Motorcycle Emptiness

"Shoot, coward, you're only going to kill a man"

Ernesto Guevarra, seconds before he was executed
(October 9, 1967. La Higuera, Bolivia)


The asphalt felt soggy.
The air smelt like crystallized water vapour. It was raining for about 20 minutes and the only shelter was a helmet and some pair of wheels below. An overcrowded bridge, 100 meter in front, didn't seemed exactly what Mirra Ginsburg had in mind about the mushroom. But, it was the closest thing available in today's Jakarta on sharing and solidarity.

Time after time, the roads are the same. The same old potholes, the same old crowded intersection, the same old traffic light which switch red way to early. But the medium was different this time. Ubiquitous (and annoying) as they may appear when you're behind the wheel, you feel joy when you feel first hand the thing you hate the most. Back peddling the carriage on your bear foot rather than shifting to reverse gear, finding the tiniest alleyway between cars in congestion, making sudden turns to avoid the pool of water. You don't know (or don't care) your every move causing another person's coronary surgery to happen faster. You say to yourself, you only got these two hands and these two feet to survive. So, bare with me because this how I get ends to meet.

And here I am being apart of the anti-establishment, causing another curse from that car driver because I just made a left turn without signalling. Well, driver I only got these two hand and these two feet. So, you might as well stay put and lay back on your retractable cushioned chair while I do all the hard work.

Ngeeeenggggg.