DELORIS KOAN | HO HO! SANTA IS GOING SOLO

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I will be alone this Christmas.

Nobody is allowed to invite me in like a stray for I have made a momentous decision.

Unlike other families who come together on this family day, my family is now part of the diaspora — one will be in Europe, one in Durban, another in Gqeberha.

When this all came to light, I suddenly stopped and pondered my position: you can fall into a donga of despair and existential crisis and say you have nobody.

Or?

Max Weber, the famous sociologist, said all individual pathologies — in this case social malfunctioning — was caused by predatorial capitalism which bureaucratised and compartmentalised work and life, and led to people’s loss of individual freedom and creativity.

There was also a breaking of social bonds and individuals tended to spin out and do really bad things, in terms of what we call “normal”.

But hey, we are only talking about Santa going ho ho, Christmas decorations, fruit cake with five-cent coins in them, a prickly Christmas branch draped in glittering balls, tinsel and that angel you made in Sub A which everyone thinks is so cute, but actually looks rather grotesque and creepy!

But little you made it so many years ago, so we love it and see the joy and beauty that shines from within.

And then the Christmas morning reveal, though without grandchildren the prezzie pile has been somewhat reduced, but there is still enough to thrill and trill about.

And of course, the Christmas lunch.

I was raised in suburban East London. My mother did not hold back. It was a ridiculous, amazing spread. 

And those early years of our children at their grandparents’ home in Ayre Place, Bonnie Doone, were epic — lots of screaming, tearing up of paper and running about with new toys, and an exhibition of emotional adult sabre-rattling in the background, like shadow puppets depicting the delicious dark web of familial relationships — you could say it was all rather smashing.

Of late, Christmas has been a rather quiet affair, presents opened one at a time, lunch has shifted into a light, delicious vegan offering, OK, with pudding and chocolates, but always full of colour. 

But this Christmas Day, it will be 365 days since I reduced my daily ingestion of red meat and poultry to four occasions, and none of them memorable — mainly to keep the peace and show respect for special occasions.

I realised that in terms of beating addiction and craving, I will have much to celebrate.

Singlehood of a kind (I am, as you are aware, not alone at all) can mean looking at Christmas like a bubble floating in space.

You poke it with your finger and it goes ploops! and now there is only the day stretching out before me, to do with it as I want.

A few years ago, I was on a lone ride on Deloris Koan, the 650 KLR, to Smithfield and stopped at the Riverside Pub & Grub on the banks of the Orange River under the Hertzog Bridge at Maletswai (formerly Aliwal North).

It was a warm afternoon. The sun sparkled on the naartjie-mud waters. I ordered a cold beer and a badass meal.

I felt somewhat guilty and called the Biker Prof to ask if this was OK.

He immediately laughed and said, bru, this happened all the time and was one of the perks of solo adventure biking.

It was indeed a guilty pleasure to tuck in because nobody was going to make a fuss, say something dumb, or demand your attention.

It was all me, myself, I.

You have to see this in context: the bru and I had both had partners and raised children who are all, in their own unique way, wildly successful.

I’d like to think mine get the “wild” from me, but they don’t.

Sorry kids, both your rentals are from the far side of the river. We gave you genes, jeans and genets. 

And so, while most of us will celebrate Christmas from deep within the family womb, a lot of us will be out there spinning in the cosmos, untethered and free.

I know that there are many who do the traditional family Christmas who hanker to be with us far from the madding crowd, but my point is neutral — it’s just that for many Christmas is a complex, sacred affair, full of undercurrent and, my hope, pure joy.

But please forgive me when I say I am quite looking forward to having a happy unXmas day on my own.

I have, nonetheless, opted to have a lot of mini-Xmas dinners. I had one with the dorter on Saturday afternoon.

She spent the day on Gonubie Beach with her friends and came over to my place for a shower and dressed for din-dins. 

We decorated the flat with Xmas lights and strings of red baubles, including draping the frangipani tree, and braaied on a tiny sputnik contraption — her favourite chops, sundowner chicken wings and a plump steak and shrooms for me.

We drank double-malt beer and tried not to burn the place down.

She played a Spotify Christmas playlist and we grasped the one giant cracker and pulled it to smithereens, all manner of silliness flying about the room — cards, puzzles and gizmos.

I gave her a large, pot-bellied pink crocheted bunny in dungarees with a hipster jazz hat. She teared up.

It was such a grand success that I immediately called Sissie and said that the night I would be spending at her porzie in Makhanda en route to Nieu-Bethesda with my adventure biker bros, would also feature a Christmas party!

She loved the idea and so it is round two of the Christmas meal plan.

I see no reason to stop, and of course, all of these are practice runs for when the Christmas comet appears in the sky in a trail of jingling bells and a large bag of goodies.

By then I will have the party down to a fine art. I might even dress up as Santa, but maybe that is not appropriate.

I am sure to be able to find other reasons for having Christmas dinners, lunches or breakfasts, but there will come a time when I will close the unlicensed, rebellious Xmas spaza shop & diner, get on my bike and ride on the wind.

I have wild places where I can go for a swim, and then flop down in my red camp chair, bring out my cooler bag with the drinks, only one with alcohol since I am on the bike, and just park off there. 

And so, while big happy family Christmases are a blessing, there are many other people who do not fit into the nuclear family reactor, and this year I will be one of them.

The question is who is feeling sorry for who?

Well, that sounds unnecessarily polarising. A better question is how to do we all, inside the cosy gathered family, and outside in the starry celestial maelstrom, find meaning, peace and happiness.

Because remember, New Year is just around the corner and then all hell busts loose.

I have no idea where my happy Christmas will be spent — and that is also quite exciting.

Will I be having an adventure? Out on the beach? Gardening? Clearing out my cupboards and rendering my living space orderly and sublime? Watching a movie on my bed?

I have no list of things to do. Absolutely none. Just a feeling of some things that might be awesome — a great swim and nutrition routine?

A ride to somewhere for absolutely no rhyme or reason, a marvellous book — those who know me are aware that I only read one book a year and that is at Christmas — just going with the ebb and flow, releasing the beast of anxiety from the cage of, er, mental slavery, and being open to it all.

Let’s see how it all pans out.

In the meantime the festive season opens up with an adventure ride to the Karoo, Nieu-Bethesda where we are billeted in a sweet little cottage called the ... Quince and Apple? Grape and Guava? Something earthy and fruity.

Now that is also a Christmas event to put into my expanded version of this sacred solo holiday.

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