I hadn't actually planned to take up the invitation made by Entong a week earlier in the west coast town of Labuhan. Having had a hard month's travel through Sumatra, I had begun to get a little weary and intended to cross Java quickly to get to Bali and unwind there. However, only at the bus station leaving Pangandaren did I for some reason change my mind and board a bus back west and north to Tasikmalaya.

The directions he'd given me proved reliable enough: at Tasikmalaya I found a bemo (small minibus) to squeeze myself onto and take me to Ciawi. There I befriended a soup stall owner in the bus station market and over a bowl of lunch he found me a motorbike taxi to take me the 5 km up the steep mountain road to my destination: Bugel Desa, a small village surrounded by lush green rice terraces.

Like many other villages, Bugel Desa depends on rice for its income, and also depends on the irrigation of water between the terraces of paddies and the pools by each home being kept in good order and flowing freely. The pool outside Tongkey's home received it's water not only from this communal flow, but also from the outwash of a little bunker wherein all washing, laundry, ablutions and even latrine took place ! Yet the fish that lived in the pool seemed large and healthy, and one was duly fished out and fried up for my welcoming supper !

Without further ado, I was taken over to the house of Tongkey's sister, where the marriage of her daughter was to take place, to see how preparations were going and to meet yet more family members and receive yet more inquiries and hospitality. After making our way back along the slippery paths between the paddies, I turned in for an early night following my day's journeying. In my little room I drifted off to the gentle sounds of a gamelan practice somewhere far off, and the steady fall of cooling rain on the banana palms outside my window.

By 6am next morning the whole household was up and in full swing. After a light breakfast I was taken to meet the Village Captain, sign his register and then pose with him for a less formal photo-session of us shaking hands flanked by a group of the village men. This done, for the rest of the hot day I was chaperoned through the muddy lanes and then out among the lush green rice terraces, the whispers of the vibrant fields, the constant trickle of water from bamboo irrigation pipes and the musical clatter of bamboo wind-chimes. Everywhere people were at work digging, planting, carrying, threshing: every season of activity. We also encountered many children, crisply dressed, ambling home from school across the paddies; their excitement, smiles and shouts of greeting playfully exchanged.

I felt privileged to be here and yet also a sense of responsibility as obviously no westerner had previously been welcomed in Bugel Desa. I felt like an ambassador, sensitive of my presence, words and actions, and the representation of my culture that would form from their experience of me. So many times I was invited into a home to meet a family and share tea and snacks: quite overwhelming and all conspiring to make me feel a very honoured guest indeed

At l ast the 'Big Day' dawned, and by 8am, having cold-showered in the morning's rain, I was at the wedding house where bride and groom (Ariono and Endang) were already sombrely receiving guests and adulations. The scene was wonderful and easily belied the humble surroundings. The walls were richly hung in lush pink folded satin; huge vases of flowers and decorations hung from the ceiling and in every corner. And at the centre of it all were this young couple, each dressed magnificently in rich gold robes, sashes, slippers and matching head-dresses. Yet as was befitting it seemed, they were to remain quite emotionless and stoic as they acceded to the repeated photo calls and the showering of gifts and compliments from their guests. It seemed like all but they were enjoying this occasion: an excuse for the whole village to gather, eat, drink, talk, smoke and take endless photos !

The actual ceremony was quite brief and rather 'business-like'. After what seemed like unending form signing and hand-shaking, a small dowry of 10 grams of gold was at last exchanged, with the Village Captain proclaiming them to be now married.

Out in the dripping quagmire of the garden, any false aspirations I might have had as celebrity photographer were soon washed away as I too was pushed and pulled all ways to be photographed and fussed over, almost as much as the 'Happy Couple'. Among ceaseless helpings of food brought to me from the senior ladies in the kitchen, I was also popular with the men who wanted to shake hands and just generally 'hang out' with me. I was even propositioned by an attractive divorcee teacher to have her travel on with me to Bali !

Nevertheless, it was wonderful to be invited to such an occasion and see firsthand the customs and traditions that interweave the Sundanese way of life. Spread over an archipelago of some 13, 000 islands, Indonesia is home to over 300 known ethnic groups, each with their own languages, dialects and customs. The people of Sunda inhabit a mostly mountainous region of west-central Java. As well as rice the area around Tasikmalaya especially is renown for its rattan craft tradition.

By mid afternoon, many of the guests had drifted away, so I too wandered home for a rest. Sitting by the fish pool I looked out over the green terraces and palms as the breeze blew the sound of the muezzin Islamic call to prayer to my ears, filling the landscape with its eerie siren. I reflected on the day and made a mental commitment to create a commemorative photo album of the wedding to send to the family as soon as I reached Yogyakarta.

Back at the wedding house in the evening, the remaining guests were beginning to leave but not before customary suggestive teasing and the inspection of the richly adorned, peach satin-draped, nuptual bedroom where the newly-wed couple would be permitted to spend probably their only night alone together in the bride's family home. I felt a little sorry for them, as the whole day seemed to have been railroaded for them, and Endang's solemn face reflected his disappointment that his parents had not managed to arrive from another town for his ceremony

From my conversations with Tongkey about his income-work problems, he came up with the idea that Mia could earn a living making cakes and baking, if only she had an electric mixer. So in Ciawi we went to a local emporium and found one he'd had his eye on, at a price of 80,000 rupiah (then about US$ 35). Tongkey thought he could raise 20,000 rps if I could help him with the balance, and it made me very happy to repay his hospitality and generosity by agreeing to help him with this small gift.