It's not Christmas, It's Navidad

As a Jew, my Christmas memories have included eating at the only restaurants open for that night, skiing on an empty ski mountain and one long flight to Turkey last year. It is not an important holiday for me, but when two people invited me to their house to celebrate, I had a huge debate who I should say no to.  I debated between celebrating with Charlie, a good friend I have met from the beginning of my time in Guatemala, or Sarbelio, a construction worker that is part of the organization I work for.

In the end, I decided I would split the night. The last bus to Chimaltenango, where Sarbelio lives, leaves at 7 at night, so I figured I could spend the beginning with Charlie and his family and then spend the rest of the night with Sarbelio. Plans did not work out as I had hoped. Charlie was running around preparing for the night that I only had a chance to see him right before I got on the bus for Chimaltenango. I gave him a big Merry Christmas Hug and then was on my way.

Christmas dinner at Sarbelio's was the calm family-sharing time I had always pictured Christmas to be. Besides the tomales and punch that are typical here in Guatemala, the Christmas dinner was pretty standard. We sat around the table, talked and laughed.

Later, his son, daughter and I went to the center of town. In the US, the streets are empty on Christmas, but in Guatemala, the center is bustling. Surrounding a ferris wheel, vendors sell fireworks, apples and grapes, and people play at game stands, just as if it were a town fair. We went on the ferris wheel that went quicker than any ferris wheel I had been on before. Your stomach dropped as you turned over the top curve, and you just had to avoid thinking that Guatemala does not have any safety guidelines in such cases.

We went back to the house for midnight, and people were sitting on stools in front of their front doors, with a fire lit by pine cones keeping them warm. I joined Sarbelio and the rest of his family outside, and we nibbled on grapes and apples and drank glasses of champagne.

For months of working with Sarbelio, I knew very little of him and his family. The house he lives in is very big compared to what many Guatemalans have. Yet, he told me it took him 20 years to build it up to what it is today. He lived in a sugar cane house before that he rented for 18 Quetzales a month. He comes from an indigenous town, but they fled during the war, and his mother was killed by the army. I later found out they have recently found her body after many years of not knowing where it was.

Right before midnight, a storm of home-owned fireworks exploded throughout the small alleyways where only small cars could pass. Each family had a bundle of their own fireworks, and the streets lit up throughout the city. Some were simple sticks that lit up and others were elaborate lights that shot up in the sky. It was incredible, and I felt more like I was celebrating Fourth of July and not Christmas. When it turned 12:00 on the 25th we all hugged and wished each other a Merry Christmas. But midnight did not mark the end of the night by any means. They continued drinking, the fireworks still boomed and sizzled and they stayed talking until four in the morning. I, on the other hand, went to bed at 1:30.

 Although most had run through their fireworks by 1am, some kids still lit the alleyways in celebration.

It may be my only Christmas I have ever celebrated, but if I am to celebrate again, I would hope it's al estilo chapin, in the Guatemalan style.