November 19, 2008

Dear Friends,

2008 is a banner year for a number of reasons, and here’s one especially meaningful to me: for the first time in human history, more people worldwide live in cities than in the countryside. I certainly feel the push of humanity shifting en masse from rural to urban dwelling. I live in a city of over 15 million people that increases by a quarter of million each year, as rural Indonesians come to the city seeking the proverbial gold at the end of the rainbow.

Becca crossing creek on her way to work, Jakarta, November 19, 2008.

I begin each weekday morning facing Jakarta traffic, which is notoriously horrendous. If you want to get a taste of how bad it is, go to www.youtube.com and type in the words, “Jakarta traffic” to see how many people have filmed the insanity of it. One good example is a video entitled “Jakarta’s Traffic Jam,” which shows cars and buses sitting idle at a roundabout while dedicated members of the police force stand along the side of the road and watch the cars not go by. One of them tries waving some cars forward for a while but eventually gives up.

To catch my first form of transport, I cross a small creek then hop into something called a “mikrolet”—a large SUV with the back seats removed and replaced by two long benches. I pay twenty cents for a three-minute ride to the nearest overpass. The mikrolet lets me off in the middle of the road. The driver wants to go under the bridge and I want to walk to the top of it, so he drops me off at the median between the road and the off-ramp.

Small bus ("mikrolet") that is part of Becca's daily commute, Jakarta, November 19, 2008.

After navigating the stream of oncoming traffic to the top of the ramp, I jump onto something called a Kopaja bus, “Kopaja” being an abbreviation for “Jakarta Traffic Cooperative.” It’s a medium-sized bus that merely slows down to take on and let off passengers, rather than coming to a complete stop. I have had to perfect the art of grabbing a handrail and leaping onto a moving bus. If I leave the house around 6:00 a.m., I can get a seat, but by 6:30 it’s already packed and I have to stand. There’s a 24-second video on YouTube called “Jakarta Bus” that pans the inside of one of these buses, so you can see exactly what I experience each morning, including the added bonus of live music.

When ready to alight, I bang on the ceiling of the bus to get the driver to slow down, push my way through the crowd, and leap off the bus to the pavement below. It only took one experience of falling and scraping my hands and knees for me to learn the art of how to make the jump—left foot first, so that your right foot serves as your break.

After saying a prayer of thanks for surviving the jump, I then wait for the next bus. This one is a full-size bus but is driven like a Formula One race car. Since the driver knows he’s the biggest vehicle on the road, he takes advantage of it and rarely bothers to signal lane changes or stop at red lights. But brightening the journey are the various musical performances—there’s usually a guitarist, sometimes accompanied by a young child shaking an old water bottle filled with dried beans. Occasionally it’s a band of up to five people, complete with a portable drum set, who manage to arrange themselves in the narrow bus aisle and belt out the latest Indonesian pop hit. Just a few days ago, a man who was mute got on and handed out small envelopes explaining his condition (and hoping for a donation in the envelope), then stood at the front of the bus and soundlessly, courageously,  mouthed the words to a song. It was quite touching.

The ride on the big bus constitutes the last leg of my journey. As I attempt to get off at my stop near the seminary, I have to bang on the window of the open-bus door to remind the driver that I have not yet alighted. I cross yet another street, which means walking out into traffic that never stops. The final process is a walk against traffic along the side of the road, because the sidewalk has been torn up and not yet repaired, and in this rainy season it’s an impassable sea of mud.

I’m always quite relieved when I’m inside the seminary gate. It provides all of us who work and study there a sanctuary within this raucous city. I am blessed with an office on the back side of the campus, enjoying a third-floor view of trees and a slight breeze through my open windows.

Later, when I’m done with my work for the day, I wait until about 7:00 p.m. in order to avoid the afternoon rush hour. Then it’s time to repeat the morning’s commute in reverse, arriving home to have a bite to eat and sleep before beginning the process over again the next morning.

Most Indonesians who hear that I brave public transport every day are shocked. They warn me about the dangers, tell me to hold my purse tightly and watch for pickpockets. I’m always touched by their concern for me and their unwavering belief that my home country is free of such threats.

But the reality is that the vast majority of my fellow commuters are ordinary Indonesians on their way to an honest day’s work. They are primarily women, since many of the men ride motorcycles. They are mostly young and dedicated, and they constitute the backbone of Indonesia’s labor force. Some are veiled, some are dressed quite stylishly, and all sit in respectful silence for the duration of the ride, never complaining as the buses jolt us from side to side. They willingly give up five or ten cents of their hard-earned money to the yet poorer musicians who entertain us with a song along the way.

I feel honored every time one of the other passengers politely makes room for me to sit beside her to share our early morning ride in the midst of the crazy urban chaos called Jakarta.

The 2008 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 94