The Maid and the Chili

One of the downsides of being stuck in a city that is covered in smog is that you can't walk around, well you could, but in doing so you would lose even more life-years than you already have in your youthish stunts...so now I sit in my semi-windowless room (does a view of a concrete wall count as a window?) and count down the hours until my flight to Bali. Which is 18.24. I'm actually really really good at wasting time, as I have spent the afternoon watching youtube videos about Unicorn Samurais and preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse.

I've decided to stay locked in small windowless room because I am hiding from the housekeeper and because I stole the small fan from the communal bathroom and there is wifi here. There is a promising cafe nearby that is cute and air-conditioned and promises wifi, but it is a trap to lure in expats because i have been there twice and the wifi never works and none of the employees know how to fix it. So you end up with a stale croissant, coffee that is akin to sulfuric acid, short 15,000 rupiah and minus 0.6 life years from all of the diesel exhaust you inhaled on the walk to the cute cafe. and no internet. so i will stay in my prison/dorm room with my stolen fan thank you very much.

The maid does not like me. It has something to do with me giving her clothes to wash that were too "dirty,"according to my friend. Like a dumb foreigner, I didn't realize I was supposed to pre-wash my clothes before actually getting them laundered. My bad. But I've learned sarcasm doesn't translate well, so I didn't waste my time flipping through my dictionary to find a snarky retort to her complaints to my friend. My friend told her she could talk to me in Indonesian and that I might understand what she says, so she likes to babble on and on and on and on and on to me. It's really hard to get out of a conversation where you actually do understand the language, but it's even harder in one that you don't. A sample conversation:

Maid: "alsdkji   dkfja dka alsdjoiaeo adjh cng;ae adjoifoe ckajdj...EEEE adjjoa. adoae...."

Me: "Apa?" (what?)

Maid: "ALSDKJI  DKJFA DKA ALSDJOIAEO!! aldskfoe!!! ajdofjea kjdaout"

Me: "Tidak Mengerti. Maaf" (I don't understand, sorry.)

Maid: "A.L.S.D.K.J.I.  DKJFA aieojla oieaf!!!"

Me (looking at watch): "Look, I really have no idea what you're saying, I'm sorry, ok?" as I retreat into my room

All the while she glares at me like I am some sort of cyclops with a lisp singing the national anthem. But the funny thing is she has this half-smile on her face the whole time, yet I can see the judgement and hatred in her eyes. So as I slink into my room backwards (never turn your back on the enemy) she shakes her head in disgust while still smiling, her one gold-rimmed tooth catching the light somehow because it's super dim, not sure, must be some good gold they have here. I thought that speaking louder and slower when someone doesn't understand you was an inherently American thing. Apparently not-as the more I speak in English and shake my head the slower and louder she gets.

The worst was when I was really sick about two weeks ago. She chose the day I thought I was dying to berate me about leaving the air-conditioner in my room on. Again, like a dumb foreigner, I forgot to turn off my AC that basically is only a fan in between my trips to the bathroom. She scolded me in a long soliloquy and all I understood was "AC" and hand gestures and her half-disgust smile so I thought that probably was a bad thing. "Sorry..." I croaked as I clutched my stomach and ran to my room.

The next day I was fortunate enough to be leaving smog central to travel to Yogyakarta, the "cultural center" of Java (read: tourist destination and hotels with pools). Even if I was sick, I was getting the hell out of Jakarta and the hot windowless room and the maid who may or may not have poisoned me (or at the very least cast a curse on me). I couldn't figure out the cause of my sudden stomach ailment, of course you always go through the list of everything you ate...but I had eaten dinner at my friends house the night before, and none of them were sick...and no street food that day. My friend offered her opinion: "I bet it was the chili. You did eat a lot of chili." Considering I had a fever and explosive diarrhea, I don't think it was reflux due to the "chileee" as it is pronounced here. Indonesians love their chili-they have these little red and green ones that are super hot, and you can eat them whole or ground-up in a paste. I usually dab a little on whatever I eat, and that always earns a patronizing remark from whomever I am eating with: "OOoooo, are you sure you can handle the chili? It's really hot!" Indonesians are proud about a lot of things, but their food and it's spiciness is at the top of the list. "Yeah, I know. We do have spicy food in America, you know." "Yes, but Indonesian food is REALLY spicy. Be careful!" "Ok, thanks for the warning!" as I bite down cheerfully. This has backfired a few times as I have gotten an uber-spicy one that leaves me gasping for air and gulping water without ice :( but usually I can handle my own.

Two days after the dinner and the day after the abdominal misery set in, I had to go back by my friends house to print something. She was not there, but her husband was. He's kind of like the Indonesian version of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He gave me a look of pity as I plopped on his couch. "How are you feeeeeeling?" (I wish I coudl do better with the accent, but only can do so much with a keyboard).

"I'm ok, thanks."

"What happened?"

"Just got sick, I really am feeling better though, thank you."

"You know, I bet it was the chileeee. You really shouldn't eat the chileeee if you can't handle it." He stared at me with his little bald head and pencil moustache and 1980s square-rimmed glasses.

He was totally mocking me!

"No, I don't think it was the chili, actually."

"No, I bet it was. You ate too much. You should be more careful from now on."

It wasn't the F*ing chili!!! I wanted to scream, more annoyed than I should have been which I am going to blame on the fact that my abdomen felt like someone had tried to stuff two basketballs into it combined with caffeine-withdrawal headaches from lack of coffee. I would have taken on that battle about whether or not I could handle my chileees but I needed his printer and wanted to save my energy for making it to my flight so I could get the hell out of here, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

Yogya recharged my batteries, though, and I did avoid the chilis for awhile. When I got back to the city today I considered asking him out to lunch so I could prove my chileee-worthiness, but instead I just settled for eating alone in a warung down the street. Sometimes you have to face your demons head on-so I picked the items with the most red and seedy sauce I could find with minimal rice to damper down the taste and sat down to eat. Halfway through the meal I stopped to wipe off my forehead, but I finished all of it! I wondered if taking Zantac would be considered cheating, but decided no that was just smart, so I popped two and headed back out into the frantic Jakarta streets.

Someone once said that "true integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is looking." I think this same point can be said for proving something to yourself without anyone there to watch.

Especially if it's handling your chileeees.