There’s no halfway when it comes to Christmas in the Kingdom. In this instance, I don’t mean Jesus’ Kingdom, although he makes a pretty big statement at this time of the year too. I mean the United Kingdom. They go all out here. More lights than Diwali adorn our high street. There’s even a ceremony held with a local celebrity to turn the lights on. Everyone counts down and cheers. There’s a concert with a stage outside the castle and everything. At any given time like a flashmob, there’s carolling in the street. Just random people all stood together singing carols and a guy with a scroll. And a hat. And a bell. There’s mulled wine. And Christmas jumpers. There is always the threat of snow. Actual snow. Supermarkets sell real Christmas trees. Everywhere you go, Christmas jingles ting merrily. There are ice-skating rinks set up in the parks. There’s even a place called Lapland (no not that kind of place….although I did wonder) where you meet real reindeer and all the elves and stuff. And then of course, there’s Santa. There’s no escaping the oke here. He’s in every department store. At schools. In churches. Emblazoned upon jerseys, decorations, banners, posters. Everywhere you look – you're greeted with his shiny smiling red face.
In South Africa, we’re not complete festive season philistines – we do the tree, the decorations, the reindeer trails. We deck the halls with boughs of holly. We leave a beer and mince pie alongside our jetmasters. We wear those ridiculous paper hats that make us all sweat bullets and pull the crackers at a table adorned with a stuffed bird of some variation with all the trimmings. We light a Christmas pudding and gorge ourselves on Quality Street chocolates. And after the lunch formalities are done – we all float hippo-like in the swimming pool because it’s usually too hot to do anything else. Or as is usually the case in KZN, it rains. Think humid afternoon downpours while everyone sits on a stoop getting positively pissed, while nibbling at leftovers that no one could believe themselves venturing toward again. It’s too hot for a Christmas jumper. Impressive ornamental lights strung along every street would be a waste because Eskom’s loadshedding schedule would put paid to their purpose very quickly. And they’d probably get stolen. Mulled wine would be like drinking tea on a day that’s 45 degrees. No one really stands on any street corners – certainly not while singing carols. Unless they’re begging. And that’s an entirely different kind of singing. Snow is not an option. Well, for obvious reasons.
The African Christmas Experience is very different to the British one. It’s sunny for starters. It’s holiday time. It’s chaos. It’s awesome. And I miss it very much. We’re on the brink of having our second Christmas as a family on this side of the pond. It’s a mind warp how different the holiday is. For starters, it’s not really a holiday. Not a real one at least. Schools close for like 10 days. And it's feck cold. And dark. And wet. Takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. But I reckon the universe is trying her best to get me to embrace our new festive reality. Especially when it comes to sicko Santa. Last week my son came home from school with a piece of paper that details his part in the school Christmas play. Of all the little poppets in an entire school….my slight of build, blonde haired little boy is...yip you guessed it... freakin Santa Clause. He’s not a reindeer, or a penguin, or an elf. He’s the father of Christmas. In all his red-suited glory. I have even had to pay good money for a Santa suit. Ordered via Amazon. Non-returnable of course. This year, I get to see if Santa's naughty or nice. I'll keep you posted.
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| Just no escaping it. |
