Hitches

Learning of my impending betrothal, the standard response among friends, colleagues and students has invariably been the same; a long and distinctly mocking bray, followed by fond recollections of the numerous occasions that I have pronounced myself a confirmed bachelor, never wanting to find myself trapped in such an anachronistic institution. I brought it on my self, of course, since I've frequently stood upon my soap-box and loudly disparaged marriage as out-dated and irrelevant; how could anyone say with conviction that they will stay in love with somebody forever? Ridiculous. I don't even know which country I'll be in from one year to the next. In a somewhat paradoxical fashion, I've proved my own point by showing that I apparently can't even stay loyal to my own long-held beliefs.

In many ways, living in Indonesia is like living in Britain several decades ago. Hanky-panky before marriage is absolutely not permitted but frequently practised; living in sin is, well, a sin; and having a baby outside of wedlock is to embarrass the whole family; the result here being, that the offending mother is thrown out of the house and usually has to support herself and her child by taking to the streets; thereby providing a source of extra-marital sex for the self-righteous husbands and fathers of these outraged families and contributing to the ever-increasing and frequently denied spread of HIV throughout the country. To be in a relationship for over a year without getting wed here is unusual; two years is suspicious and liable to stir-up the neighbours' moral indignation; after three years the whispers have turned to pointed fingers and damning accusations; bringing shame, not just on the sinners but on the entire family.

Well, goddamn it you selfish fool, just marry the poor girl then, you may be tempted to cry. She's beautiful, caring, sweet and far too good for the likes of you, you might add. And you'd probably be right, although a little forward in saying so. But I thought I'd share with you some of the things I've had to grapple with while making the decision to ask Novi to marry me.

Mixed-religion marriages are not permitted in Indonesia which means one of us converting to the other's religion. Indonesia, in it's magnanimity, recognises five religions: Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Catholicism and Protestantism. Not having a religion is not an option, which ruled out my particular faith. Putting aside all my hatred of religion, if I was to draw up a list of them in order of preference, Islam would feature somewhere below the Church of Bestiality & Abstinence, so I briefly toyed with the idea of choosing a religion with a little more tolerance for alcohol and persuading Novi to convert to that. Unfortunately, even if I elucidated to Novi my most persuasive theological argument for converting to, say, Buddhism, and she consented, her family would completely disown her.

So convert to Islam then, you can pretend, you don't have to believe it, I hear you say; but there's a small obstacle between me and Mecca which I will tell you about if you stop interrupting me; it's called a foreskin and I'm rather attached to mine. If I want to convert, it has to come off. It's often said that going open-collared is more hygienic than sporting a polo-neck and I have one thing to say to these people: soap, you smeggy bastards. I have survived the best part of forty years without any foreskin related diseases and I'll be buggered if I'm gonna have some preachy beardy threatening my best mate with removing his natural draught-excluder thank you very much.

They can ask to check you know? The Imam, when he asks you if you've been chopped, can ask to examine it, to ensure that you aren't telling pork scratchings. This can't be right, can it? What kind of sick cult wants to inspect your todger and then mutilate it if it's found to be perfectly intact? Surely if there is a God, then tampering with his handiwork is tantamount to telling the holy one that he got it wrong.

The ex-pat community delights in telling tales of uncircumcised bules who have tricked prying Imams with cunningly placed pieces of clear surgical tape, to take up the slack so to speak; or blooded plasters wrapped around the old chap to give the effect of a recently performed operation. None of this theatricality is for me. I shall simply stride in with a large banana in my trousers, arranged to appear as if I am very eager to be examined. In fact I will be ready with fingers on my fly, enthusiastically asking the Imam if he's ready for me. If this doesn't put the bloke off then I'm in real trouble.

And then there's the wedding itself. I've explained before what an Islamic wedding is like; it has a silly lack of alcohol and involves the married couple sitting all day on a Liberace-styled sofa, in traditional costume, not smiling for the cameras and gritting your teeth against the speaker-blowing karaoke. This too will have to be addressed. I can't have you lot all coming over here with nothing to drink, can I? ... you are coming aren't you? You wouldn't make me go through this all alone.... would you?