The torrential rain had stopped. My knee was hurting as I pushed the gas pedal.

“Stop here,” said Maureen.

“You really mean: here, in this place?”

“Yes, just here.”

“How much should I pay to the healer.”

“It’s really up to you. Giver her ten RM (=$ 2) or so.”

I left the road and drove onto an abandoned lot, with grass overgrowing remnants of old foundations, and brittle glass. Plastic junk and discarded car remnants lay scattered around. It wasn’t an inviting site, and didn't inspire a lot of confidence. One shouldn’t judge too quickly, I told myself. I parked the car on some broken concrete foundations.

“Are you sure I can leave my car here,” I asked Maureen.

“Sure, no problem,” she replied smiling. “We are poor, but good people. Come and see my cousin. She will fix your knee.”

I left the car, closed the lock, and followed Maureen. She walked ahead on a lane leading through bushes, and high grass, toward a shantytown huddled at the banks of the river. It smelled fresh after the rain, despite the lagoons of dark, dead water that loomed ahead and surrounded several huts made of weathered wood planks and rusty sheets from old gas drums.

We crossed a slippery bridge and reached the compound belonging to Maureen’s cousin. At the gate, two wool balls of tiny dog cubs greeted me. Then Maureen’s cousin opened the door, let us into her living room, and asked us to sit on the sofa. Primitive it was, the simple room was clean and radiated an atmosphere of kindness and love. Pictures of Jesus Christ hang on every edge of the room.

She served me some fish and water, and I shared a plate and a glass of tea with Maureen. The healer arrived. She was a Kajan  (Borneo tribe) lady in her sixties or seventies, elongated face, skinny body and tattoos on her hands and feet (see above picture).

She sat down on the ground, next to her pretty granddaughter, and invited me to sit down with her. She handed me a bunch of leaves and nuts collected from the jungle. Both tasted extremely bitter, and left a numb feeling on my lips and tongue. Maureen, her cousin and a handful of kids sat around in a circle, and watched the scene unfolding.

 I lay on the plastic floor mosaics and stretched out my legs. The lady reached out for a glass pot filled with some green paste. She took some of the green stuff, and rubbed  my right knee, quickly zooming in on a few very painful spots on the left inside.

Oh my God, it hurt so much! I felt like shooting up through the roof, and struggled to control my pain.  Skinny as she was, this lady had a handful of damned strength in her fingers.

After some twenty minutes or so, the pain subsided. Was it due to her massage, or an anesthetic response to some of those bitter jungle alkaloids I had been chewing just a while ago?

Be it as it may, the healer-lady smiled at me, and Maureen told me that the session was over. I expressed my gratitude, and left a bit of money as Maureen had suggested before. We said goodbye to the friendly family.

Then we walked back to my car. A drizzle of rain, as dusk fell. My knee didn’t hurt any longer.

© 2004 by Franz L. Kessler