Dad had outdone himself.
Instead of coming back from the market with a pink, plastic Christmas tree like the rest of our neighbours in Tocopilla, he had headed up the rusty coloured mountains. On a dry, steep slope that hemmed the small, Chilean port town between the Atacama Desert and the Pacific Ocean, he found the perfect cactus.
It wasn’t a stereotypical cactus with a green, hearty body. This one, like many of the other cactuses dotting the mountain, was brown, having struggled to eke water out of the morning fog. But in the eyes of my younger brother, Darrell, and I, this was the best, most beautiful Christmas tree we’d ever seen.
Its needles were perfectly designed to hang Christmas decorations. It was tall, but not too tall. And it was easy to find a spot for the star on top. Even if Santa was unable to find us – which my brother worried about; he had written the jolly fellow multiple letters detailing our new address – the brown cactus filled our hearts with joy. Christmas in South America was shaping up to be memorable.
The community came alive during the holidays. Hip-swaying Latin American Christmas songs belted out from buses and speakers dragged out of storefronts. On the warm summer nights, the community became a blaze of Christmas lights with every spare inch of space filled with tiny, flashing bulbs. Telephone poles were draped with tinsel strands and Christmas bobbles hung from doorways. There were cheap decorations, mixed in with tacking ordainments and handmade paper Santas plastered proudly on people’s homes. The colours beat back the mirage from the barren sand landscape. It was magical.
Christmas in Canada had always been somewhat of a lonely affair. The four of us would gather around the turkey while laughter from the neighbours’ large family gatherings seeped into the house. Our relatives all lived in England. There was the phone call from grandma in the morning. She would say how much she missed us and wish us the best, then we would return to our seemingly lacklustre, quiet evening.
In Canada, families huddle out of the cold inside. The community splinters off into private celebrations. This was turned upside down in Chile. Households opened their doors, as neighbours and friends visited in an endless stream. Tables were laden with food for all to nibble at, fish fried, wine poured. Kids roamed the streets, sharing and showing off their new toy Santa delivered the night before. The beaches were packed with families barbecuing and enjoying the day on colourful picnic blankets. Christmas was celebrated by a community as a whole.
Santa did find us. He left us the best Christmas present – a box of Corn Flakes. For a year my brother had grumbled when no Corn Flakes were found on the shelves of the stores in Tocopilla. We celebrated, carefully pouring bowls of the cereal out for our friends. The Corn Flakes were all eaten that day, but it didn’t matter. Besides our small family, we had an entire neighbourhood to share them with. For the first time, we were surrounded by a bustle of people on Christmas Day.
I often think about that Christmas. During the holidays, I wonder how many families new to the country or the community are isolated in their small pods.
It’s easy to get wrapped up in one’s own little world. But holidays are important times to spread our wings, reach out to our neighours and embrace the feeling of community.
