Winner pipwusa

You know you're in deep shit when your column deadline is in five hours, and you haven't written a single word.

My mug has been long empty, yet my brain is still nowhere near as useful as the new coffee filter. The trash I just bought doesn't even hold the coffee residue properly. I need to bring it back to the store and ask for a refund.

Staring at my blank screen, my mind wanders to the place I'm about to write. I've been to several countries in my life, but it was my first time flying to the other side of the globe for a duty purpose. Not for leisure. Not for tourist sightseeing. Not for having fun. Just for work. Surprisingly, the place leaves a deep impact on me, and it changes my life value.

I was ecstatic when I received my first assignment: writing a blog about Jakarta. A city that never sleeps, so they say. And it's true.

During my ninety-day stay in the capital city of Indonesia, I was set to help out in an English course as a temporary teacher. My employer hoped that I could get the experience of living as a resident and learn about the city dynamic closely. It was also the very reason I rented a room in a nonfluent neighborhood and became a part of the majority social class in this metropolitan city.

Jakarta offers all kinds of business opportunities. It's heaven for people who want to gamble their luck. They might get lucky or get beaten by its harsh life. Often, they're forced to live on the street or go back to their hometown empty-handed.

It has two sides of coins for sure. Between the tall buildings and never-ending traffic jams, I still remember how people lurked around the pavement —even on the street— to sell all kinds of things. The humid weather and high polluted air were pretty overwhelming, but once I hit the pavement full of food vendors which offered all kinds of snacks, heavy meals, beverages, even fruits, I was sold. Yes, I'd been warned about the low hygiene and food poisoning, but hey, who could resist the temptation?

I loved the people, too. They were friendly and laid back. Despite the low wage and uncertainty about the future —the pension support system hadn't been well developed, and people didn't seem to worry at all. They enjoyed life as it was.

"Every day has its own luck, Veerle!" Anna, one of my colleagues, said. "We never know if we're still breathing tomorrow."

"But nothing is free, right? What'll happen when you stop earning money someday?" I asked curiously. I knew she didn't have enough savings. Hell, she even had a long list of installment bills to pay every month.

"That's why we invested our money for our kids' education."

I knitted my eyebrows. "Are you saying your kids need to pay for your expenses during your pension years? But don't they have their own bills to pay? How would they build a better life if we keep doing that to our kids?"

From the frown on her face, I knew I'd overstepped. Shit.

"I'm sorry," I said. "This is just... totally different from what I know. But every country has its own thing, of course, and it's not necessarily worse or better. Just ignore my question."

"I guess," Anna replied, "this is how it is. We can't expect much from our government. And we're not all born rich; we can't choose our family. All we can do is survive this with what we have. We support each other as a family while being grateful that we still have food every day."

One day, I had a conversation with Minah, the maid in the house I was staying at. She was an eighteen-year-old girl who had been working there for two years. Coming from a low social class, she was forced to come to the capital city after giving birth to her daughter. Her young husband was too lazy to provide for his family, while her mother, her only parent, was too weak to work on the farm.

"Do you like living in Jakarta, Minah?" I asked, letting the audio google-translate repeat after me in Indonesian. That was how we communicated from time to time.

She smiled and shook her head.

"You don't like this job?"

She shrugged, not giving me a clear answer.

"What kind of job do you like then?"

"It doesn't matter, as long as it's close to home," she answered.

"And there's no job around your home?"

She shook her head again.

"How old is your girl?"

She raised her two fingers.

"She's big already," I beamed. "For how long do you want to do this job?"

She frowned and shrugged. "When I have enough money, I'll go home." Which was an indefinite time, probably.

"But what about your daughter?"

"She's safe home with my mother. My responsibility is to make sure my family has food to eat every day. My daughter will understand someday." Instead of resentment because of a hard life she had to endure, I saw the glint of pride and determination in her eyes. "I have no choice. What's more important than family?"

I gulp at the memory. I'm ten years older than her, yet all I've done was jumping from one job to another because there's always something to complain about.

Minah stood tall, embracing all the tests in her life at a very young age for her family. Even Anna, who was in a higher social class, still had to prepare her kids for better education so that they could take care of their family later, including her. All these support systems they built revolved around one point: family.

Instead of starting to write, I grab my phone, and my thumb scrolls down the screen until I see the name of a person I haven't contacted for years. Mom.

And I press the "call" button.