The Christmas trees, twinkling lights, and red and green streamers were up, and the main street was lined with tents selling sausages and popcorn, as horse-drawn carts clopped by.
It looked like a typical Christmas festival street scene — except it was February.
Every year, Quinamayó, a town of about 6,000 in southwestern Colombia, observes a tradition that dates back to the era of slavery and has persisted as a way to turn a history of oppression and suffering into a celebration of joy.
In the early 1800s, the town’s Afro-Colombian population was enslaved and forced to work through December, attending to slaveholders’ holiday festivities. So Christmas was celebrated 40 days after the traditional birth date of Jesus — the amount of time that the Virgin Mary is said to have rested after delivery, and right after the end of harvest season.
On a Saturday night in February, the festival’s main procession began with a group of women in traditional ruffled floral dresses, walking through the moonlit streets. They were soon joined by girls in grass skirts, representing Indigenous groups that Quinamayó’s Black residents consider as part of their shared history of slavery.
Then came three children dressed as Joseph, Mary and the star of Bethlehem. Small angels in matching braids with white beads, and guardian soldiers with fake wooden rifles, followed.
Next were three teenagers, two girls dressed in flamingo-pink tulle hoop skirts and glittering tiaras, and a boy in a bright white suit. In their arms, they carried a gold baby basket that held a doll representing the baby Jesus, who, like most people in this community, was Black.
The ceremony “is in our blood, it is in our veins,” said Mirna Rodríguez, 60, the procession’s coordinator.
When the Spanish colonized Colombia in the 16th century, they forbade the traditional religions observed by Indigenous and Afro-descendant populations, making Roman Catholicism as the law of the land.
“It was their culture, their history, their ancestry, and it was ripped away from them in the worst way,” said Miguel Ibarra, a doctoral researcher of Afro-Latino history in the nearby city of Palmira.
Many of Colombia’s enslaved and Indigenous communities combined Western Christian culture with their own ancestral traditions. Or in the case of Quinamayó’s residents, they developed new customs.
While the Christmas-in-February tradition has been commemorated since it began nearly 200 years ago, the celebration has exploded in popularity over the past 20 years.
At this year’s event, thousands of people arrived by car, motorcycle and public bus to this town surrounded by sugarcane fields, where running water and electricity are spotty. An entire amusement park was trucked in.
Quinamayó is about an hour’s drive from Cali, Colombia’s third-largest city on the Pacific coast, and has no hotels, so guests stayed with friends or stayed out all night, partying into the next day after the main procession. On Sunday morning, revelers sobered up with fried pork and potatoes. Some had fallen asleep at restaurant tables as the bars continued to blare salsa.
Music is an important part of the festival, with the echo of drums resounding far beyond the main stage at the opening ceremony on Friday night in the town’s central plaza.
“Through the rhythm of the drum we give an important message,” said Norman Viáfara, one of the festival’s organizers. “We tell the world, society in general, that we are ready and willing to also be able to reach the decision-making spaces.”
The festival was canceled the past two years because of the pandemic. Many of Quinamayó’s elder members, who were in charge of the festivities, died from Covid-19, said Hugo Lasso, vice president of the festival’s planning committee.
After the main procession finished, the town erupted into jubilation, the smell of gunpowder from sparklers hanging in the air as two men dressed in elaborate ox and mule costumes performed a mock fight — a homage to the characters in the Bible’s Nativity scene.
Throughout the weekend, women in traditional dress danced the juga, characterized by a shuffling movement as dancers move in rotating circles, accompanied by musicians, or “jugueritos,” playing trombone and drums. Also sometimes called fuga or “flee,” the dance is meant to represent shackles and chains.
“One identifies with those customs,” said Arbey Mina, a former director of the festival’s official jugueritos band. “In fact, that identity is not directly with slavery, but with what was done to show that one was free, that maybe the body was chained, but the soul had freedom.”
The essence of the festival for Mr. Mina, and many others, is a preservation of that identity.
On Sunday, three teenage girls in the town competed in a pageant, wearing handmade dresses representing traditional aspects of Quinamayó’s culture.
The girls strutted down the main road toward the stage, accompanied by the jugueritos. After a juga dance performance, the time came for questions.
When the judges asked Mabel Mancilla, 14, how the town’s residents could safeguard their identity, she responded: “We must accept ourselves as we are. That means wearing the hair we were born with. We should not be ashamed of being who we are. Being Black is a privilege.”
Immediately the crowd cheered: “That’s the one! That’s the one!”
Minutes later, Mabel was crowned the winner.
“She will be in charge of safeguarding our tradition for a year,” said a community leader, Vanessa Peña.
Just as Mabel was about to make a speech, a drizzle turned into rain, and wind knocked the power out.
“We’re cold, play the juga,” shouted some revelers. The jugueritos complied as audience members danced in the rain.
Nothing, not even a storm, was going to stop Christmas in February.
Jaír Coll contributed reporting.
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