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By the way ... How I learned to stop worrying and love the 'ojek'
There was Steve McQueenâs high-speed chase through the streets of San Francisco in Bullit
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here was Steve McQueen's high-speed chase through the streets of San Francisco in Bullit. There was the terrifying wrong-way-down-the-freeway scene in William Friedken's To Live and Die in LA.
And then there was my ojek (motorcycle taxi) ride from Pancoran to Plaza Senayan, Central Jakarta, the other morning.
As my driver abandoned the crowded road and leapt into the opposite lane to advance a quick 10 meters, I marveled at how I have changed. Driving at speed down the wrong side of the street really used to worry me when I lived in the West.
Ahead, a mikrolet flashes its lights, indicating that the driver will accelerate to ramming speed.
'Oh, dear God, no!' I think. 'Is the ojek driver going to make it back into our lane in time?' As if this is a movie (The Fast and the Furious 8: Jakarta Apocalypse) happening to someone else.
We make it back into our lane. The journey continues.
I've been using ojek for five years. While I've never had an accident, my commuting habits have changed.
For example, I've stopped choosing ojek with rear-view mirrors that have been shattered, cracked or are missing, although I am not sure what good it will do. (The last time I saw an ojek driver use a mirror was never.)
I am also more religious man now ' and I am not just talking about daily exclamations of 'Oh, dear God, no!'
As my ojek accelerates to zoom through the gap between a converging Metro Mini and a Kijang, I recite a Christian prayer for travelers I found in the in-flight magazine of a local budget airline.
'Keep from us all danger of collision, of fire, of explosion, of fall and bruises,' the prayer goes. 'Guide us to our heavenly home.'
We make it through. The journey continues.
It is nice to know that the ojek drivers I find amid the gangs of Jakarta are as pious as I am. Just look at the decals typically covering the (non-functioning) odometer of the bikes ' flowery Arabic script proclaiming the Shahada ('There is no God but God, and Muhammad is His Prophet').
A working odometer is irrelevant, in any case. Drivers prize movement above all else, such as in finding short cuts that might be 2 kilometers out of the way but which allow us to keep the momentum going.
There are only two actual speeds when traveling by ojek: (a) macet total (complete standstill) or (b) I'm going to wind up as a dark smear on the side of a Transjakarta bus by the end of this trip.
My Indonesian wife, who would rather have me drive the car, has forbidden me, a Westerner, from driving a motorcycle myself. She doesn't understand that I enjoy my twice-daily near-death experiences.
Wind rushing through my helmet's open faceplate as we hurtle over the Jl. Kasablanka flyover, I feel like a World War I flying ace - except we're dodging SUVs and bajaj instead of Sopwith Camels or Fokker triplanes.
The venerable WW1 pilots also offer a valuable piece of wisdom for the daredevil drivers of today: There are old ojek drivers and bold ojek drivers, but there are very few old, bold ojek drivers.
I remember thinking how bold (or foolhardy) I was in Setiabudi, watching a middle-aged Western businessman, dressed in suit and tie, riding an ojek, clutching the back with both hands.
Obviously a newbie, I thought. Don't worry about it.
Holding on matters for naught, given the invisible inundated potholes, ojeks carrying dozens of chickens, ojeks carrying huge refrigerators, spontaneous lane changes, kamikaze-like Metro Mini drivers, distracted Kijang drivers and pouring rain.
There's absolutely nothing a passenger can do to avoid harm while on the back of an ojek - except pray.
' Christian Razukas
