La Colombiana Chiva Culiona - Juliana Navidad A

The Chiva Culiona —the “big-assed bus”—was legendary in these parts. Not just for its wild paint job or the way it fishtailed on hairpin turns, but for its mission: every December 24th, it transformed into a mobile novena . It collected prayers, gifts, and drunk uncles from seven forgotten veredas, delivering them to the town square of Jericó for the Midnight Mass of the Rooster.

“Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona” Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona

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. “Juliana Navidad A La Colombiana Chiva Culiona” Juliana

At the first stop—a shack on a misty hillside—an old woman named Doña Clara hobbled out with a basket of empanadas . “Ay, Juliana,” she whispered, kissing her cheek. “You came back. But the chiva… she has no guasca . No fire.” The radiator was leaking a sad green tear onto the dirt

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.”

They danced until dawn. Don Pepe gave her the brass bell from the chiva’s front rail. “So you never forget how to come home,” he said.

“Push,” she said.