“Commuter Line 2 with the final destination of Tanah Abang Station, commuter code K1 88 265!”
“Doors are opening, passengers are advised to be cautious of the platform gap to avoid falling while boarding!”
The train was long, made of metal. But it was filled with people eager to make a living in the city called “Jakarta.” I stepped onto the train and squeezed myself into the crowd of dreamers. The train sped fast from station to station, and at every stop, there were people hoping to board. The air grew hotter, the smell of perfume mixing with sweat, and my body was pressed in all directions due to the overcrowding.
“Ngikkkk!”
The train came to a sudden halt as it approached Tanah Abang Station. I was bumped from behind by a passenger, “Gedebug!” the sound echoed like Pak Gembus hitting a chicken with sambal peanuts. I never expected that the journey to the city called “Jakarta” would be this exhausting. I realized that these people, these dreamers, were made of steel, carrying heavy burdens, but they would go to any lengths for themselves and the ones they love.
The train finally reached Tanah Abang Station. I got off and squeezed through the crowd of fellow dreamers. But I was careless, not paying attention to the platform gap at all. I just walked straight ahead and fell. I felt so embarrassed. But there was an elderly woman who helped me. She was old, with drooping eyes and white hair. She said, “Be careful, dear, don’t rush.” I thanked her while lowering my head. I walked toward the stairs. The stairs were yellow and crowded with people, like sweet food surrounded by ants. Once I reached the top of the station, I had to use my e-money card, tapping the orange card against the machine. The red light came on from the machine. “Damn,” I muttered. My e-money balance was insufficient. I decided to top it up at the counter.
“Miss, please load Rp 20,000,” I asked, since it was the end of the month. The woman at the counter, “Annisa,” loaded my card with a frown.
Finally, I exited the station and walked with unsteady steps toward a narrow alley called Jalan Tanah Rendah.
Between the Stench of Trash and Buried Hope
The sun was burning hot, and the alley was narrow. I was cramped. The alley I entered was called Jalan Tanah Rendah. It seemed trapped between two worlds: on one side, the bustling market that never sleeps, and on the other, the marginalized, forgotten by many but still fighting in silence. Tanah Rendah was no ordinary alley. Here, life flowed slowly, but no one could escape the sharp stench of trash that wafted from the neglected river. I entered the alley with unsteady steps, the unpleasant smell stabbing my nose and clouding my thoughts. “I want to go home,” my inner voice whispered. But I couldn’t. I had to report on this place because it was often ignored by the government.
“CROT!”
I froze, my pupils dilated, my face reflecting shock as I looked down, my nose pierced by the awful smell. “Damn,” I muttered. I saw what I had stepped on. It was yellow. Even though it stuck to my shoe, I had to keep moving forward. There were people’s rights to be fought for.
“How come the TPSU officers aren’t doing their job? How could the river water get so black?”
That was the mutter of an elderly woman passing by. My eyes immediately shifted to the river. The water was black, mixed with chemicals. I pulled out my camera from my bag and pressed my eye against the viewfinder. As I was about to press the shutter button, an old man walked past me and said, “If you want to take photos, there’s a better spot over there. The trash is even more impressive.”
I was taken aback by his comment. I realized that the trash problem in Jalan Tanah Rendah had become a part of the culture here.
I continued walking along the blackened river, and upon reaching a bridge, I saw a small shop. I stopped, staring, my throat dry. My eyes were drawn to the packages labeled “extra jos.” I walked toward the stall covered with a blue tarpaulin, where I saw a middle-aged woman staring at a donut she was preparing.
“Excuse me, Ma’am…”
That was the phrase that slipped from my lips as I gazed into her eyes, full of compassion.
“Yes, dear, what would you like to buy?” she replied.
“One ‘Extra Joss’, please…” I said, reaching into my pocket for five thousand rupiahs.
As she handed me the drink, I asked, “Ma’am, where does all the trash in this river come from?”
She paused, looked at me, and then smiled. “Oh… so you’re a young journalist?” she asked.
“Amen, Ma’am, I hope so,” I replied.
While preparing the dough for fried snacks, the middle-aged woman began to speak. “The trash in this river comes from the Tanah Abang Market. Usually, the trash piles up in Kali Jati Bunder and is collected by the TPSU officers. But it’s all pointless because every day, more trash comes from the market. At the end of Kali Jati Bunder, there are four water gates, one in each direction—north, south, west, and east. These gates only open during the rainy season to prevent flooding. But during the dry season, they stay closed, causing the trash to pile up, and the stench often gives me a headache.”
After finishing the “Extra Joss,” I continued my walk, step by step, trash by trash, to find the water gate. I passed small houses, some only one room wide. I saw an elderly man sitting, staring at the river. I bowed my head as I passed and said, “Excuse me.” It seemed like he already knew why I was there because he paid no attention to my presence.
“Thud… Thud… Thud… Thud…” The sound of my footsteps quickened as I pushed forward.
The further I went, the darker the alley became, filled with the homes of people living in unsuitable conditions. In that darkness, I saw a young boy smoking, still underage to be handling such a thing.
I tapped his shoulder and asked, “Excuse me, do you know where the water gate is?”
He looked at me with disdain, his pupils slowly moving to my shoes. Not a word came from his lips. He took the cigarette from behind his ear, stood up, and walked away. At that moment, I found myself wondering, “What did I do wrong?” But it was pointless. I gathered my courage and walked deeper into the ever-narrowing and darker alley. At the end of the alley, I saw a bright light. The light seemed to signal hope that I would find the water gate. I bravely passed through the gate, and indeed, it was the only way to reach the water gate.
The Trash Pyramid in Tanah Abang
The water gate was broken, made of cement, and gray. It held back a pile of trash that had grown into a pyramid. But in the middle of this pyramid, I saw men in orange shirts, retrieving the trash. Without gloves, they pulled the black sludge from the drain. They didn’t mind the rats scurrying around them, their eyes fixed only on the styrofoam that had piled up like a pyramid.
As a rookie journalist, I grabbed the camera from my black bag. Just as I was about to press the shutter, a voice pierced my ear, a voice that made me pause and feel guilty. But the voices kept coming, hitting me one after another.
“Why are you walking around with a camera, taking pictures of us? Tanah Rendah has always been like this, but we are thankful to live here. Does everything have to be captured, even our lives in a tiny one-room house?”
The voice came from an elderly woman standing behind me. Her name was Itok (68), and she wore a red dress with yellow rose patterns. Her eyes were yellow, as if no hope remained to change the Kali Jati Bunder, which had become a trash pyramid.
Itok (68), a resident of Gang Jalan Tanah Rendah I, reminisced about the time when Kali Jati Bunder was clean. However, everything changed after the construction of Tanah Abang Market, which led to the deterioration of the surrounding environment.
“I’ve lived here since 1957, dear. Back then, Kali Jati Bunder was still clean. Kids used to swim in it. But now it has changed.”
She said simply, but her words were sharp. “It has changed” held a deep meaning. The word “changed” didn’t carry any positive connotation at all.
The Voice from Tanah Abang
I walked into a small intersection, where a woman was peeling onions. She had a dragon tattoo on her right arm. Her name was Ime (35), and she was a housewife running a catering business. She had been a silent witness to the demolitions that took place in Tanah Abang in 1998.
“I was one of the ones displaced in 1998. They paid me fifteen million back then!”
For Ime, that fifteen million was like a gift from heaven. But over time, it turned into something more like the heat of hell, due to the ongoing problems of trash and thuggery that the residents of Tanah Abang faced daily.
“The smell of trash is a daily diet,” she said.
Her words, simple but powerful, made me question: why do they stay in Tanah Abang? Why do they continue to live here despite all the problems they face? Why do they still smile through the uncertainty?
The waste along Kali Jati Bunder not only causes a foul odor but also serves as a breeding ground for mosquitoes, adding to the public health concerns in the area.
“Tanah Abang is the heart of Jakarta, dear. Even if they demolish it, we’ll stay here,” Ime said with conviction.
One of the residents of Kampung Tanah Rendah, Nurhasanah (57), a neighborhood chief, shared a similar sentiment.
“Even if they tear it down, we don’t know when it will happen. Only homes like ours, the ones the residents are willing to let go of, will be demolished.”
Her words carried weight as they reflected the painful reality of the residents who had lived in Tanah Abang for decades.
Behind the Door of Mrs. Nurhasanah’s House
I walked into a narrow dead-end alley, the ground muddy and littered with food wrappers. I knocked on a door with a sign that said “Neighborhood Chief of Jalan Tanah Rendah I.” The door was brown, wooden, and weathered by the damp conditions.
“Knock… Knock… Knock…”
A middle-aged woman opened the door. She was Nurhasanah (57), always wearing a black hijab and her signature square glasses. She greeted me with a warm smile and invited me to sit in her tiny, one-room house, which was dimly lit by a single bulb and a candle.
“The fan makes a lot of noise,” she said, as the fan above me spun.
After a warm welcome, she asked, “What brings you here, dear?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ma’am, I just wanted to ask about the condition of Kali Jati Bunder,” I said, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
She began to tell the grim story of the river. Back in 1968, it was still clean, and children used to bathe in it. But things changed when market traders started using the river as a dumping ground. The river, with its four water gates, became a conveyor for trash. It carried not only food waste but also human waste, animal carcasses, and chemicals, creating a stench that could damage the lungs. Besides trash, the river became a breeding ground for mosquitoes, leading to frequent outbreaks of dengue fever during the rainy season.
However, the people of Tanah Abang had to face more than just trash. They also faced land disputes. In 2000, a wealthy landowner called “Haji Pom Bensin” owned a 1,000-hectare plot in Tanah Abang. In 2018, his grandchild claimed the land and caused a stir among the residents, as many believed they held the legitimate title to their homes. Eventually, with the help of a respected figure named Haji Lulung, the residents were able to register their land under the PTSL program, winning a legal battle that lasted three years.
Despite these ongoing issues—trash, diseases, and land disputes—the people of Tanah Abang remained resilient. As I sat with Mrs. Nurhasanah, she shared a profound lesson that resonated deeply:
“Life is to be appreciated, not lamented.”
This simple statement held deep meaning. From the lives of the residents of Jalan Tanah Rendah, I learned that gratitude is the key to happiness, and a smile is a gift we give to others. From Mrs. Nurhasanah’s wisdom, I realized that happiness is simple, not demanding, and doesn’t need a standard.
