Valentine stood behind Alexa, touching up her sister's blonde ringlets with the curling iron. Pierre the Photographer and his trusty young assistant crowded into the bedroom doorway, filming and snapping pictures.

For the next seven hours on that Saturday the Jacob family would make no move not documented by our own personal paparazzi. I hired these fellows on recommendation from a Burkinabé friend.

Studio Magix Photo Plus, it’s called. “Plus what?” you may be asking. Well, let me tell you - Pierre gave me a sample film to watch and it was “plus” every single special effect in his editing software. The image of the newlyweds exchanging vows went heart-shaped, folded over into a box and then turned into a butterfly and fluttered off into an aquarium full of virtual fish. And that was just the first 30 seconds.

Our whole family watched, completely enthralled. It was fascinatingly bad. JP remarked that it should be aired at Cannes and then said, quite seriously, that we HAD to buy a copy of it to show to a film-making pal of ours in Switzerland.

Strange coincidence: the film featured a marriage that JP and I were invited to last February! It was the wedding of a young French researcher where JP works and a Burkinabé student. As we were pretty busy and I didn’t even know Elodie to say “Bonjour” to in the street, we declined. But if we had made a bit of effort, we too could have been in the amazing wedding video!

There was no question about it. We NEEDED a cool Burkina-style video of the twins’ big day!

Digital, 35mm and video. The guys juggled cameras and followed us gamely into the garden for some portraits. Then it was time to get the twins to the church.

Have I mentioned yet that it was hot? It was hot. I think my confident citing of predictions for cooler weather for the weekend jinxed the whole thing. It was especially hot if you happened to be wearing a floor-length, long sleeved, high-necked robe, as in the case of the twins and their little friends.

Our church members include people of very different economic means. There are very wealthy families alongside people that don’t even own a bicycle. That means that some of the girls can fly to Paris and buy magnificent dresses for their First Communion. Others are not so lucky. So, the tradition at our church is that all the children wear white robes lent out by the church. If you have a fancy dress, you have to save it for your party afterwards. I think it’s a great rule, even though the robes are hot in the Burkina spring temperatures.

Everything has been going well at the paper project. The college students have done lots to help and don’t seem that offended that I can’t really remember their names. As there is no real news on that front, I think I’ll finally write and tell you the end of the story about the wedding that I really didn’t want to go to. Part I is here.
And now: A Wedding in Bogodogo, Part II.
We drove south, following the long line of cars and scooters belonging to the wedding party and guests. That’s the tradition: you drive very slowly, horn blaring all the way to the reception site. The parade turned west, then north. And then we turned east and drove a bit more. We’re having some fun now! The cars slowed…we had arrived at the reception, finally! But the neighbourhood looked quite familiar. We had been driving for half and hour and ended up at a restaurant/bar about ONE BLOCK away from where the wedding had been held! It had the look of many local nightspots in Ouaga and seemed rather unwelcoming. A wedding planner had NOT selected this venue, that’s for sure. It was surrounded by a high cement wall that had “Defense d’uriner. (Don’t pee here) written on it in huge red letters. And they don’t write that because the dogs here can read.
I knew what it would be like inside. A bunch of sharp-edged metal chairs sitting outside in the gravel. Sticky plastic table coverings. Dim light bulbs dangling. Questionable kitchen hygiene. Latrines scary enough to send you scurrying back out the gate to pee in front of the Forbidden Wall and risk dire punishment.
I just couldn’t face it.

But JP REALLY wanted to go in. Just for a minute. Then we can leave. He promised. And I hadn’t had anything to drink for a few hours now, so I figured it would be ok. By the time I needed a proper bathroom, we’d be back home.
We can just slip out, I told myself. We can just drop our present onto the gift table, look around a bit and head on home. Right. The minute we walked in the gate, we were taken to the “Protocol”. He’s the man that makes your Burkinabé wedding reception happen. He decides where people sit, makes the schedule, recites the speeches. The Protocol always wears a very sharp suit and always takes himself very seriously. His job is to make sure it all goes well and looks good.

I looked around. All the tables in the open, gravelled area were gone. There was just row after row of grey metal chairs, all facing a raised area that had two long tables and 20 or so chairs. It was all decorated wth tableclothes and flowers and was obviously intended for the bride, groom, and guests of honor.
The other guests were taking their places like an audience getting ready to enjoy a good show. It looked like it was set up for a medieval feast. But the Protocol led us right past these rows of chairs. I looked longingly at two empty ones near the back, close to the gate. But no, we were being brought up to the front. Feelings of dread started to build. It's not possible, I thought to myself. I don't even know these people.
But it was true- we were being taken up to the head table. Jp and I were going to be part of the show that everyone was getting ready to enjoy.
I was shown to my place – Not only were we at the head table, I was given a seat one chair away from the bride and groom!!!! So much for slipping out discretely. JP and I were the only white people at the party, so we were already kind of not blending in. And now we were center stage, literally. This was going to be a long night.

I thought we could slip out unnoticed. That was my plan. We’d stay for the ceremony and then quietly get into our car and drive off. My plan went the usual way of all plans in Burkina: straight to hell. WAWA, as we say around here. West Africa Wins Again.
The invitation arrived weeks ago, tri-fold cardboard covered with gold script and drawings of rings, doves , bells, flowers, ribbons, and monogrammed flying saucers (as near as I could tell). There were also creepy disembodied hands and a very un-African looking couple in wedding finery occupying the central spot.
The marriage of Djakaridja and Banvin would take place at the City Hall at Bogodogo on December 8 at 4pm. This grand fête was to be presented by the Gnamou, Yao, Ganou, Tome, Lougue, Siripe, Sougue, Gnisse, Mien and Bitie, Damoue, Ivo, Ybia and Boudo families. Each was carefully listed, along with their respective villages of origin and residence. It made for about 20 lines of text. Reading a wedding invitation here requires serious time and commitment.
Frankly, I had other plans for Saturday. I didn’t even know these people. We got invited because JP knows Banvin through his work among the Winyé. But in the interest of marital harmony, I agreed to buy the gift, get dressed up and go to the wedding. I carefully avoided committing to the “lunch” that was being offered afterwards.
Getting ready to go was an epic saga. I had spent my day from 8am to 3pm at a jumble sale, melting in the heat, trying to unload outgrown clothes and toys so as to make room for incoming Xmas gifts. The second I got back home, I was set upon by various people needing money, medical help, or just stopping by to say “Bonjour”. The phone also rang for me constantly. All in all, it was pretty hard to get presentable in the short time allotted. At one point, I thought I was good to go, but JP sent me back, pronouncing my hair to be completely out of control: “en bataille” as they say in French. I finally got it subdued to his satisfaction and we jumped into the car, rushing to make it in time for the ceremony. A few minutes before four o’clock, we pulled up in front of the City Hall of …..Baskuy. Bogodogo is the other one, on the other side of town. Right. We turned around and headed east. We got there about 15 minutes late- far too late to get even a place to stand inside the tiny, crowded room where civil marriages are done. It’s a sad little room, hidden at the back of the building. Meant to hold about 50 persons seated, it invariably is stuffed with over 100, and the overflow crowds around outside the doors to peer inside. Marriages are, by definition, a big affair in Burkina Faso. Not to invite your entire village of origin is unthinkable. Of course, not everyone has the means to travel to Ouaga for a wedding, but it still makes for crowds far in excess of a few dozen people.
Anyway, we were late, too late to even get a good spot outside the door, so we sat in the shade out in the dirt parking lot, attending the wedding at some abstract level.

After the wedding were the photos. Many, many, many photos. A small garden area on the grounds provided the backdrop for every conceivable permutation of wedding picture. I even ended up in one. Next to me is my friend Delphine. She is a small, elegant person with a severe hat fetish. I have known her for about 15 years and over this period her headwear has steadily increased in size. If a strong wind caught one of them, it would snap her neck like a twig. Luckily, it was a calm day and the the picture session went well.
But the fun was only beginning. There was no escaping the “lunch”. JP had his heart set on joining the festivities, which were to be held at a nearby outdoor restaurant. But as we had no idea exactly where it was, we were obliged to be a part of the wedding cortege, a line of cars driving slowly along, lights flashing and horns blaring. We drove and drove and drove, blocking traffic for miles. We putted around for about 20 minutes, finally ending up at the restaurant – which turned out to be about two blocks away from where the marriage had been held.

The reception meal was astonishing and merits its own blog entry, which I hope to find time to write soon. Right now, I’m busy preparing for tonight’s Christmas program in church. Valentine and I are singing a duet and the other three kids are part of a dramatic re-enactment of the Rudolph saga. The twins are reindeer and Sev gets to be Santa. ( He does not, just so you know, have shifty eyes. I made that up.)