Walking around the old city of Saida in the evening, all is quiet. The stalls are stored away and the shop fronts shuttered. The residents are in their homes up stairways, behind closed doors. A few workers sweep away the last debris of a busy day and wash down the pebbled streets.
Except that this evening there happens to be a wedding. We hear the music and laughter before we see the procession. Musicians play lutes and some type of stringed instruments plus, of all things, bag pipes complete with tartan, but the tune bore little resemblance to 'Scotland the Brave'.
Then came the dancers, hands held high above their heads, almost all men, friends of the groom, but also his mother, out front. She was the happiest of all, cavorting around like one possessed, as she had gained a daughter. The bride's mother was solemn, she had lost hers.
Then came the bride and groom. She looked happy and radiant, smiling broadly and dressed in white and gold cloth, finely embroidered. Bride maids followed, head and faces half covered in silver bejewelled masks.
And there in the throng was a white horse. The traditonal means to carry them away to their new life. Except in this case, they preferred the waiting silver Mercedes Sports Car. A girl from the Souk has her standards to maintain.
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