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THE WEDDING STORY
December 2001
My toenails are still gold.
The wedding, the holiday, the flurry of excitement, Christmas, the game park,
the many hours spent shopping, the years of anticipation. Over. A memory. Gone.
With only a few tangible things to show for it, like exorbitant credit card
bills, a fabulous photo album and gold toenails, which I feel I must explain are
a relic of the night before my wedding when on a whim I painted my toes to match
my bridesmaids' dresses. Now, I wore closed shoes so the argument in favour of
this exercise seems, in retrospect, bizarrely thin. But then consider that the
cake has been eaten, the flowers have withered, every last Christmas and wedding
present opened and the wrapping thrown away. But my toenails, don't forget, are
still gold.
So here begins my epistle about the trip of a lifetime. If my father's wedding
speech is anything to go by, it will be prolonged and embroidered, but I have
chosen to throw caution like a garter to the wind, and write it anyway. There's
nothing wrong with your finger. If you don't want to read this, go ahead and
delete it.
***
I'll start at the moment I realised our seats were not going to be upgraded to
business class. My cramped, long, noisy flight to South Africa buckled in behind
a bassinet loaded with a screaming, puce faced infant seems as good a moment as
any to begin my wedding tale.
Wayne and I flew from Sydney to Durban on 29 November 2001. The flight was
horrible, since we were wedged firmly in nappy valley with babies on all sides
and no reprieve in sight. Business class lay tantalisingly on the other side of
the curtain and yet the stewards stubbornly and inexplicably refused to upgrade
us. Neither my plaintive face nor the emotionally manipulative flourishing of my
wedding dress could make them concede. Our one minor achievement was being
awarded a bottle of French champagne from first class. Bah humbug. As you can
imagine this did pathetically little to ease the discomfort of being shoe-horned
into an economy class seat behind a blaring infant for fourteen hours.
Nevertheless we arrived in Durban in more or less one piece. We were met at the
airport by both sets of parents and my bridesmaid and best friend Michelle who
we hadn't seen in more than eighteen months. It was a very, very joyful reunion.
We were in South Africa for a little over four weeks in total. It feels like ten
minutes, tops.
I can't possibly recount all the details here. One of many highlights was a trip
to Hluhluwe Game Reserve with Wayne's mom and step-dad the weekend before the
wedding. Wayne's folks are ardent game watchers and make this trip on a fairly
regular basis. They could not believe our luck, therefore, when we encountered
lion within five minutes of entering the reserve. It was oppressively hot that
day and the poor panting creatures were sprawled in a dry river bed searching, I
presume, for a relatively cool and damp place to rest.
The rest of the trip was an absolute success. We saw all of the big five with
the exception of leopard. We were even blessed with a troupe of wild dogs who
were romping in the road apparently oblivious to the fact that they are
endangered and are very rarely sighted. We saw a plethora of birds whose names
escape me but who had Rob (Wayne's step-dad) transfixed in a private awe which
in itself was a blessing to share. We saw rhino and elephant and wildebeest and
kudu and just about everything else including about a zillion impala. The
unmistakeable highlight though was encountering two lionesses in a tree whose
branches hung out over the road. My memory of the event, which rarely has
anything to do with what actually happened, is that I could have (if I so
wished) stuck my arm out the window of the car and stroked them, they were that
close. Oh my god it was the most magnificent experience. These two fat,
contented, unspeakably beautiful furry creatures resting their bulging bellies
in the fork of a tree, smacking their lips with a look of unmitigated
contentment.
One memorable night during the trip to Hluhluwe we had an awfully big adventure.
Colleen (Wayne's mom), Rob (step-dad), Wayne and I booked ourselves on a night
game drive. We shared the back of a large, robust, open vehicle (looked a bit
like a bus bred with a 4x4, can't remember what its real name is) with some
dozen or so foreign tourists. Welcome, our driver, took us through various
grasslands and past various watering holes as the sun set in the hope of seeing
nocturnal game. The first hour or two of the drive had limited success. In fact,
if anything the savannahs were eerily empty. It was dark, and hot, dusty and
very quiet. I overheard the game rangers speculating later that a kill, or some
large animal event of some kind must have been taking place elsewhere in the
reserve, because nothing was afoot. Anyway, Welcome was clearly eager to provide
something for us lusty and snap-happy tourists to see, so he turned down a
narrow rutted dirt road, clearly marked No Entry. The track headed downhill for
a while before crossing a reasonably wide, shallow river. As is the practise, I
have learned, Welcome stopped the vehicle in the river itself and shone the
searchlights up and down it in the search for animals. Nothing, apart from a
distant hyena call. So he engaged first gear and accelerated. Nothing.
Accelerated harder. Severe wheel spin and, oh my god, we're stuck. Stuck in a
river on the back of an open vehicle with Africa on all sides: hyenas roaring
distantly and the clouds pregnant with thunder.
Welcome seemed unfazed. He waded casually through the river (I'm thinking
crocodiles, leeches, piranhas*) to inspect the tyres, and dawdled up the dirt
track to make a radio call (lions, leopards, flesh-eating monsters*) before
returning to the car and sitting patiently in the driver's seat until help
arrived. The tourists and I were silent. The breeze was hot, and damp, and
licked my face like a lion with a beaded, sticky tongue. The grass swayed and
sighed, the river sang. The French children on the back seat became restless and
infernally annoying. More sounds from the inky night, as the monsters edged
closer and grew hungrier. Thunder clapped its hands and lightning flashed on the
horizon. I became convinced I would die in a sudden flash flood, to be
discovered the next morning mauled and half-eaten by savage beasts. I closed my
eyes and restlessly awaited my sealed fate.
Eons later a tiny 4x4 screamed out of the darkness and winched us to safety. We
limped back to camp, reeking of burnt out clutch. Less than a kilometre away
from our grave in the river bed, we encountered a magical thing: a male lion
lying beaten and sore near the edge of the road, a raw gash across his face
testament to a recent brawl. He was spitting mad. He screamed and ranted and
shook his plumed head with a magnificent and terrifying energy, roaring and
rattling and raging against the night.
***
Another highlight of the trip to SA was my hen's night hosted by my dear friend
Michelle at her home in Westville. Perhaps I should begin this segment of the
story by pointing out that my friends and family are without exception the
poorest keepers of secrets in the world. I reckon my mum let the cat out the bag
at least half a dozen times before the eventual "surprise" event. I had many
phone calls from friends asking what time my surprise party was starting. So I
wasn't terribly surprised, as I'm sure you can appreciate, when I was driven to
my friends house to be greeted by smiling friends and fairy lights, and the most
colourful collection of cocktail drinks and paper umbrellas you ever saw. What
surprises and amazes me deeply though, is the level at which my friends and
family engaged with me during this whole celebration. It is a rare privilege to
be handed a bright blue cocktail drink by a friend who has thrown you a lavish
party and given you thoughtful gifts for no reason except to say she is
genuinely, unconditionally, unselfishly, wholeheartedly happy for you.
***
The wedding day itself was 15 December 2001. It was a peculiar and strangely
peaceful thing to wake up in the bedroom that had seen me through every
adolescent crush, high school exam, first kiss, matric dance, university
vacation and happy or sad event of my life since I was twelve. After a hilarious
morning which at one peculiar moment saw myself, my sister Kirsty, my bridesmaid
Michelle and my mom all strewn about in various stages of ugliness and undress
in my mom's bed (much to my father's alarm), I gobbled breakfast, threw up (damn
nerves), swallowed calm-down pills and visited the hairdressers.
It was an amazingly hysterical, peculiar, strangely beautiful day. The
hairdresser took hours and I began to wonder if I would ever be at the church on
time. The make-up artist worked miracles and left me feeling amazed that I was
so beautiful and had never noticed before. The photographer arrived on time. The
florist delivered the bouquets. My bodice did not explode when I put it on
(don't laugh but this was a very serious concern of mine. I envisioned being
half way down the aisle when every button would sequentially burst in a tiny
artillery down my spine and leave me naked and exposed with the whole
congregation amazed and laughing at my flabby trunk). The cars arrived to pick
us up. We did not get a puncture en route to the church. The priest did not
forget to show up. The day was a morass of details that went strangely and
inexplicably right when with every breath I was anticipating abysmal calamity.
The ceremony was scheduled to start at 4pm. I made it to the church doors
exactly on time and was greeted by the priest. I could hear the organ music
wafting from the pipes inside the heavy stone building. My dad took my arm. I
caught a glimpse of the guests waiting serenely inside. And then it happened: A
enormous, nameless, frightening surge of emotion rushed through me and
threatened to overwhelm. I barely remember my trip down the aisle. All I
remember is trying desperately, shamefully, selfishly not to cry.
And so began the shortest half-hour of my life. My dad kissed me and Wayne
smiled at me and suddenly I was calm again. We sang beautiful songs and
exchanged beautiful vows and Wayne told me I looked lovely. I was deeply touched
by the words the minister spoke. We signed the register. I kissed Wayne and
smudged lipstick all over his face, which made the congregation laugh. I tried
to wipe it away with my fingers but I think I only made it worse. All too soon
it was time to walk out the church again where I was met by this amazing sea of
smiling faces. We posed for photos. I smiled and laughed and the children blew
bubbles. We were almost ready to climb back into our cars and leave for the
reception venue when I realised I had been so overwhelmed by the content and
emotion of the ceremony that I had not once, not once, thought to look at the
flowers. The huge, expensive, exquisite bouquets that I knew we had ordered but
that I had not even seen. So banging on the now locked double doors Wayne and I
persuaded Margaret, the church caretaker, to let us back in. And I must say,
they were beautiful. In particular an enormous hanging sphere-shaped arrangement
of white roses and lilies took bride of place beneath the central transept of
the church. I am so glad I got to see them. They made my day beautiful.
After the church the bridesmaids, best men and us stopped briefly outside
Kearsney College (a nearby school) to pose for a few photos in front of a
magnificent arcade of trees. Then straight on to the reception venue, called
Bella Vista which was just around the corner from Kearsney in the valley of a
thousand hills. It had a magnificent outlook across the valley which could be
viewed from any of the magnificent windows that ran the length of the room, or
from the deck outside where we posed for more photos.
Inside the guests waited in a fairy-bower of ivory draping and twinkle lights
and flowers. The valley of a thousand hills yawned outside and I reckon my smile
could have lit up the whole of it. Once we finished posing for photos (kudos to
Tony Hayman, our photographer, for being incredibly efficient and utterly
brilliant * one of many compliments received from a friend on our photos
heralded them as the best wedding photos she had ever seen) the speeches,
toasts, meals, drinks, dancing etc commenced.
Oh I could go on and on about who said what and how funny and how touching it
all was. It really was. It is hard to pick out only a few highlights from the
evening. Was it my dad teasing me in his speech about my flowery and
never-ending e-mail stories? (Case in point.) Was it Wayne thanking me for
marrying him? Was it the sight of my mother practically falling off her chair
when our hilarious MC Selwyn told a particularly rude joke?
I'll never forget our mutual alarm when the dance floor turned out to be minute
and the DJ sprawled across half of it; our carefully choreographed first waltz
was almost ruined when Wayne stood on my skirt and promptly panicked. Guests
frequently complimented the many unusual touches that peppered the night: a
wedding cake shaped like the Sydney Opera House, tiny wooden boomerangs on each
plate, the Australian pavlova for desert. (Well, you can't have an Aussie couple
getting married in South Africa without some reference to the fact, now can
you?) The Aussie hats rimmed with bobbing corks that the best men wore were a
huge hit. The disposable cameras flashed with crooked syncopation the whole
evening. Clouds of bubbles rose up from the tables from time to time. The food
was magnificent. The dancing lasted till well after midnight, and Wayne and I
were the last to leave.
Describing your wedding as the best day of your life is such a cliché. I've
heard it a million times before. But it honestly was. Its this huge,
magnificent, sublime experience made up of wearing a divine gown, feeling like a
princess, being surrounded by people who love you and who are happy for you and
hearing the man you love promising to love you back until the day he dies. I
can't describe it, except to say it was awesome. Absolutely awesome. Best damn
wedding I've ever been to.
***
Wayne and I spent the night at Bella Vista, in a gorgeous honeymoon suite
adjacent to the reception hall. We awoke to the magnificent sight of the Valley
of a Thousand Hills, and were served a sumptuous breakfast on the deck
overlooking the view. Which was just as well, we were both starving having
picked at our food the night before. During our meal a steam train chugged past
at the foot of the valley and tooted at us.
After reluctantly packing up our room, and nursing our rather fragile heads we
attended a lunch in the garden of my parents home in Kloof where we got to spend
a bit of quality time with some out of town friends and relatives, including my
eighty-three year old grandmother who travelled from Port Elizabeth to attend
the wedding.
The story could go on and on. There were so many special occasions during the
trip that if I were to regale them all you would probably not believe me. Or
begin to doubt my sincerity. So I'll leave you to imagine the giddy revelry that
took place at my new in-laws home with my new, enormous extended family on
Christmas Eve, and the divinely elegant lunch at my parents' home on Christmas
Day.
Wayne and I also got the benefit of a very favourable exchange rate during our
trip, so I shopped up a small storm and had an absolute ball doing it. And I
can't begin to describe the sensation of being showered with so many exquisite
and generous gifts that it takes your breath away. Thank goodness for the new
suitcase Wayne's dad William gave us for Christmas, or who knows what would have
happened to the magnificent new collection we have of linen, photo frames,
designer cutlery, place mats, table cloths, pillow cases and one unspeakably
beautiful Persian carpet. So a heartfelt thank you to everyone for their
overwhelming generosity. Wayne and I are currently working on individual thank
you notes and these will wend their way to you through the mail in the next
fortnight or so.
***
Something I absolutely loved about the holiday, and something we experience
precious little of in Australia, is the fabulous sensation of being surrounded
by familiar things. I loved stretching out on my parents couch like I'd done
several hundred times before, and staring at the ceiling. I loved waking up in
my old bedroom. I loved driving along the roads and having a special memory for
every tree, every corner. I loved seeing my old school. Recognising faces in the
supermarket. Eating my mom's cooking. Chatting to my best friend on the phone
like I'd done a zillion times since I was sixteen. Bumping into people on the
street. In Australia we are the new couple, the South Africans who speak
differently, the foreigners. In South Africa I was just Andie, home for
Christmas.
So I'm sure you can picture the reluctance with which we climbed aboard the 747
and headed for Sydney again. (Although this time Wayne and I shared four seats
between two of us and there was no bassinet in sight.) Thankfully Qantas have
recently introduced a new flight direct from Johannesburg to Sydney, which in
that direction takes only twelve hours and has made the most amazing difference
to our sense of being 'not so far away.' Family members are talking about
visiting us this year and this gives us something special to look forward to.
And so concludes my massive epistle. Kudos all round for getting this far, dear
readers ;) Feel free to regale me in similar fashion. I don't know about you,
but I had the most amazing Christmas. I got a set of gold toenails, a new string
of pearls, a sexy new pair of slip on shoes, a million unspeakably precious
wedding presents and the best thing that ever happened to me: I got a husband.
Bet you wish you were me.
Write soon, and lots of love,
Andie.