I never knew it was possible to eat so much food.  Greasy, oily, irresistibly tasty Uyghur food.  It wasn’t long into my first experience with a traditional Uyghur wedding, however, before I realized that I shouldn’t have worn my belt.

I had been invited by my Uyghur friend Ahmejan to attend his wedding in August of 2009.  It had only been a month after the problems in Urumqi but that didn’t seem to have any effect on the marriage celebrations.  This might have been because Ahmejan was a respected citizen in our community but more than likely it was because his bride-to-be was the daughter of the highest ranking Uyghur official in the city.

“If you’re coming to my wedding” he told me, “I want you to also be there for our guys-only party the night before”.  This, I assumed, would be the Uyghur equivalent to a bachelor party.

Food at the Groom’s Home

The evening started in front of the groom’s home in a small community inhabited mostly by Uyghur.  All of the men, mostly in their late 20’s and early 30’s, arrived in semi-casual attire.  For this group of guys that meant a collared polo with slacks and polished shoes.  When I came up most of them were gathered around the community announcement board.

“Look at this guy! He looks like he hasn’t taken a shower in weeks!”

“That’s not a Uyghur name.  These two must be Han, and they look just as ugly.”

It took me a moment to realize that they were commenting on posters that had been put up all over the city.  These posters displayed the men and women wanted in connection with the previous month’s unrest.  If these guys were worried about what these posters meant for Uyghur people in Xinjiang, they didn’t show it.

While all of us were chatting outside, waiting for others to arrive, a group of 15 women were frantically cooking and preparing for an invasion of 20+ Uyghur men (and one American).  At the appropriate time we filed into the house and sat down around a table covered with bowls of fruits, nuts, candy and breads.

Immediately the room filled with booming voices and boisterous laughter.  Although I couldn’t understand most of what was being said, I smiled at the animated expressions and obvious camaraderie shared by these guys.

On the streets most of these men were calm and straight-faced, but in here, even though liquor had yet to be poured, they were displaying their passionate side.  Separated from the tensions of Xinjiang society – at least for the moment – they had let down their guard to enjoy the evening.

Once the food arrived the flow of plates never seemed to stop: fried whole fish, pollo, meat pies, pollo, noodles, and more pollo.  The women who had cooked and were now serving us were the mothers of the men present and they obviously knew their way around a crowded kitchen.

An hour later the meal ended in an unexpected way.  As if on cue, everybody rose from their seats and the tears started to flow.  All the women of the house were bawling, not the least of which was Ahmajan’s mother.  She gave a final blessing to her son, who by this point was spilling tears, reminding him of his duties as a husband and how proud she was of him.  It was a touching moment followed by a prayer and a slow exit.

The reason for all of the emotion was made clear to me by a friend later during the night.  This final exit from the house represented Ahmejan’s step out of the protection of his family.  He was now his own man who would soon have a wife to care for.

Food at the Restaurant

After such a delicious meal I was ready to hit the town and find out what was next on the bachelor-party agenda.  I jumped into the backseat of one of the cars and then cursed myself for moving too quickly.  Uyghur food sits heavy in my stomach and I had no desire to revisit the fabulous Uyghur home-cooking.

But before my stomach had even had a chance to begin the digestion process, the car pulled up to our next destination…a Uyghur restaurant.

“You’re kidding me!  This is our next stop?” I asked my friend.

“Yea” he said with a smile. “Now we can open the beer!”

Alcohol at home with the women present would have been offensive, but here in the restaurant anything was fair game.  Bottles of “Jonny Waker” (not a misspelling) were produced along with baijiu (white wine) and numerous bottles of Wusu beer, the pride of Xinjiang.

Food again covered the table although most people were eating slowly.  It became evident to me that this time together was less about food and more about the company.  The only person with permission not to drink was the groom who had to be up quite early the next morning for the wedding.

As the level alcohol in the bottles decreased, so did the level of each individual’s inhibitions.  The conversation was louder, the jokes were funnier, and slowly my presence in the room was forgotten.  While previously much of the conversation had been spoken in Mandarin for my benefit, now everybody was slipping back into their Uyghur language.  They graciously still included me in the conversation but had obviously forgotten that I couldn’t understand a word they said.  I just nodded my head and smiled.

By the end of this portion of the party I looked at the table in surprise to see that we had somehow finished off most of the food here as well, including over 200 lamb kebabs.  It’s no wonder some of these men were, how shall I say…not slim?  The amount of food we ate could have fed an army.

Some people were beginning to leave and I would soon follow, but there was still one more part of the party left.  By now I was too numb to register shock that this, too, would involve more food.

Food at the Best Man’s Home

The groom’s final night before the wedding apparently isn’t spent as his parent’s home.  The last leg of the party moved to the best man’s house where snacks were out and the TV was on.  By this point, now well past midnight, the tornado of activity had died down to a low thunder.

Only a few people participated in this part of the bachelor party, mostly those who would be present at the actual wedding the next morning.  I decided it was time to finally leave, assured that the party was over and all that was left was small talk.

I said goodbye to my friend Ahmejan and thanked him for allowing me to crash his bachelor party.   I double-checked the time for the wedding the next day and shut the door behind me.  Here the groom would sleep the last night of his single life away.

Check out the rest of this 4-part series on Uyghur Weddings:

1. The Bachelor Party
2. The Ceremony
3. The Parade
4. The Celebration (Reception)