As he moved off, I noticed what looked like a marquee being erected in the middle of the very narrow road just beyond the hotel, and I could also hear the tell-tale music alerting those in the vicinity that a ceremony is in the offing.
I resolved to return after school to see what it was.
When I got back the wedding was in full flow. The marquee had been furnished and decorated, and gating erected at one end.
Apparently, if they don’t block off one end, motorbikes often drive right through the middle, weaving between the tables of guests. But you can’t really blame them, as the marquee takes up so much room in the narrow road that they have to squeeze between it and the fence in order to get past.
Having inspected the marquee, I poked my head inside the house, where I could hear music and saw the bride and groom on a dais at the front, flanked by bridesmaids and young men, being filmed and photographed by all and sundry. I decided that they wouldn’t notice one more photographer, and casually wandered in.
They say that if it rains on your wedding day, the marriage will last. If that’s true, then this bride and groom will be glued together for all eternity, as there was the most torrential monsoon downpour about half an hour later – I imagine that the water must have been flowing between the guests’ feet as it ran down the road.