Legal Literacy - Wednesday in Jakarta is a kind of “in-between†level that God deliberately set to test the patience of mankind. Not Monday, which we can still lie to with false enthusiasm, not Friday, which we can court with the hope of the weekend. Wednesday is the day when energy is only half left, the wallet starts to thin because of excessive “self reward†snacks, and deadlines pile up as high as guilt towards oneself.
And as usual, the universe feels our lives are still too easy.
That morning, the most annoying type of rain fell: a persistent drizzle. Not a heavy rain that forces us to take shelter and surrender. This is a rain that comes gently, politely, but is slowly evil. It doesn't beat, it seeps. After standing on the side of the road waiting for a ride for ten minutes, we realize: “Oh, this isn't a drizzle. This is a method of torture.â€
In a half-wet condition—sticky shirt, cold jacket, life getting harder—ojol applications become a kind of prayer that can be ordered via cellphone. My thumb dances. I hope to get a driver with a matic motorbike whose seat is wide, soft, and if possible has an aura of a “walking sofaâ€.
Of course, that hope is arrogance.
From a distance, the sound of an exhaust that is not just a sound appears: it is a declaration of war. A sports motorbike approaches, its roar breaking the concentration of people in the sub-district. As soon as it stopped right in front of me, I did a quick scan from front to back, then my spirit of life collapsed elegantly.
That motorbike is dashing, yes. Fierce, yes. But for passengers, that motorbike is a thrill-seeking ride.
The back seat is tilted like a miscalculated kindergarten slide. The fender is completely cut off for the “wasp tail†style, meaning splashes of water and road sand will have VIP access to my back. And the sin that I feel most personally: the rear handle is missing.
The iron handle disappeared. Plain. Slippery. Pointed. As if the motorbike was saying, “Please get on, Sir. Let's see your faith.â€
The driver greeted from behind his helmet, confirming the order. I swallowed. In my head there is a great urge to cancel—not because I don't appreciate the brother's hard work—but because I also appreciate my own tailbone.
However, office hours never care about passenger trauma. Today's delay could lead to a cold HR gaze that exceeds the lobby's AC. So I got on. Slowly. Resignedly. With full awareness that this trip will test physical, mental, and social honor.
Three Safe Modification Sins for Style, But Unsafe for Passengers
I understand that for many people, motorcycles are an identity. A canvas. A medium of expression. There is a “clean look†stream that considers trinkets an aesthetic sin. The mirrors are reduced, the fenders are removed, the grab rails are removed so that the tail of the motorbike looks pointed and “racingâ€.
I'm not arguing about that.
What I question is only one thing: why is that style brought when you are transporting paying passengers?
Because in my experience, there are three sins of modification that if used to pick up ojol riders—especially when it's raining—it's no longer a matter of taste, but a matter of safety:
- Grab rails removed.
This is not an accessory. This is a passenger's survival tool. - Fenders trimmed.
This is not “tidying upâ€. This makes the passenger's back a canvas for street mud. - Narrow and slippery back seat.
In wet conditions, the seat transforms into a slide.
The problem is, I've already sat on top of that combination of three sins.
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