The Moments I Almost Became a Netizen Comment in a CCTV Video

Before I had time to find a humane sitting position, the brother had already yanked the gas.

My body was automatically thrown backwards, because the laws of physics cannot be negotiated. My survival reflexes kicked in. My hands groped the air for something to hold on to.

Left empty. Right empty. Behind only the slippery tail of the motorbike without a gap.

In that moment I realized: without a grab bar, passengers only have two options:

  • Hold something that doesn't exist, or
  • Hold something that exists, but socially makes us suddenly become the subject of our own thoughts.

I want to be honest: hugging the driver—whoever he is—is not a matter of “taboo” or anything. It's about awkwardness. We've only known each other for five minutes, and then suddenly we have to hold on tight as if we were filming a dramatic scene in the middle of Sudirman. I'm not ready. The driver probably didn't ask for it either.

That's why I chose the third, more tragic option: blind gripping technique.

My hand groped under the seat, into the dirty undercarriage of the motorbike, looking for an iron frame, bolts, anything that could be a lifeline. I found a round iron full of mud, oil, and road dust that had turned into porridge because of the drizzle.

I gripped the iron as hard as I could.

My body position became absurd: leaning forward, my hands bent back and down, exactly like someone doing yoga level “regret being born”. But oh well. On a trondol motorbike, aesthetics don't matter. What matters is that I don't become news.

When Sudden Braking Occurs, I Realize That Slippery Seats Teach Many Things

The real torture is not during acceleration. The torture occurs during braking.

The drizzle makes the asphalt slippery in a cunning way. The vehicle slows down. And the driver, either because he has the soul of a racer or because he is chasing order targets, likes to brake suddenly.

Every time the brakes are pulled, my body slides forward because the seat is tilted and slippery. I slide like an ice skater who has lost his future.

And every time that happens, there is a small tragedy that makes me want to send a resignation letter to life: that very sensitive part of my body hits a hard part of the motorbike. The pain creeps from the bottom up, then suddenly makes me believe in the existence of prayer.

I'm sure the driver also felt something hit his back. There was a moment of silence between us—a kind of silent agreement not to talk about the incident that we both understood, in order to maintain the remaining dignity that was attached.

The problem is, the back-and-forth movement happened repeatedly throughout the trip. Fifteen kilometers to the office felt like a high-intensity physical exercise.

My hands were sore from gripping the undercarriage of the motorbike. My thighs were shaking to keep my body from sliding down. My abdominal muscles were working overtime. I went to work, but what I got was a free hell version of a gym program.

Bonus Track: My Back Was Used as a Tire Spray Target

Because the rear fender was trimmed, the motorbike tires freely spin water mixed with sand and “Jakarta street mysteries” into the air.

The splash didn't disappear. It went up. It landed. Right. On my back.

I could feel cold water smelling of soil and who knows what seeping into my jacket and wetting my shirt. It wasn't holy rainwater. It was water that had already mingled with asphalt, sewers, and the city's history.

I can already imagine: when I get to the office, the back of my shirt will have an abstract polka dot pattern in brown. An artwork that I didn't ask for, didn't pay for, but still received.

Arriving at the Office Lobby, I Walked Like Someone Fresh Out of a Circus Audition

Once I arrived, I got off with trembling legs. People might think I was nervous about giving a presentation. In fact, I was weak because I had spent almost an hour balancing myself on a motorbike that didn't provide basic facilities for passengers.

My hands were pitch black from oil and dust from under the motorbike. I handed over the helmet, which smelled like a combination of street wind, sweat, and memories.

I stared at the motorbike one more time.

From afar, it's cool. Up close, it's a modern instrument of torture.

And it is at this point that I feel the need to write this open letter—not to judge, but to remind. Because it's no longer a matter of modification taste. It's about: if you're carrying passengers, then you're carrying responsibility.

Brother, When the Application is Turned On, the Motorbike Changes Status

This is the most important part.

I understand that many ojol drivers pick up passengers with whatever motorbike they have. Fortune doesn't wait for the perfect motorbike. I'm also not asking everyone to change their motorbike to a large matic whose seat is as wide as an ex's sweet promises.

But there is one change of status that is often not realized:

When the ojol application is turned on and you accept an order, your motorbike is no longer just a private vehicle. The motorbike changes its function to become paid public transportation.

Public transportation—no matter how small—has an absolute requirement: passengers must be able to be safe and relatively comfortable.

And “safe” starts from simple things that are often considered trivial: a handle.

The Handle is Not an Ornament. It's a Life Anchor (And a Savior in Awkward Situations)

The rear handle or grab bar has a vital function:

  1. Safety.
    When you maneuver, avoid potholes, overtake, or brake, passengers need an anchor. That handle becomes the difference between “arriving” and “being thrown off”.
  2. Social comfort.
    The handle makes passengers not have to look for awkward ways to hold on. With grab handles, passengers have a safe space to maintain distance and maintain balance without having to stick too close.

Removing the grab handle when picking up passengers is roughly equivalent to a bus driver removing all the handrails inside the bus because he wants the interior to look “clean”. Passengers standing are told to hold on with faith.

If the goal is just style, go ahead. But don't practice it when carrying other people who pay for the service.

My Request Is Simple, Bro

I'm not asking you to replace the motorbike.

I'm not asking you to stop modifying.

I'm just asking: return the basic features that make the motorbike suitable for carrying other humans.

  • Reinstall the rear grab handle.
    If the original grab handle has been sold for a loud exhaust (I understand everyone's priorities are different), buy an aftermarket grab handle or have one made at a welding shop. The important thing is that it has a function.
  • If possible, install a reasonable fender.
    I'm sure you also don't want passengers to get off and then curse inwardly because their backs become a mud painting board.
  • And if the back seat is slippery like a newly washed pan, at least find a solution: a seat cover that is not dangerous.

This is not about “the motorbike not being cool.” This is about passengers not becoming victims of aesthetics.

If You Still Want a Total Clean Look, There's a More Elegant Way

If you really want the motorbike to remain 100% stripped down for style, I'm not forbidding it.

But don't pick up general passengers.

Turn off the application. Use the motorbike for personal needs, hanging out, or touring. Picking up online motorcycle taxi passengers with a motorbike that is not passenger-friendly is like opening a food stall but refusing to provide plates: customers end up eating with their own hands, and then are blamed for being messy.

Or, if you still want to pull, then pull people who are already familiar and comfortable with the situation. Don't involve us workers who are already struggling to endure life and installments—and then have to hold our bodies on the leaning seat without holding on.

We just want to get to the office with:

  • an intact body,
  • a back that doesn't become a mural,
  • and without having to think about the fate of the tailbone all day long.

That's all for this open letter. I'll take my leave, because I still have to go to the office toilet to scrub my hands with soap until the oil from under the motorcycle is gone, and make sure my body is still in the proper anatomical position.

Greetings one asphalt. But please, give us something to hold on to.