Nelson Turgo
The morning had broken and with much anticipation I opened the door. It was December 25, 2006, my first Christmas in the UK. The weather was fine, not wintry, but nonetheless very cold for a tropical guy like me. It was 8:05 in the morning, and in the Philippines, I was already imagining the beautiful chaos unfolding in the streets. In our little community, not far from the sea, all children would be suitably attired in their best.
When I was a kid, I remember sleeping with my new clothes and shoes beside me. I so loved the peculiar smell of new unwashed clothes. They reminded me of the wonder that filled me in our annual pilgrimage to Ramchand, an RTW store an hour away by bus from my hometown. I felt privileged because even though my father was a fisherman, we were buying our Christmas clothes not in the town market but in a boutique store in the city.
In a poor fishing community where I grew up, it was a mark of distinction. So on the night of the 24th, I laid them out beside me, my new shoes and shirt and trousers. I was also afraid that if I kept them in the cabinet they would be nibbled by mice we lovingly refer to as “mabait”. In Cardiff, far away from home in 2006, I did just the same. I had my new shoes and clothes on the floor, in my little space in university accommodation, almost akin to Harry Potter’s cupboard room. I was dressed to the nines when I came out to the sunshine of Cardiff Christmas of 2006.
The stores in the city centre opened at 10 am, and I was eager to experience the lively pulse, the razzmatazz of Christmas rush in a new country. I was not buying anything because I was waiting for Boxing Day, though I knew even on Christmas Day many things would be already on sale, discounted heavily.
It was eerily quiet. I wondered why. The streets were deserted. No soul in sight. I was missing the loud Christmas music. Had it been in the Philippines, or in my hometown, specifically, the streets would be teeming with kids roaming around, visiting neighbours and relatives, kissing hands, and expecting gifts. As a little boy, I loved the crispness and smell of newly minted banknotes and glistening coins, well, even until now. I would keep them in my pouch and count them all the time, afraid that somebody had tricked me into parting ways with a note or two.
I had not had my breakfast yet so I walked to a café in one of the Victorian arcades of the city, a quaint wonder of this Welsh city. The sky was sombre and sullen. It would rain anytime. Christmas lights in the arcade were twinkling, the only reminder that it was time to be jolly. I ordered coffee and a piece of croissant or maybe some Welsh cakes? No matter. Things are blurry to me now. That was many years ago.
In the Philippines, I remember eating fried garlic rice, ham, longganisang Lucban and whatever leftover food we had for noche buena. I could hardly eat then because I wanted to put on my Christmas clothes and hit the street at once. If only I could feast on those food again, I thought, as I sipped my bitter coffee. The instant Nescafe coffee of my youth tasted better.
People started streaming into the café, ordering all sorts of tea and coffee, and a full Welsh breakfast which I regretted not ordering. I had it several times in London and they called it English breakfast there. Imagined borders between England and Wales change the way food and things are spelt in this part of the world. And of course, there are Glamorgan sausages in full Welsh breakfast. Did I forget their counterparts in England, maybe Yorkshire bangers?
I left the café once my plate was empty. I felt a sense of emptiness. It did not feel Christmasy, I thought. The people I saw and met and sometimes smiled at were in their usual clothes. That’s the problem I think. Back in the Philippines, I would only be in my best dress on special occasions. I dressed up on recognition and graduations days, school programs and, of course, Christmas Day. In my hometown, the 25th was for the kids, 26th for young people and the 27th for not so young anymore. The schedule of celebrations was well marked out. But the joy and fervour of dressing up did not wane. When I was in college, and going home for the Christmas holidays, I would wear my best shirt, trousers and shoes on the 26th. Whilst money as gift was accepted from relatives and godparents, I was often offered a shot of local wine called lambanog (coconut vodka). Matanda ka na, shot na lang (“You’re an adult now, have a drink”) they would tell me. Christmas was very special.
Stalls in the Christmas market were busy. I could see people buying handmade fragrant candles, chocolate bars, and many more. Others were having drinks, mulled wine, or the local beer, and then complementing every gulp with a bite of bratwurst sausage. I thought it was glorious, this endless drinking and eating, and shopping. But then I was missing queso de bola, and then tikoy, and the laughter and the clanking of coins in my pocket as I went from one house to another.
I was eight years old, competing against neighbourhood playmates as to who would have the highest haul of parapasko. I was very competitive. I heard that my ninong (godfather) that I had not heard from, and seen, for many years, was in town. I had to go to his place, and he knew what to do, he should know his obligations. I was expecting a jackpot, imagine all these years of not receiving anything from him! When he saw me, he asked who my parents were (Kanino kang anak?) and once he realised who I was, he pulled out a crisp 100 peso banknote and gave it to me. That took my breath away. I was overjoyed. I retraced my steps, and looked forward to comparing my Christmas haul with friends.
It was almost 5 pm, and it was already dark. The street leading to my place in Cardiff was quiet and empty. I felt tired. I heard someone say that at 5 pm, Christmas is officially over. All shops closed. In the Philippines I could imagine the food, the laughter, the fun. It is always a merry Christmas.
The life of many of us is never easy. We are torn between two places we call home. For those who were old enough when they left the Philippines, like me, special occasions like Christmas bring forth the uneasy bitterness and sadness of not being home. The meaning of home becomes conflicted during these times. People are always attached and make connections to places where they have memories of growing up. Our life far from home is never simple. Our home is here, and there. We continue to create memories whilst remembering what we used to have, what Christmas used to be.
Maligayang Pasko sa lahat!
About the author
Nelson studied at the University of the Philippines and Cardiff University in Wales. He currently works as a Research Associate at the Seafarers International Research Centre (SIRC) based within the School of Social Sciences, Cardiff University. The Centre has a particular emphasis on issues of occupational health and safety. It is the only international research facility of its kind and has built up unparalleled experience of research in this field. Nelson grew up in a fishing community in Mauban, Quezon.
