(cont’d)

Parking Specialist

The Tukang Parkir (TOO-kahng Par-keer; parking specialist) is unique to Indonesia. Their job is to sit in parking lots, watch over the vehicles, and help cars park. Their uniqueness lays in the fact that these men are self-employed via self-appointment. I often marvel at the fact that I could one day walk away from whatever career I had, choose an open parking lot on a busy street, and make money. I am guaranteed to make a survivable income even if luxuries are few.

When entering a parking lot, it is common to hear shouts of, “Keep going!”, “Turn this way!”, etc. The braver among them will help drivers enter traffic by blasting a whistle and physically interposing themselves between the entering car and oncoming traffic. This is an invaluable service in a country with few traffic signals and constant traffic. Car drivers grateful for the help usually slip the parking specialist 2,000-5,000 IDR. A Tukang Parkir working a busy supermarket parking lot can live decently well on what he makes.

Yet there are also many Tukang Parkir of the stealthier type. That is, one never sees nor hears them until one attempts to leave. You might park your bike and do your thing without ever knowing a Tukang Parkir existed. But the second you approach your bike, Ninja Tukang Parkir will appear behind your bike and nonchalantly refuse to move. It is a game of chicken. The driver must either pay or run him over. Inevitably, the driver pays Ninja Tukang Parkir. He might help you pull out your motorbike after you pay. It is equally likely that he will slink back into the shadows till another driver attempts to leave.

Did Ninja Tukang Parkir guard your stuff? Ensure safety? Help you navigate traffic? Most likely not. It is irrelevant. Principles of justice and fairness usually cannot afford to run someone over. Cheaper to pay the man 2,000 IDR (a paltry amount that can add up over time) and call it a day.

The Preman (Preh-mahn)

We went out with our language teacher to the city center, a busy tourist area. The sidewalks are lined with pushcarts and sitting vendors that sell food or powder drinks. Vendors of t-shirts and tchochkes are interspersed between food vendors. Traffic and its attendant noises are ever present.

The city center is akin to Times Square during the summer months without the massive television screens. It is at once cacophonous and chaotic, in some places even claustrophobic. Tourists mill around in groups trying to compose massive group selfies. Others meander while craning their heads skyward to take in the highest buildings looming overhead. Vendors are busy calling, hawking, and bargaining their way to livelihood. The ubiquitous azan is louder here so as to cut through the noise and call the faithful to prayer.

After extensively wandering the city center area we decided to try the tour bus. We joined what might loosely be considered a line and donned our masks to protect us from the crush of people all waiting for the tour bus. At the head of the line was a portly but fit man in his mid 50’s dressed in sweats and sandals. His job was to ensure that we boarded the bus in an orderly fashion. Or so we thought.

The man’s first words were, “Why where a mask? COVID’s not dangerous! I’ve never gotten it. I’ve never even worn a mask!” Our teacher replied something back, and they went back and forth in light conversation for another half a minute. The man laughed and finished this dialogue with, “Don’t worry, I’m a good preman!” This was an awkward moment.

The word “preman” means “gangster”. It is not usually associated with the mob though it can be. What it does mean is that this man was fully responsible for protecting the neighborhood…. from himself. Every vendor and business in the immediate area almost certainly pay him for the privilege of making money there, including the tour bus we were about to board. This jolly, COVID-denying middle-aged man could just as easily scare off all the prospective passengers as herd them on depending on whether the bus paid him or not.

I was rather amused that he admitted to being a gangster in the first place. It never occurred to me that a gangster might resemble a jolly, outspoken 50+ year-old PE teacher with a fanny pack and flip-flops. It also never occurred to me that someone would blatantly and cheerfully confess that he extorts money from everyone selling in his territory. It is plausible that both my imagination and my knowledge of the underground are ill-informed.

I simultaneously attempted to work out the meaning of “good gangster”. Does he extort less than others? Possibly. Does he protect his victims from other preman? Most certainly; they are his income. Maybe his criminal activities reflect an inclination towards social justice and he only took a percentage based on an SES-dependent sliding scale. Maybe he doesn’t extort at all… but then he wouldn’t be a preman either. His admission was equal parts amazing and confusing, but it seemed prudent to not inquire further. The tour bus’ arrival cut short my ruminations and burning curiosity. Our jolly, good gangster herded us on the bus and we were whisked off to learn the history of our city.

It is ironic that a company responsible for curating and relaying history must necessarily ignore part of it - in this case the seedy underside it is perhaps unwillingly a part of. Meanwhile, the criminal underworld that usually prefers to remain hidden had cheerfully surfaced and then quickly vanished. That moment was eye-opening. I realized that most street-side vendors and establishments pay someone who ensures they stay “accident free”. Beneath the charm of the hustle and bustle lay a darkness that preyed once a month. The tour bus had ferried me across the terminator into night. Before I got on.