Coffee in the Middle of a Traffic Jam

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Bojonegoro, Eid 2025 The clock still showed 4.15 am when Siska lifted the backpack to the front of the motorcycle. Thin dew was still hanging in the rearview mirror, and the morning air of Surabaya was a little biting even though it was not as cold as other cities. "Dad, are you ready?" asked Siska, 22, wearing a jeans jacket and a slightly oversized helmet. His father, Mr. Rudi, nodded while adjusting the helmet straps. "Bismillah. Let's go to Bojonegoro, son. The streets are still quiet."

Their old moped ignited with a single kick. His voice is distinctive—a little noisy but full of character. Siska smiled small. It has been a long time since he went home together like this with his father. Usually, he returns home by himself by car, or sometimes he picks up souvenirs via logistics motorcycle taxis. But this year is different. This year, after two years of working in Surabaya and missing Eid due to the pandemic and a busy schedule, she decided to go home directly. My father offered me a motorcycle together—and that was the beginning of all this. A Morning That Is Too Quiet The first kilometer felt smooth. The streets of Surabaya are still empty. They went down the Oso Pond, entered the direction of Gresik, then went to Lamongan. The sun slowly appeared, and the streets began to fill up. Trucks, private cars, occasionally intercity buses. But it is not yet jammed. Siska occasionally had small conversations with her father—about the subscription pecel stall in Bojonegoro, about Nino, her nephew who had just been able to walk, about how much lontong opor she would eat later. Life feels very simple on that motorcycle seat. The wind hit my face, and the sound of the engine became a kind of homecoming introduction song.

 Got in Lamongan Just before entering Babat, suddenly the speed of the vehicle slowed down drastically. Bad. At first, it was just slow. Then it was completely silent. The time already shows 08.45. The sun began to rise high. Siska opened her helmet, shook her hair, and sighed. "What's the matter, Well?" Mr. Rudi stood up from the motorcycle, squinting his eyes forward. "It seems like there is a spillover market. Also train crossings. That's it." Siska sighed. Sweat began to flow from the temples. The smell of exhaust, the sound of horns, and the screams of traders made the morning change from calm to a test of patience. Coffee from a Streetside Shop After 45 minutes of barely moving, Siska pointed to a small stall on the side of the road. Bamboo stalls, with a sign that reads: "Tubruk Coffee, Ice Tea, Toast." "Dad, let's take a break." They parked makeshift motorcycles. Still in the midst of the hustle and bustle of vehicles waiting for their turn. In the stall there were several other people—all travelers. Some are from Malang to Cepu, some are from Sidoarjo to Blora. All are stuck together. The stall became a kind of oasis. Siska ordered two black coffees, and a slice of cheese toast. "What's her name, ma'am?" asked the seller, a middle-aged mother with a typical Lamongan accent. "Siska, ma'am. This is my father." "Eh, beautiful. Like my son, but my son in Taiwan works, he can't go home..." The small chat continues. Soon, everyone in the stall started talking—about the homecoming route, about the children who were migrating, about the rising price of meat. There's a warm feel there. Something that cannot be found on the social media timeline. Siska realizes that there is something very Indonesian behind black coffee and Eid jams: solidarity without reason. Broken Eggs at Crossings At around 10.15 a.m., a siren sounded. Police and volunteers began to regulate traffic. As it turned out, there was a minor accident—a motorcyclist ran into a pedestrian near the railroad tracks.

All are waiting for the evacuation to be completed. But at least, after two hours, the line started moving again. Siska and her father said goodbye from the stall, leaving smiles and cautious greetings from everyone. "Thank you for the coffee, ma'am!" "Greetings to the family in Bojonegoro, son!" Rain, Leaky Helmet, and Dangdut Songs Around 12:30 p.m., the clouds began to darken. And like the soap opera scene, it rained when they had just passed Kalitidu. Siska's helmet was leaking at the top. The water seepage feels cold, dripping onto the forehead. They took shelter for a while under a small bridge. Siska laughed, even though her body was wet. "Daddy, my helmet is out of quality." "That's why don't buy discounted ones." As they returned to their streets, the radio from the roadside stalls began to be heard—the classic Eid dangdut, from "Mudik Lagi" to "Oplosan Rindu". This kind of atmosphere, strangely, did not upset Siska. It's just like an adventure movie prelude. Until Also At 2:45 p.m., they finally arrived at my grandmother's house in Bojonegoro. It was greeted with the smell of opor, the sound of small children's firecrackers, and hugs from cousins. The body is sore but the heart is light. Siska put on her helmet, looked at her father, and said, "Thank you, Well. The trip... It's exciting. It's like a time machine." Mr. Rudi just smiled. He knew, maybe this was one of the last homecomings they would ride a motorcycle together, before Siska got married, or was too busy, or lived far away. But today, everything feels enough. Epilogue: Coffee, Memories, and the Way Home A few days after Eid, Siska wrote in her notes: "This year's Surabaya-Bojonegoro trip is my best story. Not because it's fast or convenient. But because there was a warm coffee in the middle of traffic, laughter under the bridge, and a small chat that reminded me... that the house is not always about the place. Sometimes the house is the sound of your motorbike in the morning."

 

 


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