A Wonderful Life

Coming out of the Grand Lucky grocery store this morning, I was greeted by a violent downpour of rain, and so of course rather than swim over to my motorbike, I joined a line of smokers sheltering under the storefront roof. I found myself standing beside the same very tall man I had been standing behind in the grocery line. He was tall as well sitting down. 

"Would you like my seat?, he asked, starting to get up. 

" No, no, I'm fine."

(Gosh, how embarrassing it is to be so obviously old that a younger man offers his seat. But hey, I have my pride).

So I struck up a conversation. 

"What are you, about 6'5"?"

"6-6," he said. 

"Wow, that's tall."

"Yeah, especially here in Indonesia."

"Ha ha. Indeed." 

We exchanged a few common details after that. Where are you from? How long have you been here? And so on. As it turned out, the young man, maybe late twenties I figure, was from Syria.

"Well then you must be quite tall back home as well," I noted. 

"No,' he said. "I'm always the shortest one in any room." 

Holy cow! It's a nation of giants. Perhaps The offspring of the nephilim, who knows? 

Anyway, we continued our conversation about this and that, and it continued to rain, and eventually the conversation settled on how so many foreigners spend their time here complaining about everything. They complain about the traffic, they complain about the drivers, they complain about the culture and all of the ceremonies, they complain about the service, they complain that things are not the same as they are in their own countries. 

"They ought to be learning about the people, appreciating a different culture, respecting the traditions, opening themselves to other ways, he said. "Instead they complain."

Too true. I've seen this many times in my years here, even among foreign residents. Everything is better back home. Why then are they here? It's a puzzle. There are, as I told the young man, many foreigners here who just hang out in their own national groups, the French with the French, the Australians with the Australians, and so on. They don't learn the language, they don't join in the lifestyle. Their constant sport is simply complaining.

Well we moved on to how I had come to be here and to the various countries we had visited, including Japan, and also China, where he had studied language. He teaches language back in Syria. 

"How did you like Hong Kong?, he asked. "Did you get to see much of it while you were there." 

"I'm sure I did," I answered, "although it's not like I can remember much. I remember enjoying myself. But my girlfriend planned the whole thing, so we were back and forth and up and down and who knows where." 

"Your girlfriend from here?"

"Yes. Java."

At this he smiled approvingly. 

"You have a great life, Sir." 

The rain had now ceased, and the giant man offered his giant hand for me to shake. 

Folks, we are all the same. Most of us are just the same, wanting to connect, seeing one another as fellow human beings. The haters would like us to see things differently. They would like to pit us against one another with lies and fables and accusations, relying on a lack of actual knowledge and experience. But don't let the haters win. That's my Christmas message. We have so much more in common than they would like us to think. 

It is indeed a wonderful life.