Wheels

Two cycles en route to the Warnet, first motorized and second pushing. Three youths in fact; two vehicles. The first was a pair of either high school or college students in matching camel safari-shirt uniforms. (Many of the universities of the region had retained smart military-inspired uniforms from earlier generations as optional wear.) The girl was pillion, lad in front with his arm out signaling. Rare as is any such incidence here on the Equator (even Singapore), the rider must have been signaling. Coming to a stop at lights there had been some kind of exchange up the road that had drawn a long face behind, downcast eyes and a Pieta look of abstraction. A little worry and fretting here that would only spur love one could tell instantly from the distance of the footpath; the merest glance in a single moment showed the position; further enquiry needless.
         The sign clearly presented, what followed was unnecessary confirmation. Downcast and troubled, obstacles and difficulties. In the midst the lad's signaling arm caught the girl's attention. The lad’s hand emerged from a roughly rolled and creased sleeve that the girl now tugged lightly out, straightened and folded properly to make a nice new regular neat cuff. Years of happiness lay on the road ahead, off they sped toward it.
         The second lad outside the Warnet added pure comedy. Many times the same action had been witnessed in Singapore as well as the wider Malay world. In the former case it was always the Indian and Bangla construction workers on cheaply scavenged bicycles giving the display. In Indonesia there was almost nothing but for two-wheeled pushies, rusty old creaking wrecks offered for sale at numerous road-side stores.
         Coming up to Tugu the old Fred Flintstone hoof—here the sandal—more reliable than any fancy braking system of wires and levers.