Progress is when you can eat chili without tears

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