A little cantina like from the Westerns, Mom and Pop affair near the bridge over the river on Jalan Tubun. Squid, 4–5 veg., pisang for dessert—not fried, natural in its skin—totalled Rp24k, perhaps for foreigners in panamas. Nevertheless, Rp5k cheaper than the average mall latte.
Pop had fallen from his mount chasing bad guys in a posse. Almost not a single word of English between the friendly, homely pair. Hello. Thank you.
Yesterday on departure Pop had got out something he recalled from Hollywood movies. Pop was softer; it was Mom’s eyes lighting up at the register.
— I love you! for his favourite new regular.
— Ah! You’re the best Pop.
A couple days earlier at a late lunch Pop had received two pals in the room behind—unrendered, unlit, couple of laundry tubs for wash-up. One could tell how far back the pals went as soon as they rocked up on their motor-cycles, Pop limping out to greet. On re-entry to settle the bill—bench out front gave a ringside seat for the captivating carnival of the street—the threesome were found on the floor of the second room, cardboard laid to soften the seating. That kind of cantina.
The event of that Sunday morning took place at the first lane along from the hotel drive, not fifty metres distant. Mom & Pop were on the other side of the bridge.
At the head of the lane one of the young traffic wardens directing bikes coming onto Tubun noticed a lad footing up the rise. Couple of quick words while the man waved three or four bikes safely through. The fellow tall, soiled white tee, knee-length shorts and baby-blue flip-flops. Usual wear in the heel and the balls of the feet.
How were the inner soles of the foot-wear spied so particularly? Well, therein lay the tale.
The pal coming up was shorter, tubby (where the other was the usual rake-thin). Darker tee and shorter length shorts; minus cap.
The traffic warden was equipped with head-cover.
Past midday; two days of rain previously. Now sun with a vengeance.
Ideally you would want head-cover, on point duty especially. Home-boy lacked both top and bottom— man was barefoot.
Unlike the children, not many of the adults on Tubun went barefoot. Not noticed immediately here. The fact of the matter was revealed only subsequently when the traffic warden called loudly after his man.
The tone told. Possibly the warden rose to his toes calling.
The chap hailed may have half-turned; only briefly going up Tubun in the gutter with the flow of the traffic. Wasn’t for stopping; clearly a march lay ahead.
What the warden had called was clarified by his action a moment later.
In his hailing the man had kicked out his feet in front of him, releasing the flip-flops. One foot, then the second, flipping the footwear before him. (Thereby partial wear revealed.)
Although the other may have half-turned and heard what his friend shouted, he did not see the corroborating action; the generous offer displayed. This was seen by others; possibly more than one on that busy street that was always a hive of activity.
One got such care and consideration, such brotherliness, in slums, true communities.
- The self-appointed traffic wardens were common both in Malaysia and Indonesia. In the case of Jakarta and its notorious traffic the lads provided an indispensable service. One young Blade at his crossing on Tubun paced the bitumen like a lord of the jungle, in turquoise tee and white flat-cap, former emblazoned: WHAT THE FUCK? UNBREAKABLE. Usually a twenty slipped the lads by appreciative drivers. Recently that particular bottle-neck in Jakarta had been relieved after the clearing of the street stalls by the new Governor, now President, Joko Wiwodo.
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