The Haunting Side of Jakarta

A figure is on the ground. In the dark of early morning, with no one around but a few drowsy guards, I am alone.  At first I think the mound is a pile of construction debris covered by a tarp. But as I get closer, I see something much different.

It is a person. He is curled on his side, asleep. I have seen plenty of people sleeping on the ground here in Jakarta. In fact, Indonesians seem to be able to sleep just about anywhere: on their parked motorcyles, stretched on a wooden bench, and yes, even on the ground. What is different about this person, is there is nothing cushioning him from the biting asphalt except his thin clothes. No bamboo mat, not even a cut-up cardboard box.

He lies on a small driveway where there is an incline of asphalt between the road and a locked high gate.  If he were to stretch out, his feet would be in the street. He lies so perfectly still that for a moment I wonder if he is still breathing. And I wonder what brought him here. How exhausted, desperate, or sick would a person be to sleep on the hard ground?

There is something so troubling about this sight, that I cannot think of anything else for the rest of my run.

As soon as I get home, I grab some cash, get in my car and drive back to the spot.

He is still there. Just as before. The only difference now is the sun is up. And so I can see him more clearly. He looks smaller in the daylight. His bare feet and legs are covered with sores. His shorts are frayed and filthy.

I park my car on the side of the road and get out. I call to him softly, not wanting to startle him, "Pak?" (Mr.?) He remains still.

I reach out and pat his bony shoulder.

He lifts his head, and for the first time I see his face. This is no man, nor even a teenager. He is a boy. No older than my own son.

I am as startled by the sight as he is by being woken. But when I hold up the money, he takes it eagerly. "Terima Kasih banyak" (Many thanks) he says in a shy whisper. With the money fisted in his hand, he rolls over and falls back asleep. On the ground.

I can barely see as I drive home. I choke on my tears. I park my car and enter my large, air conditioned home. I walk by not one, but two fridges full of food. And I don't know whether to be grateful or ashamed. Relieved or guilty. Humbled by my blessings or disgusted by the excess and the inequality of it all.

These two polar worlds live side by side here in Jakarta. Poverty and suffering spills into my morning run. It pushes against the walls of my house. It breaks into my heart. And it scares me - not because I will be harmed by it, but because I have so little power to do anything to change it.

I do not know how to reconcile the polar worlds of Jakarta or my polar emotions. I only know one thing. The boy, sleeping on the ground, will forever haunt me.