My Driver

My driver's mother passed away this week. Margono came inside the store where I was picking up a few things we were out of: eggs, milk, bread. He found me in the aisle with the condiments. Rows of chili sauces and soy sauces (so many varieties) next to the staples of yellow mustard and tomato sauce (aka catchup). I knew something was wrong right away. He'd never come into the store to get me before. Always just waiting patiently outside for me to finish.

He approached and tried to tell me, then stopped and turned away. Pulling a striped handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at his eyes until he could speak again.

I left the shopping cart right there, at the end of the aisle next to the display of overpriced lasagna noodles and Prego spaghetti sauce. We drove home together so he could get his motorcycle. On the drive home, I asked about his mother and family. "Siapa nama indu anda?" I asked. Without pause, but with a trembling chin he replied, "Maria. Her name is Maria."

He needed to leave right away. No doubt he would be departing Jakarta that same day to travel back to his village for his mother's funeral. In the Muslim tradition, his mother's body would need to be buried quickly, customarily within twenty-four hours. I expressed my condolences and wished him safe in his travels.

I stood there in my driveway, the car still warm from the running engine. How little I know about the man who drives my family and I. It is not because I haven't tried...in English and in my limited Bahasa. He is just a quiet man.

I took stock of what I did know. He is nearly sixty. A driver for expat families since 1974. He is a father or three and a proud grandfather of one. Like him, his wife works full time. His children all attended school and are grown. One is a banker. One is a teacher. One is a mother. He knows every side-street, alley, and short-cut there is to know in Kemang. He can get me to Jakarta International School in less than thirty minutes--a tremendous feat as far as I'm concerned. He never shows frustration in heavy traffic. He arrives early for work everyday. He plays basketball with Charlotte in our cal-de-sac. He carries the groceries into the house with me. He likes Durian (smelly fruit) and nasi goreng (fried rice). When his wife was sick, he did the cooking and he said laughingly that they ate nothing but vegetables because that's all he knew how to cook.

Today I learned something else. He loves his mother. Of this, I'm sure.