"street truths" or "love and consequences, fo real"

There is nothing like some sassy twelve year olds on motor bikes to remind you of your place. Banda Aceh, where there seems to be absolutely no societal coalescence arouns an unacceptably youthful age for motor bike operation, is as good a place as any to get your fill.

Often I might be walking through the neighborhood, perhaps returning from an especially innovative rice dining experience only to have my twilight reverie pierced by a revving of engines and chorus of ‘misters.’ The dust that is always and everywhere hangs from the weak headlight beams tangled up in my legs and I hold my breath.

While they are not very adept with their steeds (some also have trouble comfortably accessing the pedals), causing the bikes waggle and hiccup along as the try to match my ambling pace, they generally are able to ride along for a stretch while yelling ‘rokok!’ and ‘uang!’ before disappearing into a cloud of giggling, exhaust, and budding fohawks. These of course are the Bahasa Indonesian words for ‘cigarette!’ and ‘money!’ (The insult around Banda Aceh being that all development workers are good for is cash handouts), respectively.

Trust me, its degrading enough to have to go through middle school once, but now this? Maybe I should cave and buy off the little whippersnappers with cigarettes or start trying to work out an importing scheme necessary to turn them into my minions through a complex Sunkist-based reward system. Until then, I will not be leaving my room.