A Bolivian Christmas

It was tough, I’ll admit it. My first Christmas away from my family. But sharing this holiday with the people with whom I live and work everyday is certainly part of the Christmas spirit, and Christ was a present as ever this day.

As you might expect, they do things differently here. Around Tiraque there aren’t any icicle lights or garland lining the rooftops. There is the occasional paper decoration of snowman or Santa Claus (or Papá Noel, as the locals say) in the window, and I have to say, I find the snowman a bit wierd, as it is nothing more than an invasion of North American culture. It has no relevance to the people here. We’re in the southern hemisphere. It is summertime. Santa Claus’ still wearing his big red coat, that I can deal with, because, after all, Santa is from the North Pole, and even when he is delivering toys in the tropics, the reindeer still fly high up in the sky at night, where I imagine it can get pretty cold.

In any case, the main decorations in Tiraque consist of a wire-frame cone wrapped in garland, with some blinking lights and the incessant high-pitched playing of “Santa Claus is coming to town.” Other than that, there is the occasional small Christmas tree in some of the houses, but that is about it.

Except for the Church. That is a different story. They take Nativity Scene to a whole new level. Those of you who have been down to the orphanage in Tijuana have an idea, but this was way bigger. We had to move the altar from its usual position and rearrange all the pews to make room. We spent all day last Thursday out in the campo gathering pine needles, both dry and live, cactus, bunchgrasses, ferns, pebbles, flowers, you name it. We took a few statues from the displays around the churches, dressed them up as campesino Maria and Jose, complete with woolen poncho and long black cholita braids. The kids even shredded sheets and sheets of Styrofoam to make it look like snow, which, again, I found weird. Even my friend Raúl from La Paz said that he had never seen a manger scene quite like this. It was amazing.

Then came the Christmas Eve mass, which was to begin at 9:00. Brad and I arrived 45 minutes late because the dinner we were supposed to have with the neighbors at 7:00 p.m. didn’t start until 9:30. I knew we were in trouble when Doña Elsa asked to borrow our oven at 8:00. That’s Bolivia for you.

But that is okay, as it turns out, we weren’t late for the mass. Again, Bolivia. I was glad, too, because the kids I work with in the Children’s group were to dance during the mass. It was a traditional dance that mimicked the Nativity story, I think. I could’t see well from where I was. There was another dance later on, and I don’t know what the point of it was either, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

Then, after mass, at about 11:00 pm, the festivities began. We went over to the house of the nuns with the Jesuits for a traditional Bolivian Christmas dinner, a dish called pollo picado, or chicken pieces. The chicken is slow-cooked in seasonings for a so long that it naturally falls into peices. Very tasty. It was served with choclo, a type of corn with huge kernals, and of course, potatoes.

Christmas morning I woke up expecting to go to mass at 9:00, then serve hot chocolate to the kids. As is my usual state of being, I didn’t know what was going on, or when things changed, but at 9:30 (I know by now better than to expect mass to start at 9), one of the Jesuit students told me that there would be no mass. What? No mass on Christmas? I don’t get it. Because no one showed up, he said. ¿What? No one showed up for mass on Christmas morning? I am accustomed to arriving about an hour early in order to get a seat on Christmas day. I was floored. I couldn’t grasp the fact that no one was there. Then I walked outside to the plaza and saw the line of kids at the mayor’s office. Ah. Free toys. That was why. Hmmm.

With no mass to get in the way, the nuns decided to go ahead and start giving out their goodies. A packet of yogurt and a piece of bread. The line was around the block there, too, and Sister Encarna told me they started knocking on their door at 6:30 that morning. There are about 120 rural communities surrounding Tiraque, and the catequists of the parish had set out a 4:30 in the morning to lead the children from the communities to Tiraque. They might have walked up to 3 or 4 hours to arrive there. Then they had to wait in line for a couple more hours. I was in charge of handing out the bread. I had my eye on the time, and I averaged giving out 20 pieces of bread a minute, for 3 and a half hours. Our little town of 2,000 people had more than 2,500 children waiting for yogurt and bread. They walked hours, then waited for hours, for yogurt and bread that valued about 12 cents. And still, they smiled.

I was humbled and choked up by tears at the thought of it for most of the morning.