A Kiwi Christmas

Christmas happens slightly differently in New Zealand than in South Africa. True, I'm not mourning the absence of a 'winter wonderland' like some of my expat British acquaintances, but I did notice that when I bought the groceries for our big Christmas Eve dinner with Lize and Cindy, turkeys were remarkably scarce, and obscenely expensive (ranging anything between $45 and $70 - that's around R400 to you Saffers). However, there was plenty of pork. Robust roasts, huge hams - although none of the gammons we're used to getting in SA. And there were dozens of ducks, and naturally loads of lamb. Since none of the enormous hams would fit into my fridge (which is so large we had to remove a panel from the built-in unit to fit it into our new kitchen), I finally settled for what looked like the netted gammons I am used to; only here it was called a 'boiling bacon'. I cooked it up and glazed it, and although delicious, it didn't quite taste like home.

The other thing about Christmas in Kiwiland is that everyone takes their holiday in January, when it is warmest; which means the schools break up just before Christmas, work continues right up until Christmas Eve. So Christmas shopping has to happen after hours, and there's little time for baking mince pies or browsing leisurely around the shops. That being said, there are heaps of discounts and sales on just before and after Christmas, and the Boxing Day Sale is something the locals wait for with beady-eyed anticipation. The Kiwis are sale-mad. They go into a frenzy over the possibility of a bargain. Of course, so do poor immigrants. But after vainly trying to negotiate the rabid hordes on Boxing Day in a hot and crowded shopping centre, with miserable whiny children in tow, while the sun was shining and the beach was beckoning, Willem and I decided that there are some Kiwi customs that are just not worth adopting. We'll trade the turkey for a roast duck; we'll sacrifice the gammon for a smoked haunch of ham; and I certainly am very happy to adopt the Kiwi custom of decorating the entire exterior of the house with lots of twinkly lights from early in December - although I draw the line at acquiring, as is popularly done, a copious and kitsch collection of plastic Santa, snowman and reindeer figurines that light up and dance and generally reduce otherwise respectable gardens, roofs and windows to a Christmas equivalent of a Southern trailer park populated by ceramic cactuses and porcelain garden gnomes.

But our first Christmas so far away from home was, all in all, pretty good. Cindy and Lize brought loads of loot for the midgets, admirably choosing quantity over quality, and we cooked up a feast and played post-prandial card games with a competitive passion worthy of any Kokot get-together. And on Christmas Day the back-to-back TV movies, accompanied by scrumptious and abundant leftovers and bowlfuls of popcorn and chocolate, invoked a serene slothfulness that precluded any thought at all, including memories of home and mourning the absence of loved ones. (The homesickness hit a little harder once the leftover platter had been licked clean, and the reality of facing the January holiday without friends, without babysitters, without family get-togethers, with heaps of housework and no respite in the form of parties, braais, grown-up movies, or babysitting exchanges.) But on Christmas Day, we weren't worrying about the housework. Because on Christmas Day, we had presents.

Scooters for the children, a drum for pining Willem (unfortunately nothing as authentic as those we left behind), and a Field Guide to New Zealand Birds for Penny were joyously received. But the angel on the top of the tree must have been the rubber dinghy that Father Christmas left under the tree for the family, complete with child-sized life jackets and oars. Maya had indeed had a boat on her long and comprehensive Christmas list, and had spent the previous week reflecting on how - and whether - FC would manage to deliver such a large gift. So when St Nic hit upon the cunning plan of delivering an inflatable, the desire to go immediately to try it out was irresistable. Since the offspring had forced us awake before 6am, the presents had been opened and copious cups of pick-me-up coffee drunk before eight. Thus it was that few people were around to witness the landlubbers' first attempt at seafaring.

A fact for which we are humbly grateful.

It started off with great promise. The weather was fine, the sea was calm and sparkling, the sunlight was warm and golden. It was a perfect crisp, still morning, with the pohutukawas radiant in green and crimson. Willem pumped up the boat with amazing gusto, considering he'd had a paltry five hours' sleep; the children were enthusiastically kitted out in their new life jackets; and I had actually remembered to bring the camera. With the shutter clicking away, the kids leapt in and Willem pushed the boat into the surf (remember, no big waves here on the East coast), and off they went, looking very cool - the very model of a modern happy family. The first glitch came when Willem discovered it wasn't so easy to row a boat, what with the current and the swell and the requirements of coordinating the oars and manoeuvering the heavy-loaded craft with five hours' sleep and no experience. And that it is even harder when you have two children clamouring for a turn at the oars. And especially when one of those children insists on standing up in the boat and trying to snatch the oar from you over your shoulder, hollering in your ear and unbalancing the boat most alarmingly. And then you suddenly become aware that the rocks are actually rather close by, and there are a couple of them under the fairly shallow water too, and, as luck would have it, they are all covered with razor-sharp oyster beds. Suddenly it dawned on the landlubbers why so few people have rubber boats, a thought that struck at precisely the same moment that Willem heard a scraping under the hull and a soft, bubbling pfffffffft noise.

It was very funny to watch Willem hurriedly paddling for the nearest rocks so he could lift out the kids before the little boat collapsed in the gently bubbling water, yelling to me to wade out to help carry the children and the boat back. So after a mere three minutes on the water, the family expedition struck out for home, where we consoled ourselves with mince pies, more coffee and the rest of the loot. Later Willem fixed the puncture and we decided that next time, we'd try the other beach, where there were fewer rocks. And go early in the morning. After all, there's no need for witnesses.