Navidad a lo Cubano

I'm wishing for a Cuban Christmas again. It's not that my feet are itchy, although they are. It's not that Christmas is more Christmas-y in Cuba. It's not. Christmas was banned for 36 or so years, the island's just getting back in to the swing of la noche buena.

And that, I think, is why last year's Cuban Christmas was a joy. Bar the giant Christmas tree in the lobby of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, wishing us "Feliz navidad y Viva la revolucion!" there were very few clues that Christmas was around the corner.

No Christmas adverts, no Christmas muzak in bars or shops, no fake Santas on street corners. The shops didn't have decorations, cards or specially packaged boxes of Christmas chocolate on sale. There was no last-minute rush for this year's must-have gift, no strings of Christmas lights twinkling in plazas and along streets, no Rudolphs prancing across Spanish colonial rooftops. There was no hassle. None at all. No doubt Cubans might prefer a little more Christmas pizzazz - an antidote to the shortages, rationing, the hardship of the periodo especial. But to this cynical westerner? The absence of commercial Christmas spirit was more than just a relief, it was bliss.

Thanks to Mildret, my friend's Trinidad landlady, we knew Christmas was coming. She had set up a nativity scene in her front room, propped up by a small, raggedy plastic Christmas tree, topped by a giant red star. Plaster Joseph watched over plaster Mary, who gazed devotedly at an empty plaster manger. The plaster shepherds watched their plaster flocks, the plaster donkey looked suspiciously at the plaster cattle. We took our Christmas cues from the plaster wise men.

Our first visit to Mildret's coincided with the beginning of the three wise men's long journey from the east (the front patio, fronting Frank Pais) to Bethlehem. As Christmas drew near, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar nudged closer and closer to their goal. We reckoned they'd have to make the fringe of the rug for Christmas eve if they were to hit Bethlehem in time for the Epiphany, holiday traffic being what it is.

The journey was dangerous. Sometimes their path took them close to the main walkway through the house. Other times, Mildret's dachshund would help the magi on their way, picking up one and scampering off, past the tree, down the corridor, through the kitchen and out into the back courtyard, dropping the battered wise man with a hollow, chipped clunk at Mildret's feet. Sometimes the pup would stop to have a chew first. The magi were was rapidly losing their looks, chunks of their gifts and their head gear.

Mildret's battered magi had to make it to the manger for twelfth night. The thing is, there were places to go. Holguin was calling.

I still don't know whether all three kings made it to Bethlehem intact. I like to think they did. And that the infant Jesus preferred the wrapping paper to the treasures inside.