Tying the knot in Tanzania

The minister rapped three times on our door, representing the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. As our four dogs barked furiously and irreverently and about 18 people watched, he drove out any evil spirits that might wish to harm our marriage and our home.

The blessing of the house occurred after a caravan made its way to our door once we had completed our tiny, sweet church ceremony, for which we were 20 minutes late because the dirt road was blocked by some sort of contruction work.

Ombeni and I are officially married, well at least we assume we are. In the eyes of the Lutheran Church of Tanzania we are, and that is good enough for us, but who knows about the U.S. We may have to do this all over again back in the States. I don't think I can handle a wedding mulligan. Being the center of attention and smiling all day for photos and being manhandled by Ombeni's friends and relatives was exhausting.

I also sort of hated my dress. It was wrong for my hourglass-on-acid figure. But it was purchased online in a rush three days before I left for Africa. I had spent several days looking feverishly for a simple, elegant wedding dress for a woman over 35. These do not exist, at least not in Omaha, Nebraska. Everything is strapless with riotous poofs of ruffles and lace and ridiculousness. I have curves, people, work with me!

I wish the fabulous Tim Gunn, my fashion fairy godfather, would have magically appeared at my hotel room door, frowned, folded his arms and said, "This concerns me," then produced the ideal dress that fit me perfectly and made me look soignee. But everyone in Tanzania wears ill-fitting garments, so I fit right in. I just gave in and went with it and had a good time. If I squint at the photos, I think I look OK.

The best part of the day's festivities came when the "champange presenter" did his bit. In Tanzania, it is traditional for a friend who is a good dancer and a bit of a natural entertainer to grab a bottle of bubbly, wave it around, shake his booty and have several guests touch the bottle to give it a sort of blessing--like a profane version of the Torah being brought around the synagogue. Ibrahim (seen at right) knows how to move. Once the shaken bottle was unleashed, the bubbly gave everyone in the vicinity a sticky shower. It was like winning the World Series.

There was also a lot of ululating and country music at the wedding party. These are not two things that normally go together, the way, say, chocolate and peanut butter do. But the Tanzanians love to dance to country music, and these people know how to cut a rug. The women with the biggest butts shake them the most, and they are proud of their ample posteriors. Ombeni says the greatest compliment one can pay a Tanzanian woman is to tell her she is large. "Any woman will be so proud if you tell her that." I decided not to pay any of my wedding guests such a compliment. And fortunately, no one happily told me I looked large.

And because this is Africa, we had a power outage during the reception. We made do with candlelight, and everyone just drank and ate more until a generator was found at a nearby farm and the music returned. While things were still dark and everyone was getting properly hydrated, Ombeni's brother informed me that my marriage to his sibling means I also am his wife. This was accompanied by what looked to me like a lascivious smile. But because I marked "monogamous marriage" on the wedding license, I am going to presume that Ombeni's brother and I had a lost-in-translation moment.

One crazy Tanzanian husband is enough for me.