| Muller | Hitchhiking Vietnam
Page 142 |
The conversation turned lively around the fire, and after much coaxing they translated their native Mien dialect into broken Vietnamese. The problem, they told me, was love and family finances. Apparently, a young Zao man couldn't just fall in love, sweep the lucky lady off her feet, and live happily ever after. He had to purchase her, in the form of a brideprice, from her former owner, her father. The payment was substantial, since the father had taken great pains to raise his daughter well only to lose her labor and childbearing capacities to another clan. This particular family had been blessed with four sons and three daughters, an almost perfect balance, since sons were more welcome but daughters brought in the money to pay for wives. Therein lay the present difficulties. Two of the family sons had recently married at great expense while none of the daughters had yet brought in a brideprice to defray their costs. In addition, both grandparents had died within a year of each other, requiring elaborate funeral ceremonies and the sacrifice of much-needed family livestock. The result was an imbalance in the family's human portfolio - too frequent purchases of wives while the unmarried daughters sat around and depreciated. It all sounded like a rather cold-blooded game of human chess, but was really just a form of enforced savings. The brideprice calculations were based on the cost of the groom's mother, with upward adjustments made if the young lady came with one or more children.
The young lady in question sat closest to the fire, laughing with the rest. Was she sure now? I asked. Was this guy really IT?
She lowered her head demurely while her sisters poked fun at her in dialect. Apparently he was already sharing her bedroom, a practice they didn't entirely approve of. It had nothing to do with Zao propriety or her father's wrath. As a matter of fact, her bedroom had been built close to the kitchen door to allow convenient access to suitors. The only demands placed upon a young woman choosing her lover was that he be from another clan and that his birth date, matched to her own, should signify a good omen.
But, her sisters admonished, if she gave him a place in her bed every night then he had no reason to hurry the wedding. This would be a discourtesy to both her father and her unmarried brothers.
"Absolutely," I agreed. That made perfect sense.
"Then it must be the same," they asked, "in America?"
"Well," I mumbled, fumbling a bit. The bride's parents might not understand if the groom showed up with a set of scales and a shopping list of silver jewelry and precious stones. And the guests would be somewhat taken aback if they received a packet of salt in lieu of a wedding invitation, and a hunk of raw pork when it came time to go home. And even the most liberated father probably wouldn't build his daughter's bedroom with her lover's best interests in mind.
"Why not?" they asked.
"I'm not sure," I replied and decided not to ask my Dad.
I had brought along several photos of my brother's wedding, in the hopes that they would provide some common ground. I dug them out of my pack and the corn was momentarily forgotten. Why on earth, they exclaimed, was the bride wearing white? It was the color of mourning. Was my brother such a terrible mate?
"No," I replied, "he -"
And why was there not a stitch of embroidery on her plain white dress? Was her family too poor to give her time off from the fields to make a proper wedding garment?
"Not really," I said, "but -"
And she looked positively old to be getting married. Had her first husband died? How many children did she bring with her to this union?
"None. But you see -"
"And what," they said, turning their searchlights on me, "about you?"
I excused myself and scurried back to the men's fire.
