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A day in contrast

Driving at 6 AM along the Gensan-Polomolok border, I see a tricycle on the outer line. It is jam-packed with five people, excluding the driver. As I inch closer, I notice that a motorcycle, propped up vertically on one wheel, is strapped on the tricycle's metal sidecar. Yellow ropes keep the motorcycle from falling off the road. The men reinforce the motorcycle to the tricycle with their arms. In their late twenties, wearing shirts and denims, they grin, smile, and laugh. Are they bringing home this brand new vehicle at home? If that's the plan, why don't they ride on it? Perhaps I'll never know. In the meantime, an olive-green Vios, which I'm presently trailing, slows down. A window opens. A teenager, her hair tossed by the wind, emerges with a camera phone. Realizing they are being recorded, the men wave in the light, intermittent rain. They are having a great time.

As soon as I arrive at home, in time for the Sunday service, I receive a text message that M has died. He was around my age. He had an aggressive kind of lung cancer. He has left behind a wife and two children.

Ours is a bittersweet existence.

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