I pace the car slowly. This city deserves its famous legendary traffic, I thought. After almost 3 months of daily driving, I realized that traffic does not tend to bring the best in people. Apparently, being stuck incites the feeling of a zero-sum situation. Honks everywhere; some people just cannot realize that loudness does little in ensuring a smoother ride. I sip my coffee in a disguised annoyance from my I heart Jakarta tumbler that the Bear had personalized for me. It is black and bitter, just the way I prefer it.

My brother who sometimes shares the ride with me is vast asleep on the first passenger chair. He reminds me of a cat sleeping in the sun on the porch during the lazy afternoons. I brake and noticed that he too had noticed the simple change in motion. He looks up sleepily, slowly observed the abundance of stationary cars around for 2 seconds before he falls back into another round of sleep.

I feel the Friday morning blues subsiding; I had become increasingly awake and aware of my surroundings. Another honk, another angry driver. Bangsat, he cursed. An intriguing thing about the Indonesians I realized is how they can be incredibly angry at one second and in another shares the most sincere smile when he walks in the office. It’s as if they have two personas, one for traffic mode and another for working mode.

The traffic light turned red and brought an army of street sellers along with it. Various assortments from mints to sweets, energy drinks to water, mangoes to fried tofu, little electric cars and mini whiteboards , faces on covers of the latest daily newspapers and magazines are offered straight to my window to which I politely said no to.

A man walked towards my car. His face looked down, conveying the implicit difficulties he is having through this simple act. He was carrying another man, whose face was dim and eyes demanded my gaze. His legs looked unhealthily thin
Thoughts raced in my head. To give or not to give, that is the question. I did not have any food nor water that I could give. Having grown up in this city, I am aware of the existence of mobs who send kids with babies, along with the disabled to the streets of Jakarta for money, anything, in exchange for nothing more than shelter.

Some of the disabled were not born that way, and wouldn’t more money act as an incentive for such behavior in the first place? I weigh the marginal costs and benefits associated with each act, and found myself back in the same place where I started.

I opened my window and gave me some of my change. The man carried looked at me and smiles, broken and yellowing teeth in full display of sincerity. The man carrying him remained motionless, and the only reaction he gave was to move on. After all, I had bought what he was selling: moral justification.