Labyrinth of life under Grogol overpass

Labyrinth of life under Grogol overpass

By Mehru Jaffer

JAKARTA (JP): Masija, 23, is pregnant again. Already a mother of four-year-old Faan, the young woman with an aging face and a terrible odor has no home, no job and no dreams. Unless, of course, sleeping under the Grogol overpass can be called home, begging a job and starving, sick children her only dream.

Masija was 14 years old when she left her village in Jepara, Central Java, to join her mother, Sumarti, 40, in Jakarta. Sumarti runs a food stall under the same bridge. Apart from Masija she has small children of her own, the youngest one being as old as Faan, her grandson who was born with a terrible squint and looks half his age.

The food stall brings in about Rp 150,000 per day, an amount which is used to restock the stall and to feed about 10 people from the family. In between attending to customers at the stall, the men, women and children of the family also cross the road to the Grogol Bus Terminal to supplement their income by begging.

Masija is aware that many women her own age elsewhere in the capital spend their time working in often glamorous jobs, living in nice homes and traveling. Since there is no harm in dreaming, she sometimes wishes for a life like that. Yet she knows what her problem is and why she is destined to live the way she does. It is not education. It is not unemployment.

"It is all about money. If I had money I could use it to have an operation for Faan, to stop myself from begging and to allow my mother to take a rest from having to struggle from morning to night to feed us," said Masija.

"The village has everything except money and here we have money but nothing else," she added, an ironic smile crossing her face. If and when she has enough money, she would like to open a food stall in Jepara. Despite the occasional raids by the authorities, including several last week, Masija and the others will continue to call the overpass home because there is no other option.

Below numerous bridges around Jakarta there exists a world which is not visible from the cars speeding overhead. It is amazing to see an entire replica of human existence as it is lived in the more upmarket areas of Jakarta.

Here homes are divided into rooms as well, although the partition is made from discarded cardboard boxes instead of cement and paint. There is no need for a roof here because the overpass provides the highest ceiling possible, comparable only to the ceilings at the ancient palaces.

The bedroom area may not have spring mattresses, but there are enough rags to wrap around when it rains or blows too cold. An open pipe serves as a bathroom where none is disturbed; each one guards the other while residents answer the call of nature or clean themselves in the dark of the night. There are people eating, crying, singing, giving birth, falling in love and fighting, too. They are the same as other Jakarta residents but the difference is that life under the flyovers seems to stink in more ways than one.

There are children whose skin has lost its glow even before they started to walk due to malnutrition, pollution and the constant consumption of contaminated water. The people giggle and crack crude jokes at each other not due to contentment or happiness, but to hide the embarrassment of their very existence. They eat not for pleasure but only because they would starve if they refused the food cooked with the stagnant waters of the nearby canal or river.

For 30 years Suhartini, 46, has run a food stall on the campus of Trisakti University opposite the overpass with the sole aim of feeding herself and her four children.

Sometimes the hope did flicker in her mind that her children would be inspired by the students of the university to study and become important people in life. However, none of her children showed any interest in going to school.

Like all the other teenagers living under the bridge, they dropped out of school after two or three years. Today they sing on street corners, direct traffic or beg for money. The thought of what tomorrow might have in store seldom crosses their minds.

The student demonstrations on the campus two years ago fascinated Atin, 17, as she watched from her cardboard box bedroom. She had little clue as to what was going on but she did get excited, even joining the large crowd of students to shout slogans she did not understand.

Her friend Rita is so beautiful that she could easily be mistaken for a film actress. She is only 19 years old but already a mother of a three year old and a two year old. The father of her children has abandoned her and recently the street singer made friends with another man, a bus conductor. It seems only a matter of time now before Rita will be pregnant again, adding to the swelling mass of hungry, uneducated and unemployed children who are looked upon as a public nuisance by the city administration.

It was time to flee from all the noise, heat and odors into the Pizza Hut in the Ciputra Mall, which is only a hop and a skip away from the settlement of hundreds of people living under the overpass. In this setting it was easier to ponder the grave problem of the country's lost generation of 10 million children between six years to 18 years who are already on the street begging for survival.

When scrubbing one's hands thoroughly in an air-conditioned toilet of the shopping mall, the sweet smell of the soap soon took over after the putrid odors outside. Still, the disturbing question that can nothing be done about the Masijas, Atins and the Ritas of Jakarta refused to be washed away.