How the Gringos Ruined Christmas

The sign on the highway leading away from Coban, weather-beaten, promised an eco-lodge of some sort. We were in the market for a place to camp, so we pulled off the paved road and bumped down the dirt road for a kilometer or two past little shacks, chickens, a pig or two tied haphazardly by the side of the road. The road got increasingly worse. But just as we were about to turn around, we glimpsed a giant house on a hill. Peeking into the driveway, we saw a sign for “Parqueo,” or parking. It seemed promising, so we pulled in.

Still unsure, we crept up the wide stone staircase toward the house. A smiling woman called out a greeting and opened the front door. “Is this, like, a hotel?” I asked her. “Yes, welcome!” She replied in almost accent-less English. (Later we learned she is studying to be a legal interpreter.) She introduced us to her father, an architect who had designed and built the house (and apparently created all the artwork hanging inside it) and, later, to the warm, laughing lady of the house and another of her daughters. 

The house was a marvel. We took the top floor and its views, splurging for a night out of the rattlevan. And we were so thrilled with the house, its hardwood floors, its tiled kitchen, its lofted ceilings, its fireplace, the warmth and modernity of it all compared to the rustic places we’d been more recently, that we sort of forgot until later that it was Christmas Eve (not normally a big deal for us). And that we were staying in someone’s house, essentially uninvited.

By the time we realized the somewhat bizarre timing of our stay, we had seen the family drive away in a jeep. I worried about interrupting a family holiday but, from our attic abode, Chuck assured me that he hadn’t even seen Christmas decorations or anything. “I think they’re really more like hippies,” he said. “Not religious.” And I basically agreed. I’m notoriously unobservant, but I thought even I would have noticed any obvious Christmas paraphernalia. 

We settled in, opening some wine and enjoying the view and ourselves. But then I went downstairs on to grab something from the van. And as I tiptoed onto the darkened main floor, what did I see? Christmas tree. Presents wrapped under it. And worse, much worse: Since we had arrived, someone had laid out the makings of a party. Place settings. Cookies. Black beans with dippers. Glasses, and coffee mugs in rows. There were party favors, and games laid out. It looked like they were expecting about 12. 

Horror. Here are these nice people, about to have their family over for Christmas, to open gifts like normal people, and these damn hobos drive up in a muddy decrepit van and move into the attic. Stupid heathen gringos. And they were so polite, and so welcoming, and then this party . . . It was almost unbearably awkward. I wanted to get in the van and just leave. Instead, I ran back upstairs and shared the embarrassing news.  We hunkered down.

Not too much later, we heard the car come back. “Oh god,” Chuck whispered. “What if they think they have to invite us to their family gathering?” We looked at each other in dismay. “Let’s pretend to be asleep,” I suggested, only half-joking. Instead, were merely stayed upstairs. The party was swinging, late into the night. At some point, someone called up the stairs to us, but we were in the shower and could barely hear what was said. Eventually, we fell asleep, and the party ended.

By the next morning, we thought we had successfully avoided crashing a private family holiday. But it was Christmas day, after all, and the gifts still hadn’t been opened, so we determined to leave immediately after breakfast (included in the price of the hostel). We made ourselves coffee, and when our hostess/interpreter came down to offer breakfast, we accepted, thinking we’d grab a bite and be on our way before further Christmas festivities occurred. But then others arrived, by car, and the table was set once again for 10. Chuck and I exchanged looks. We had missed our chance! Now we were crashing the family Christmas breakfast! The horror!

I copied this picture from the internet.

Of course, it turned out to be fine -- more than fine, actually an enormously fun breakfast, full of conversation and laughter and jokes, of wonderful traditional tamales, and better hot chocolate. We got advice on further travels.  The baby was cute, our hosts could not have been more welcoming, and it turned out to be low-key, relaxed celebration. And in the end, we still managed to get ourselves out of their hair before they started opening presents.