But this year, the chiva was dying. Don Pepe’s son had moved to Bogotá. The younger generation wanted sleek buses with Wi-Fi, not a 1970s relic that smelled of diesel and damp wool. The town council had declared the chiva “unsafe.” Juliana’s own cousin, Carlos, had sent her a mocking voice note: “Vení a ver el entierro de la tradición, gringa de mierda.”
Juliana laughed. Not a nervous laugh. A real one. It had been four years since she’d laughed like that. Four years since she’d left Medellín for a sterile apartment in Toronto, chasing a promotion that left her with carpal tunnel and a curated loneliness. Her abuela’s final words echoed in her head: “Mija, la navidad no se vive en un celular. Se vive en la chiva culiona.”
The engine coughed. Farted blue smoke. And roared. Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona
“No,” said Doña Clara. “But you’re a calculadora . You solve problems.”
At midnight, they rolled into Jericó. The whole town was waiting, not for Mass, but for them. The new mayor—a slick, university-educated fool—had tried to cancel the chiva’s parade. But there was La Espantapájaros , grille covered in tinsel, speakers blasting “Lista en Medellín,” and on the roof, a woman in a torn designer shirt, holding a bottle of aguardiente like a scepter. But this year, the chiva was dying
Juliana looked at the engine. It was a Frankenstein of wire, tape, and Don Pepe’s prayers. A hose was cracked. The radiator was leaking a sad green tear onto the dirt.
“Push,” she said.
“I’m not a mechanic,” Juliana said, pulling out her phone. No signal. Of course.