Christmas Eve
I have only been away from the UK once at Christmas time. In 2004, Ben and I went to Thailand for the festive season. The son of travel agents, most of his childhood Christmases had been hot and sunny. I was happy to give the topsy-turviness a whirl. We booked a hotel in Krabi, on the west coast of southern Thailand. The specifics of what we did there are quite muddled. It seems a long time ago, now.
We went snorkelling, I think. In the ridiculously turquoise waters around Koh Phi Phi, and I discovered I was frightened of the tiny, colourful fish that inhabit the reef. Or rather, swimming in the open sea brought back a memory of an experience in the Mediterranean, years earlier. Going under and down. Propelling myself through the water with hard kicks until my lungs burned. And then up. But instead of the bright heat of the desert sun, my head bumped against something solid. I scrambled and flailed underwater, my path to light and air impeded. I sucked in sea water with a panicky inhalation. And then - I was clear of the obstruction and gulping dry air. My consequent lack of confidence in the water translated into a sense that the Andaman Sea’s blue-greeness might harbour something more dangerous than clownfish. I lurched away from each flash of red or blue that darted into my peripheral vision.
Was this the holiday that Ben went for a walk along the beach and was gone for so long that I began imagining catastrophes? A road accident, a drowning. Quarter hours passed in which I tried to convince myself I was relaxing when in reality my heart had crept up to pulse in my throat and my eyes were fixed on the vanishing point of the beach, waiting for his familiar figure to step into view, which it did. Eventually.
It was more relaxing and enjoyable than I am making it sound. The food! Sour-sweet pineapple. Tamarind which I chewed like figgy caramels. Sticks of smokey meat and piquant salads. On several nights we headed into town. Riding at speed, white knuckled and unrestrained in the back of an open truck to stroll around the night market. More tasty, chargrilled morsels washed down with ice cold water from plastic bottles beaded with condensation. Juicy mouthfuls of longan fruit fresh from the vine.
Memories of the Christmases of my youth blur into one another and pull on all my senses. The bright, evergreen scent of the Christmas tree. Wriggling my toes under the heavy weight of a stuffed stocking, lolling on the foot of my bed. Chocolate Santas wrapped in coloured foil, twisting on golden strings. The ceremony of gift giving. Carols sung in earnest, even by this early adopter of atheism. On occasion, there was even snow. The culture of Christmas is deeply ingrained in me and I did not manage to shake off the cognitive dissonance of sweating in a bikini on Christmas Day. Thailand seemed to have a genuine affection for the imported festival and catered for its western visitors by deploying a great deal of plastic - trees, Santas, snowmen, candy canes, incongruously intermingled with tropical foliage. There was some sort of Christmas show, the memory of which is mercifully murky. But we exchanged gifts and had a happy time.
On Boxing Day morning, we headed inland and hopped on our internal flight to Chiang Mai to join old family friends of Ben’s. As the sandy beaches gave way to a hillier, leafier, cooler landscape I felt our festive stay had been an interesting novelty, but I preferred my Christmases chilly. I was looking forward to seeing what Northern Thailand had to offer. It wasn’t a long drive from the airport to our destination, an attractive wooden construction nestled in the trees. A soothing sight after our travels. I hovered a little shyly in the entrance while Ben greeted everyone. Something seemed off, though, and I wondered if there had been a miscommunication. Were we not expected? Our hosts were obviously distracted. The television was on and had their attention. It was probably ten or fifteen minutes before we understood that a tsunami had struck the Andaman coast of Thailand. Krabi was hit at 10.30am. We had left our beachfront hotel there some time between 8.30 or 9am. We sat on the sofa with our hosts and watched the horror unfolding on the news channel. Numb. Broken splintered everything. Mud and pooling water. It occurred to us that we should check our phones. I had 13 missed calls. We rang to let our loved ones know we were safe. We were safe.
This Christmas Eve is tinged with mixed feelings of calm. The bright calm that precedes the colourful mayhem of Christmas Day but also the calm that comes before a less benign kind of storm. It is not coincidental that the newspapers have chosen to describe the coming onslaught of Covid-19 cases as a “tsunami”. Like the devastating waveform, a pandemic is silent, deadly. There is a risk that people don’t understand what could be coming their way. We’ll be celebrating in our bubble, missing our loved ones. My mum who has been on the frontline, first as a nurse and then swabbing people for coronavirus. My step-dad - a doctor. My dad and step-mum who have spent a long year caring for and worrying about elderly, vulnerable relatives. The culture of Christmas is deeply ingrained in many of us, but perhaps we should borrow the idea of thanksgiving from North America. Right now, I’m happy to be safe and healthy, and grateful the same can be said of my nearest and dearest. That’s cause enough for celebration.
Read this for comfort.
