Progress is when you can eat chili without tears

Almost two months into my foray into the Indonesian culture and I've survived with only a few hitches along the way and have made some intriguing discoveries.

I feel like a wide-eyed child in a lolly shop with so many new and exciting things to see and experience, with the only food I've politely declined being durian ice-cream.

A recent trip to Bandung sparked something in my spiritually depraved Western soul and although the skeptic inside me has spent the past five days trying to find a logical explanation for what I saw, I haven't been successful.

My friend booked a massage and I expected the masseuse to arrive with 20 different oils and strange looking hand tools but all he had were leaves, one oil and a staunch Islamic faith.

By allowing his hands to hover just above her back, the masseuse identified trouble spots that she had not mentioned to him previously and, as his hands made slightly erratic movements above her back, she felt like needles were being inserted. She grimaced, I grimaced; all the while wondering what his trick was.

At any moment I expected acupuncture needles to fall from his sleeve and, just as my friend painfully exclaimed "my whole body is tingling, it feels like it's on fire!", the coup de grace was administered.

With the masseuse's face contorted in concentration and my friend's face contorted with what looked to be pain, my mouth dropped as smoke rose from his nimble hands, and it wasn't like the rabbit-being-pulled-out-of-a-hat trick because the smoke just kept coming.

For several seconds I debated dousing the potential fire with the cup of green tea I had spotted on the floor but no one else in the room flinched, so I remained still.

It was later explained to me that the masseuse was harnessing healing energy to provide my friend with relief from her backache.

My friend was exhausted after the massage and I have to admit I was too.

Speaking of exhaustion, I'm still not used to Indonesia's public transportation system.

I was in a taxi on my way back to the office after an interview, and we were on an extremely busy part of the road, when the driver applied the brakes and ordered me out -- but still wanted to be paid for his troubles, though I was nowhere near my destination.

I reluctantly gave him some money and then spent the next 20 minutes trying to flag down another taxi game enough to put up with the torrent of honking horns and abuse that was sure to come from stopping on such a busy road.

I finally hailed down a taxi and we spent the next five minutes not understanding what the other was saying, until I wrote down the address.

I gritted my teeth as we weaved in and out of traffic at racing-car speed and I stared out of the window trying to keep my mind on other things, such as why there are so many chickens on the sidewalks of Jakarta.

One of my favorite discoveries, and something that most Indonesians would find inconsequential, is Hero supermarket. I could spend hours walking up and down the aisles choosing a meal made up from ingredients from all corners of the globe.

I take five steps and I'm in Japan choosing from a myriad of interesting looking snacks and I take another five steps and I'm in Columbia with an endless choice of coffee.

If you are after variety it certainly beats my corner store in Sydney, the most exotic item of which is the owner, Doris', homemade surprise pie.

So, the question must be asked, am I no longer a "clueless expatriate"?

Well the answer is no, but at least I've stopped feeling like I need to show my feminine side because the kids on the street are calling me "mister", I've swapped coke for bottled tea and I've stopped crying after eating chili.

I'm on my way.

- Karen Stingemore