Christmas Away

Article by: Lonely Planet authors, December 2005

 

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

By Robert Reid

My first Christmas outside Oklahoma began being videotaped by a communist woman news reporter in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. She wore a tight, pink, traditional ao dai dress, and tried defying her 50-plus years with burgundy-coloured hair dye and Blondie-style smears of eye make-up applied as thick and heavy as spiked egg nog.

Behind her, an assistant held a buzzing light in my face, all but neutralising the merciful waft of air-conditioning in the stuffy Chinese restaurant where an English-language school were throwing us teachers a 'Christmas turkey dinner'. At 9am. Classes stay scheduled on Vietnamese Christmases.

a 'TV Christmas' some called it

The reporter asked me, 'What's Christmas like in America?' I don't think she really wanted to know – it was just a PR stunt the school engineered for the TV news – so I answered simply, 'Not so hot'. Though one in ten of Vietnam's nearly 80 million are Christians, most of the people buying aluminium Christmas trees and strapping them to their 50cc scooters in the 40-degree heat were celebrating just for fun. A 'TV Christmas', some called it. I couldn't help but enjoy seeing the trees, a sense of familiarity, as Christmas in Asia can feel a little like 'Christmas in a submarine' (to quote a Silver Jews' song).

After my classes, I ventured to an exclusive new neighbourhood in Saigon's north, where rows of clean, new five-storey apartment buildings sit shoulder-to-shoulder on dirt streets. A Catholic Filipino family, also feeling a little stranded on the big day, invited me, a stranger till that day, into their home for my second Christmas dinner that night. We ate Chinese food made by the family's cook, talked about the holiday back home, had a couple shots of Johnnie Walker with pop, then played video games with the kids. The 12-year-old son, Ramone, kicked all our asses in various blood-spilling fight games. Bourbon and digitised blood. Just like Oklahoma.

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Nainital, India

By Joe Bindloss

On the face of things, it could have been any Christmas. There were pictures of snowmen in shop windows. A jolly Father Christmas was walking down the street waving to children. The first flakes of snow were drifting down from a steely grey sky and melting into the icy waters of the lake. Except that this was India - Nainital in the foothills of the Himalaya to be precise - and the soundtrack was a cacophony of crackly Bollywood showtunes.

As a travel writer, spending special occasions alone comes with the territory. Nevertheless, the Christmas decorations on the Mall seemed particularly poignant after two months alone in the hills. What I needed was Christmas dinner, preferably accompanied by a glass of single malt and a flaming Christmas pud.

I found a knock-kneed pony for hire by the lakeshore and we tottered off through the cobbled streets

Anywhere else in India, I would have resigned myself to a bottle of Kingfisher and a festive butter chicken but, as Nainital was founded by homesick Brits, I felt sure that one of the fading Raj-era hotels would be able to rustle up the traditional Christmas roast. But first I needed transport, and that meant hiring a horse.

After some searching, I found a knock-kneed pony for hire by the lakeshore and we tottered off through the cobbled streets in search of supper. It soon became apparent that Christmas dinner was not on the menu. After visiting more than a dozen hotels, in snow that was rapidly turning to sleet, I gave up and headed for the poshest place in town, the Manu Maharani.

In the end, Christmas dinner consisted of a whole tandoori chicken with a glass of hot toddy and a fruit-stuffed Peshwari naan in place of pudding. I was the only diner, in a room as large as a wedding hall, but I was gratified when the maitre de came over and said with an unfaltering smile, 'Happy Christmas, sir!'

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Sucre, Bolivia

By David Atkinson

It was just before midnight, December 24 and Diana was bursting with excitement. 'Maybe Papa Noel has forgotten you,' teased her teenager brother Rodrigo, tucking into the traditional picana, a hearty soup of meat, potatoes and corn. Diana shot him an evil stare. For a six-year-old, she had already perfected that fiery drop-dead look. 'Shut up, Rodrigo'.

The mix of Catholic and indigenous Quechua traditions permeate every aspect of day-to-day life in Bolivia. Christmas is no different. Bolivians take the midnight mass and the gift-giving of Europe, mix it with traditional Andean cuisine and add a dash of fun-loving Latin-American spirit by continuing the fiesta into the early hours.

'Maybe Papa Noel has forgotten you'

Two years ago I celebrated the festive season in Sucre, the colonial capital of Bolivia, with a family homestay. The Salles family regularly hosted foreigners attending a local language school and, in a country where family is paramount, were keen to extend their welcome to a backpacking Brit with a traditional noche buneo: a midnight supper, presents round the tree and lashings of booze.

By five past midnight Diana was on the verge of blubbing. 'I'm off to the bathroom,' said Rodrigo, giving me a cheeky wink and making for the secret present stash in the back yard. The doorbell rang, revealing a pile of gifts on the front step. 'Papa Noel!' squealed Diana and bolted for the door. Rodrigo slipped back into the room, where Diana was frenziedly tearing at the wrapping paper.

'Did I miss him?' he grinned.

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Kathmandu, Nepal

By Karla Zimmerman

Varanasi is the holiest of Hindu cities, so I wasn't expecting the Christian holiday shout-out.

'Merry Christmas, madam.'

The rickshaw drivers greeting comforted me as we motored to the airport beside the gliding Ganges, where men bathed and women unfurled jewel-toned saris to dry on the riverbank.

This was the first and only December 25th I'd spent away from my family. My parents were horrified: 'You'll be travelling between where? On Christmas Day? Won't you be lonely?'

Varanasi is the holiest of Hindu cities, so I wasn't expecting the Christian holiday shout-out

After landing in Kathmandu, I returned to the Tibetan guesthouse where I'd stayed before my trip to India. The owner, Diki, took my hand in her smooth, warm one. 'Merry Christmas. You'll join us for dinner?' Yes, but first I had to find a kiosk to phone home.

A few metres down the road I ran into Santos, a silk shop owner I'd met earlier. He invited me in for chai and we chatted about business and life back home. He was from Varanasi, and sent all his earnings there to pay for his siblings' education, sisters' weddings and parents' house. 'I am part of them,' he explained with a shrug, 'and I can't be healthy and happy and fulfilled unless they are.'

Farther down the street I ran into another familiar vendor. Mahesh admired my moth-eaten grey wool sweater (for his father) and my notebook and pens (for his school-age sons). I admired his brocade wall hanging. We swapped – simple gifts to give, but of great worth to receive.

Funny, I thought later as I tucked into my meal of momos and beer, how I learned more about family, connectedness, giving and receiving on this Santa-less Christmas, in Asia, alone.

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Gili Islands, Indonesia

By Alex Landragin

I spent a Christmas several years ago on the middle of the three Gili islands off the coast of Lombok, a predominantly Muslim island within sight of Bali. One is known for its party atmosphere, the other for its isolation; mine was supposed to be something in between.

the cook would be sprawled listlessly over a table

That year, Christmas coincided with the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, when nothing but water can pass the lips of a Muslim between dawn and dusk. Whenever we ate at the islands only restaurant, the cook would be sprawled listlessly over a table, half asleep. Barely would he stand to take our order; he'd shuffle off in his flip-flops to the kitchen, his face the very picture of reluctance. The quality of the food varied wildly from meal to meal.

On Christmas day we ate nasi goreng for lunch and dinner - it was all that was available - doing our best to ignore our hosts' expression of bored torment. That night, we tossed and turned under our mosquito net listening to the sounds of merriment from the nearby village as the locals feasted throughout the night, never more aware of our own strangeness.

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Sahara, Algeria

By Vesna Maric

I was in the Algerian Sahara, spending New Year at a Touareg music festival. I'd driven around the desert, particles of dust rested in my pores, and I lay in bed every night trying to imagine myself on a map, a microscopic dot in a vast sea of white coffee-coloured space. I tried to imagine where my family and friends were in relation to me, and they were many dots, scattered all over the world. New Years Eve was to be celebrated with the group I'd travelled with: Italians, Spaniards, French, and Belgians, and a group of English and Scottish musicians.

he was squeezing the Auld Lang Syne out of his swelling bagpipes

It was 11:58pm. Greg, the Scottish musician was to enter with a special performance. The veiled Touareg men watched us do the thirty seconds countdown for the fifth time. Finally, the double doors burst open, crashing against the walls and Greg walked in, marching, legs embraced up to the knees by woollen stockings, the plaits of the chequered kilt dancing across his knees. He was squeezing the Auld Lang Syne out of his swelling bagpipes. The desert winds whistled along. Greg finished playing, raised a glass of Scotch and wished everybody a happy New Year. Then, Spanish, Italian, Flemish, French, and my own Bosnian wishes went up into the desert night, followed by Arabic and Berber congratulations. We danced until the sun lit up the year's first morning.

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