[Image generated with the help of ChatGPT]
If there’s one thing this godforsaken city loves more than corruption, it’s metaphors. Take the potholes, for instance. Not just any potholes—these are masterpieces. Gaping maws of civic neglect, each one a existential critique of hope itself. The one that swallowed my front tire that morning was no exception. It looked less like a road defect and more like a portal to the underworld, conveniently located between a noodle cart and a billboard of the mayor’s face promising “A New Era of Infrastructure!”
“Ah, another disciple joins the congregation!” croaked a voice like a chainsaw gargling gravel. I turned to see Uncle Black Grease, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the sins of synthetic oil. His overalls were less clothing and more a forensic map of every engine he’d ever killed. “That’s a Class-A crater you’ve found,” he said, nodding at my mutilated tire. “Government’s really outdoing themselves this monsoon season.”
I spat out a curse. “This isn’t a pothole. It’s a public swimming pool. Do they want us to drown in irony?”
Uncle grinned, revealing a tooth that gleamed like a rusted bolt. “You think it’s an accident? Son, this is policy. They’ve got a whole ministry for it—Department of Strategic Asphalt Excavations (DSAE). Official mission: ‘Optimizing vehicular challenges to stimulate the mechanic ecosystem.’ Fancy talk for ‘Keep the little guys busy while we siphon taxes into our yachts.’”
Before I could dissect this conspiracy theory, a Vespa screeched to a halt beside us, piloted by Grandma Smokesprocket, a woman whose helmet was plastered with stickers reading “Honk If You Love Tax Evasion!” Her sidecar overflowed with spark plugs and nihilism.
“Heard about the new directive?” she barked, lobbing a lug wrench at Uncle. “DSAE’s adding pothole art installations downtown. One’s shaped like the governor’s face! They’re calling it ‘Participatory Democracy.’”
“Genius!” Uncle cackled. “Next they’ll charge admission. ‘Experience the thrill of civic decay! Only 50,000 rupiah to snap a selfie with a sinkhole!’”
I massaged my temples. “But why not just fix the roads?”
They both stared at me, pity dripping from their eyes like leaked brake fluid.
“Fix them?” Grandma scoffed. “And ruin the national pastime? Half the economy’s built on suspension repairs and bribing traffic cops! Why, my cousin’s a DSAE contractor—his job is to dig holes by night so the mayor can fill them by day. It’s called job creation, kid. Circular economy.”
Uncle nodded solemnly. “Last year, they ‘accidentally’ paved a road properly. Unemployment skyrocketed. Mechanics resorted to fixing toasters. A national tragedy.”
Three flat tires and one existential crisis later, I found myself at a town hall meeting, where the governor’s lackey, Vice-Director Tikus Tiket (“Call me Ratty!”), was lecturing a crowd of seething citizens.
“My friends, these potholes are not flaws—they’re features!” Ratty barked, sweating through his suit. “Think of them as… speed bumps of civic engagement! Each crater is a reminder that we’re all in this together—especially when suing the city for spinal injuries!”
A man in the crowd hurled a hubcap. “My truck’s axle snapped in half!”
“Fantastic!” Ratty clapped. “You’ve just employed a welder, a mechanic, and a chiropractor! Three birds with one stone!”
I raised a hand. “Ever consider not embezzling the infrastructure budget?”
The room fell silent. Ratty’s smile tightened. “Ah, a radical! Tell me, friend—without potholes, what would unite us? Smooth roads? Boring. Democracy is messy! So are our streets! Embrace the chaos!” He gestured to a slideshow of potholes photoshopped into inspirational posters. “Every Hole a Step Closer to Progress!”
That night, over lukewarm arak and fried tempeh, Uncle Black Grease unveiled his magnum opus: a flowchart linking potholes to geopolitical stability.
“It’s simple,” he slurred, drawing on a napkin. “Potholes → Car repairs → Mechanics buy rice → Farmers profit → Farms need tractors → More mechanics! Meanwhile, the DSAE siphons funds to build villas, banks loan money for new cars, and the cycle continues. It’s capitalism, baby!”
I stared at the napkin. It made a disturbing amount of sense.
“But what if we revolt?” I mumbled. “Pave the streets ourselves?”
Grandma Smokesprocket nearly choked on her clove cigarette. “And risk a mechanic uprising? They’d string you up with fan belts! Besides, the DSAE would just send their experimental pothole-generating drones.” She leaned in. “Last month, they tested one in the next town. Roads looked like Swiss cheese. Beautiful.”
By dawn, I was a convert.
I began to see the potholes differently—not as failures, but as sacred symbols. Each one a middle finger to logic, a testament to the ingenuity of greed. I started a blog: “Pothole Pilgrim: Confessions of a Road Cultist.” It went viral. The DSAE sent me a thank-you note.
The final epiphany struck during the governor’s reelection speech. As he stood before a freshly excavated crater, grinning like a shovel-wielding messiah, I realized: this wasn’t incompetence.
It was art.
A society dancing on the edge of collapse, choreographed by bureaucrats, performed by citizens, and monetized by everyone. The potholes were the footnotes in our national epic, the receipts of our collective delusion.
So now, when my bike rattles into another abyss, I don’t scream. I salute.
After all, why fear the void when you can bill it as a public service?
Last week, Uncle Black Grease was hired as a DSAE consultant. His first proposal? Pothole theme parks. Grandma Smokesprocket runs the merch booth. I’m writing a screenplay.
The mayor called it “a bold leap toward innovative urban storytelling.”
We prefer the term “extortion.” But hey—tomorrow’s potholes aren’t gonna dig themselves.