Dealing with reality as the ghosts of uncertainty

I imagine I am "Narko", living in the poor enclave of Penjaringan, North Jakarta. I have just been woken up by the concert of manual water pumps being used by our neighbors to pump up underground water.

It is a Monday morning. The hustle and bustle of the city has started again. But actually, for people like us it is not a matter of starting over again on Monday. It is rather starting over again and again every day. As if all days are Mondays. No Saturdays or Sundays to break one week from the next.

"Hurry up To. You have to be there on time to take the test," my mother shouts from the front of our five-by-seven meter wooden house, while helping my father, who was about to depart for work.

This morning I will join a recruitment test with a private company in Tanjung Priok. I really hope I get the job.

After my rice-and-tempeh breakfast, I walk toward the nearest bus stop, where I board a public bus. I disembark at a bus shelter near Tanjung Priok and then take a taxi to make sure I arrive at the company on time for the test.

The taxi fare is Rp 18,700, which is based on the new rate. But when I give the driver Rp 20,000, he does not give me any change. He just says, "This is a normal practice here."

When I enter the company building, an employee tells me that I had been excluded from the test. "We're very sorry. We made a mistake in sending you an invitation letter to join the test. We thought you were a university graduate. But in fact you only have a diploma," she said.

I feel so disappointed. I leave the building quickly and take a public bus in the direction of Pulogadung terminal, where my father conducts his business.

A minute later newspaper boys board the bus. "The government has raised fuel prices by an average of 120 percent. It's too much. Unemployment, poverty will be increasing. We already have 50 million poor people. Read this paper," one of them yells.

The driver lurches forward, zigzagging through empty lanes as if a monster is chasing us. He seemingly wants to impress upon people that he can do anything he likes -- right or wrong -- as long as there as there are no police around to look out for.

After some time, the driver stops far from a bus shelter. Two men get inside, while having a serious discussion. "Don't expect too much from the government. It is money, not the people, that rules this country. And when money talks, the truth is silent," one of them says.

About a kilometer from the terminal, the bus driver and conductor tell all the passengers to get off the bus and take another one.

"But you promised to take us inside the terminal. Now you have broken your own promise," a passenger complains while getting off. But the conductor and driver just smile and go on making a U-turn.

While other passengers take another bus, I just walk. All the distressing realities flash through my mind: Taxi drivers 'extorting' passengers by rounding off the fare on the meter. Bus drivers who do not feel obliged to take passengers to the terminals as they have promised.

People have to pay much more for public services, such as identity cards and passports although the cost stipulated by the government is much lower.

Many other laws are just pleasant realities on paper. But when it comes to the practice they could become monsters.

Suddenly, I see public order officers conducting a raid on street vendors. The vendors scramble to rescue their belongings, but the officers manage to take most of their goods.

A woman, helped by her two small children, desperately defends her belongings. "Please sir, don't take my goods," she pleads.

But the security officers just take the goods and throw them mercilessly onto their trucks, leaving the woman crying and yelling. "We got permission from the local administration. Now you say this is illegal," she barks angrily.

Like other common people, the woman cannot do anything about it. The realities for them no longer hold any certainty, but are the ghosts of uncertainty.

Seeing the realities here is like seeing the beautiful ghosts depicted on Indonesian films. We see them as real, but they are not actually real. When we start dealing with them they turn into various kinds of scary faces.

A melancholic song from noted singer Bob Tutupoli is heard from a small radio held by an old man who managed to rescue his goods from the raid: "Sampai Kapankah Aku harus begini...Mungkinkah terus begini?...Mengapa?..." (Until when I will have to endure this. Will it be forever?...Why?...")

The song carries me deep inside my head until, not concentrating on the path ahead, I run into an iron pole, banging my head on it. I look up and it is a traffic sign that reads: "Sampai Rambu Berikutnya" (Until the Next Traffic Sign).

I continue walking down the road, my forehead throbbing with pain and the traffic sign keeps echoing in my mind: Sampai Rambu berikutnya... It is a real traffic sign. But it does not show what kinds of signs lie ahead. -- Benget Simbolon Tnb.