As a young person spending my first Christmas in the jungle, I reckoned I could bring my American traditions to blend in with those of my new African friends. After all, everyone expressed a desire to go to the States. I wondered, what’s a Christmas in the jungle look like? Nothing could have prepared me for the shocking reality.

Preparations

Christmas Dinner. . Aware that the villagers never veered from the traditional meal of rice and a fiery hot sauce, I dropped all thoughts of mashed potatoes and dressing covered with the savory brown gravy from the roasted turkey. The family we’d share the meal with struggled with finances, so my Swiss colleague and I offered to provide the meat for the meal.

Since a celebration sauce generally contained chicken or wild boar, I figured the folks might accept a turkey. We’d try to purchase one from the American mining company’s commissary, located ninety minutes away. As I feared, they’d never even heard of such a bird.

“It looks like a chicken, only a lot bigger,” I said, spreading my hands to estimate the difference in size. “The turkey weighs about twenty pounds, but the meat is very tender.”

The mouth-dropping expressions registered their unbelief. The usual village chicken ate only the termites and ants she found all over the sandy ground. Their constant foraging made their meat tough; their diet made their size only a little over two pounds. Nevertheless, the chicken provided a tasty addition to their celebration sauce as often as the family could afford one.

I rejoiced when the family agreed to try the turkey. We discovered the mining company had ordered the frozen birds from the States. They should arrive on the ship and be in the commissary the day we came for provisions. I’d have a turkey dinner for Christmas!

Gifts. We didn’t want to introduce the concept of exchanging gifts, but I genuinely longed to share something special with our church family. We resolved the dilemma by purchasing cans of soda pop, enjoyed only on rare occasions. The drink would go well with the cookies.

We’d share the treats on Christmas Eve after gathering for a time of worship. The event would be the jungle version of the traditional American Christmas parties so numerous in the States during the holidays.

Decorations. Our biggest preparation challenge came in the area of holiday decorations. We lived in an unfinished baked mud-brick house. The walls had four-foot by five-foot holes for our windows.

Our Christmas greenery offered no familiar holiday scents. We didn’t have any evergreen boughs, but a large palm frond and huge banana leaf served to decorate the window ledge.

Stringing the red laundry cord across the rough, gray cement wall in the living room, provided the perfect place to clip-on the Christmas cards that had come in the ship’s mailbag.

We had no living room furniture because we lived in a tent in the end room of the unfinished building. Nevertheless, we needed a place for our Christmas candles. Using a white plastic garbage bag, we covered and secured two stacked cardboard boxes.

First, we placed more of the jungle greenery atop the makeshift table, followed by the decorations. A Christmas card, sporting a unique representation of the three wise men of the Christmas story, stood near the pink candles. The teddy bear trio dressed up to look like the wise men added color, as well as humor.

Placing a wooden bench near the little table, we planned to sit and enjoy the flickering candle and admire our decorations. When the time came, we’d put other benches around the empty room for the Christmas Eve party. I could hardly wait for December 24.

Christmas Eve

Throughout the day, we asked people when the Christmas Eve service would begin, but no one seemed to know. The pastor had agreed that it could be held in our house, so we wanted to be sure we’d dressed appropriately before the people began to arrive. We’d already carried the other benches inside.

Noticing the afternoon sun had begun its descent, we assembled the cans of beverages and plates of cookies. We reasoned that the people would be coming soon after dark, so we changed out of our shorts and into long dresses.

We lit our oil lamps. The wait began. A jungle night is pitch black, so the glow of an approaching flashlight or lantern can be seen from afar.

At last, the pastor’s eldest son stepped through the opening into the living room. “Welcome! Are the others coming? Everything’s ready.” I said, relief accelerating the speed of my chatter.

“I don’t know. My father’s not yet back from Kataco.”

“Oh, I didn’t know he’d gone to the other village today. Well, what time do you think we’ll have the worship service then? We have some drinks and cookies to share with everyone.”

“I don’t know. I’ll go ask my mother.” He left and didn’t return.

We waited another hour. No one came.

Then, the pastor’s wife arrived, and we rejoiced that it must be time now.

“Is the pastor back? Will the others come soon?” I tried to restrain my anxiety.

“No, he’s not coming tonight. He’ll be here in the morning.”

A cannonball dropped into the pit of my stomach. “Is anyone coming to have a time of worship tonight?”

I waved her over to sit on one of the benches. “I think so. They’ll come later.”

Since the lady had walked across the village to see us, I felt certain that she would not be returning. “Would you like some Fanta orange?” She nodded her reply. “We also have some cookies.”

After about ten minutes, the pastor’s wife stood to leave. I realized that we had no idea what time we should walk over for dinner the next day.

“One of my sons will come get you tomorrow,” she said before stepping out the door.

Half an hour or so later, the pastor’s youngest son arrived. “I just came to tell you that nobody’s coming here tonight. There’s a dance that the Muslims have on Christmas Eve every year, and that’s where we are all going. You can come, too, if you want.”

“Okay,” I said, holding back the tears threatening to spill. “When do you usually eat Christmas dinner? Do you have any idea when we should come?”

“No. I’ll come get you when it’s time to eat.” He left before another minute had passed. I didn’t have time to offer him a drink or cookies.

Shoring ourselves against the stark disappointment, we pulled the bench over to the little table and lit the candles. We began singing Christmas carols.

The squawks coming from huge loudspeakers just down the road signaled the dance would start soon. We’d just keep singing until the blaring of the raunchy western music became too loud. I gave thanks that the people didn’t speak a word of English, so the offensive lyrics didn’t mean anything to them.

Before long, the challenge of leaning one way or the other to avoid the swooping bats coming through the open window space made us call it quits. We would read the Christmas story by flashlight once inside the zipped tent. Tomorrow’s another day.

Christmas Day

The night seemed to go on forever; the music blasted long into and through the night hours. Oh, for a silent night! Became our frequent refrain as we struggled to fall asleep.

At last, the hour to get up arrived. We had a relaxed breakfast, opened gifts from home, and had a time of prayer for our friends and family—including the African friends who didn’t know what to do with us any more than we knew how to fit into their group. We’d learn, eventually.

Later, recognizing the increasing heat of the sun, we determined that dinnertime couldn’t be far away. In Africa, the main meal is eaten in the middle of the day—anytime between one and two o’clock. We didn’t know if the same would be true for the Christmas meal.

“Should we just get ready and walk over to the pastor’s house?” I thought it a good idea, just in case they forgot to send someone for us.

“No. It’s too hot just to stand around for a couple of hours. Marie* said she’s send one of her sons to fetch us. Plus, Samuel* said he’d come get us, so let’s wait,” said my colleague.

As one o’clock approached, we changed into dresses and waited. I looked forward to enjoying the turkey, even in the spicy-hot sauce. I wondered if they’d take the meat off the drumsticks and thighs, chopping chunks to cook in the oil like they do with their other meat. My excitement increased with my pondering.

“I think we should just head over there,” I said once again. “It’s gotta be close to time to eat. C’mon. Let’s go, please.”

Gathering up our canteens, we started for the door. The greeting of the pastor’s wife stopped us in our tracks. I rolled up the mat that covered the front opening that would one day have a real door.

“Merry Christmas! We were just about to head over to your house,” I said. “We thought Samuel said he’d let us know when to come for dinner, but we may have misunderstood. Did Pastor make it home this morning?” At last, the time had come to have the Christmas dinner.

“Merry Christmas! Not yet but he’ll come.” Marie set down a large enamel metal tray as she spoke.

Watching Marie lift the colorful cloth, I nearly gasped. I saw a small bunch of bananas next to the pair of familiar covered serving dishes.

“It’s too hot for you white ladies to walk all the way across the village, so I brought your dinner to you.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you, Marie, but we are used to walking around the village. We can come over to eat with you,” I said.

“We’ve already eaten. I’ll send one of the boys to pick up the dishes later.”

“Okay,” I said, working hard to smile. “Thank you. It smells like a delicious meal.”

In my shock, I forgot to ask if the family liked the turkey. Marie’s a fabulous cook, so I anticipated a very tasty dinner. Unfortunately, the seasoning fell far short of Marie’s usual fare. Though we’d chosen carefully to be sure we brought the right ones, none of the extra vegetables we’d given for the meal had been added to the sauce. It’s not really something about which one can ask, right?

 

What’s a Christmas in the Jungle look like? The above’s pretty much what it always looks like in our African village. Not much variation. There’s lots of loud music and dancing, followed by a day of feasting on rice and sauce. The people of all ages have a great time.

Conclusion

I hope it’s as clear to you as it is to me that I am entirely responsible for this most disappointing first Christmas in Africa. I didn’t come to live in Africa as a means to bring American ways to the tribal people; yet, I behaved as though I did. In case you missed it, here’s just a little of what I did wrong:

• Invited myself. While custom dictated that the pastor’s wife would be expected to prepare the meal for us, she hadn’t extended an invitation to join them.

• Imposed my choice. To me, turkey and Christmas dinner go together perfectly. Did I even consider that the Africans may not want an unfamiliar poultry in their Christmas sauce? Never.

• Made unfair assumptions. I assumed everyone attended Christmas Eve service. In the States, the late evening Candlelight Service is one of my favorites. In the jungle village, this Muslim Christmas dance is one of the biggest social events in the community. It has nothing to do with religion. Everyone Since I figured Christmas to be a Christian holiday, it never occurred to me that the church folk would want to go to the Muslim dance.

It didn’t take long to find out that the people only told me what they thought I wanted to hear. I should never assume that saying they wanted to try this or that meant they did. Their custom included never refusing anything offered by a visitor.

As the years passed, I learned more of tribal ways and village social practices. I became better at discovering what to expect before making my own plans.

 

I encourage all of the young people—and the not-so-young who plan to take on the foreign service adventure—to study the customs and traditional celebrations before you head out for that short-term mission assignment.

If possible, discuss any holidays that will occur during your stay with a missionary or volunteer international worker who has already experienced the holiday in the assigned country. Email makes this possible in even remote areas of the world.

Merry Christmas!

*Name changed.