The more one thinks about it, the more it astonishes how a simple absence could make such a significant difference. Without any hooch, all of the tiny irritants that come along with the ceremony are exacerbated and all one can do is wonder if it will ever end. I mean, sans sweet nectar, who could possibly put up with up to 10 (seriously) hours of rhythmic chanting set to atonal violin jabs and slightly irregular drumbeats? There are many things I love about this country, but weddings simply aren't among them.
Keeping this in mind, it is not surprising that I had been dreading this year's wedding season (mid-Spring) more than Arab heads of state dread fair elections . With invites typically flying in from all directions (everyone is, after all, curious to see if the white dude can dance) this can be a difficult time to retain both one's sanity and public image intact.
Enter the mudir. When his younger brother finally decided to stop spending money on hookers and weed for a few months in order to save money and get married, I knew I was in for some awful times. Being a close friend of the family, there would be no excuse to miss such an event. No excuse, save for the complete unpredictability of the mudir.
As it turns out, he hates weddings too. In a rare moment of cunning, he walked with me to the ceremony and brazenly explained that I, as a foreigner, was much too feint of spirit to withstand a night full of people yelling at me to dance and eat more chicken, beef and prunes. Stunned, when his confused siblings looked to me for clarification, the only response I could muster was "yea, what he said." And so I was saved. They fed us individually and then granted us our freedom.
All in all, we spent a total of 39 minutes at the locale. I have not yet heard back from the people at Guinness but am reasonably sure that this will soundly crush the previous record for "shortest stay at a Moroccan wedding that included a full meal." God Bless the mudir.
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