(How to be a Santa, Tip 1: Don’t forget your wig.)
I look ridiculous, and as impossible as it may seem, I feel more ridiculous than I look. I have none of the natural attributes of Santa Claus, except perhaps a burgeoning pot belly that is large enough to shame me under normal circumstances but today is inexplicably too small for the task at hand. I need cushions, more than one, in fact, and since they’re square, the angles of my suit are all stiff and geometric.
You wouldn’t blame the children for being afraid – whatever is under there, it’s certainly not a stomach. I’m not even the right sex...and I’m short. Then there’s my white moustache, stiff and bristly and as fake as it looks. It’s jarring against my dark skin but no more than my curly black hair under the fluffy red and white hat.
In fact the whole outfit is excruciatingly out of place in a tropical country, Christmas or not. What do we know of snow, reindeers and fat men crawling down chimneys? I’m sweating inside it and thirsty already. But I don’t want to drink in case I then have to disappear into the toilet. Somehow, you know the real Santa never has to pee and God forbid I attempt to undo my belt – it’s all that’s keeping the cushions up.
(How to be a Santa, Tip 2: Come Bearing Gifts.)
Luckily, the kids in front of me have none of my qualms – they’re focusing on the fact that I’m carrying a giant sack. A sack full of goodies, as they presume correctly. Inside there are the usual assortment of generic Christmas presents – the dolls for the girls, the cricket bats for the boys, the unisex colouring pencils.
All made somehow more magical by tacky gift wrapping and the good intentions of the givers.
(How to be a Santa, Tip 3: Never Be ashamed to Ho-Ho-Ho. Practice so you get it right the first time.)
I attempt a few nervous ho-ho-hos as a warm up but when they look at me askance I’m relieved to just give up and try a more muted heh-heh-heh instead.
(How to be a Santa, Tip 4: Pick a deserving crowd.)
We’re in a quiet little urban classroom; a place where the children from the nearby slums come for classes. I’m the star attraction at what appears to be the highlight of their year – the annual Christmas party. Before they got here, we decorated the walls tastelessly if enthusiastically with an abundance of streamers and balloons. My contribution is a one dimensional Christmas tree – it works only because we can’t afford to buy a real one for the children. Everything is donated – from the snacks to the volunteer’s time.
But when the children pour into the room, you can’t tell that anything is less than perfect. Eyes gleaming, smiles wide, laughing parents in their wake, they’re all but bouncing of the walls. Clearly this wasn’t a group that would yank my moustache and ask me where the ‘real’ Santa was.
With me at their head, we launch into a bunch of Christmas carols. It’s a (Oh) Holy Night in Bethlehem and the Jingle Bells are ringing wildly in the wake reindeers. We’re wishing Joy to the World and decking the halls with boughs of holly.
(How to be a Santa, Tip 5: Know the lyrics to your carols)
And if no one is quite sure what the words are, we’re happy to invent new ones to fit the occasion. Gift giving is pure chaos and greedy little hands are doing their best to take more than their share.
(How to be a Santa, Tip 6: Keep a watchful eye on your sack.)
When we’re done distributing the gifts, we play more games, take pictures (inexplicably, they want one with me) and finally the party winds down. As the kids’ leave, I’m absolutely delighted to peel myself out of the suit. That’s a reward in itself. But I must confess, for all my moaning and griping, if you would just dangle that suit in front of me again this year, I’d be happy to be Santa all over again. |
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