Despite having solely New Zealand blood coursing through my veins, I have never spent more than three Christmas seasons in my Western home country. The traditional white Christmas with snow, roast dinner, and gingerbread houses has never been something I have been able to fully claim as my own. Finding my home in the humid tropics of Thailand for thirteen years, I have had to pick out things that remind me of home and make them my own.

Today my family and I went up to Doi Inthanon, the highest point in Thailand, to make the most of His Majesty the King’s birthday, a December day off from work and school. Being in a festive mood elicited by a full week of Christmas music and advent calendar chocolates, there we many times during the day that reminded me of the Christmas season I never had.

Stepping out of the warmth of the car, we moved into the canopied forest. Shrouded in cool, morning shade my fingers grew pale and numb and my nose and cheeks flushed with a shade of jolly, rosy red. The chilly mist forced me to bounce on the balls of my feet to keep warm.

As we moved on we saw fallen trees lay sleeping on the dampened floor. Their mossy surface, we were told, was a food source for deer .I’m sure they could have easily pulled on a decorative winter sleigh after a hearty organic meal like that.

Red rhododendrons embellished trees like ornaments, while onlooking trees stood jealous in their nakedness. Even pine trees made their appearance as we walked. To see trees with needles void of a gold star or the captivating sparkle of cheap plastic Christmas lights made the living structure seem bare, boring even. However, the dew on the leaves of their neighbouring trees made up for it as the light shone through the tiny globes as if they were each a miniature prism.

The walk was long and, I dare say, tiring and close to the end our stomachs were moaning for some sustenance. Once we finally arrived at a place selling food, we settled down eagerly for a filling meal. The trademark Christmas roast was somewhat present at our table. Greasy, warm chicken drumsticks took their place next to small piles of glutinous sticky rice. Coal roasted sweet potato beckoned while we were tempted by traditional Thai spicy herb sausage. Chilli paste and sweet and sour sauce acted as the gravy in which we soaked our succulent bites of meat and rice.

After a comforting meal, we were stuffed (no, not with breadcrumbs and spices) so we sat and chatted and waited in the restaurant after washing our oily fingers of the chicken grease. I saw a little Thai girl, bundled in her big fluffy jacket and pink Hello Kitty beanie over her bluntly cut black fringe. Other people in the restaurant were warming up with steaming cups of chicken rice soup. It reminded me of winter’s rich hot chocolates on frigid mornings, the steamy ribbons curling in the cold air. Those peaceful moments are what winter days are all about.

That moment of rest passed as we moved on to our next trail. Our guide, a hilltribe man in gumboots and wide white smile, moved light on his feet and, despite his age, had the energy of a teenager. A generous man, beaming with joy, he fashioned a hat out of a large banana leaf and a short brown stick and placed it on my brother’s head like a novelty party hat. Bestowing yet more simple gifts upon us, I now know a rice stalk kazoo and forest leaf windmill are gifts any child could delight in.

The delightful man next came across a cinnamon tree so he gifted each member of his travelling troop with a small square of bark to try. The signature sweet spice of cinnamon warmed my tongue as I tentatively chewed on the wood. It tasted as delectable as the door of any gingerbread house you could have put in front of me.

Getting close to the man’s village, we spotted various coffee bean bushes lining our dusty clay footpath. The coffee beans lay dormant encased in merry red, framed with holly-like leaves. The members of the village we encountered invited us to sit down by an open fire as they boiled black kettles brimming with water. The smell of freshly roasted coffee permeated the hut as we were served warm cups of the strong black beverage.

We had reached the end of our trip and the hilltribe marketplace called with displays of strawberries, dried persimmon, and fermented plum. A bag labelled with “chocolate almonds” caught my eye and I was invited to try one by the kindly lady behind the woven bamboo table. I acted as a nutcracker, snapping the shell between my teeth, resulting in an ordinary looking almond and a small mouthful of nutty cocoa flavour. Such a unique idea for such a normal nut, yet Thailand always seems to come up with the most interesting and unusual ideas.

On the hour long drive down from the mountain, I realized I am truly thankful for my unusual Christmas season. It may not be traditional and glamorous as a Western Christmastime, but it is certainly not cliché. Living outside that box makes me glad to be the Asian New Zealander I am, rice and all.