Just for Laugh: A Clash of Cultures and A Hero in Between
One bright morning, Bonar and his young son, Arkam Sajaki, were riding their motorbike on a pleasant journey to visit the Warungboto Site in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. The air was crisp, and the streets were bustling with life. But their peaceful ride came to a halt when they encountered a commotion on the street.
Bonar spotted an e-bike lying on its side near the curb. A small crowd had gathered, their curiosity piqued by the heated argument between two women. Judging by their looks and languages, it was clear they weren’t locals. Despite the chaos, the onlookers stayed passive, seemingly held back by the language barrier.
As a seasoned tour guide accustomed to navigating cross-cultural situations, Bonar felt a sense of responsibility. He pulled over.
“Dad, why are we stopping?” Arkam asked, puzzled. “The Warungboto Site is still a kilometer away.”
Bonar smiled. “I want to show you something important, Arkam. Sometimes, being a hero isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about small acts.”
“A hero? How?” Arkam tilted his head, intrigued.
“Just watch,” Bonar replied, stepping off the motorbike. “Stay here and keep an eye on our ride. And pay attention, okay?”
Reluctantly, Arkam nodded. “Alright, Dad.”
Bonar approached the scene with calm authority. “Ladies, please, let’s calm down,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise. “We can solve this with a cool head.”
The crowd fell silent, their attention shifting to Bonar. He turned to the first woman, a blonde-haired tourist who looked visibly upset.
“Ma’am, I understand there’s been an accident,” Bonar began. “Can you explain what happened?”
The woman, Nadine, launched into an emotional tirade in French. “Je traversais sur le passage piéton quand cette femme m’a renversée ! Tous les véhicules s’étaient arrêtés pour me laisser passer, même un camion. Mais elle, avec son fichu vélo électrique...”
Bonar held up a hand. “I’m sorry, but could you speak in English, please?”
Nadine huffed but continued in French, oblivious to his request. “Elle a dépassé le camion par la droite et m’a percutée !”
Realizing this wasn’t working, Bonar turned to the other woman, wearing a hijab and gesturing animatedly.
“And you, Miss? Can you tell me what happened?”
The second woman, Fatma, responded passionately in Arabic. “عبرت هي الطريق بتهور سيدي! أنا الضحية هنا. انظر إليها - إنها لم تصب بأي أذى، لكن دراجتي الكهربائية سقطت! ماذا لو طلبت مني شركة التأجير دفع تعويض؟”
“Please, English,” Bonar interrupted, his patience wearing thin.
Fatma gestured emphatically. “هذا كلام غير منطقي! كان عليها أن تنظر إلى الطريق جيدًا قبل أن تعبر!”
The argument continued, with Nadine shouting about red lights and Fatma demanding compensation. Bonar’s frustration reached its peak.
“Enough!” he shouted. “Both of you, stop talking at the same time!”
The crowd fell silent again, watching expectantly. “Is there anyone here who can explain what happened... in English? Or at least in Indonesian?” Bonar scanned the onlookers, but they all avoided his gaze.
Finally, a tall Caucasian man stepped forward. Bonar’s face lit up with hope.
“Alhamdulillah,” he muttered. “Finally, someone who can help.”
The man, Frederich, began speaking in German. “Eigentlich sind beide schuld, mein Herr. Diese Frau hat die Straße überquert, ohne auf den Verkehr zu achten, als ob sie gedacht hätte, der Verkehr wäre hier genauso geordnet wie in ihrem Heimatland. Und auch diese Frau mit dem Hijab ist schuldig.”
Bonar’s shoulders slumped. He threw up his hands, turned back to his motorbike, and walked away.
“Dad?” Arkam called after him. “Did you become a hero?”
Bonar climbed onto the motorbike with a sigh. “Who cares?” he muttered, starting the engine. And with that, they rode off, leaving the chaos behind.