“I told you something like this would happen!” Ayu whispered to her colleagues.
One of her friends shushed her. It wasn’t in their culture to question or complain or even to ‘bla bla’.
Their manager had just told them their hours would be cut by half. A rolling shift. One day they’d work four hours in the morning. The next day, four hours in the afternoon. And so on. And he meant that their salary was being cut in half.
Some of her friends held their faces in their hands. They all looked at each other with grim expressions. Ayu squared her shoulders and lifted her chin and defiantly released the elastic from around her ponytail. Her shiny black hair fell all the way down her back. It made her feel calmer, and stronger.
Back in the workshop they sat down at their upholstery machines. Nobody spoke. Ayu pulled heavy fabric under the needle and made sure it placed stitches in a perfectly straight line. Her day continued as normal, the same as it did every day, six days a week.
But she kept thinking about what the manager had told them.
“You’ve seen the TV news and socmed. We all know about the deadly Pandemi Virus Korona.
“No tourists. All the hotels – no business. Overnight. That of course means no orders for mattresses. Our orders dropped 80%.”
He hadn’t smiled when he said that.
“Maybe two weeks, maybe four, then we can all get back to normal.” He’d smiled then but it hadn’t convinced her.
Ayu understood the gravity of the global situation. But, she had to face her own reality. She was a young single mum, and even her normal salary was at the lowest legal limit; barely enough to pay the rent and buy food. Unlike most people in Indonesia, she didn’t live with family. She’d become estranged from her parents when they didn’t like some of the men she dated. She and young Gusti lived alone in the touristic south, in a simple ‘kos’ flat. Sewing spring-bed mattresses was all she knew and it had given her a steady income and independence for nearly seven years.
At home that evening, as she shared a nasi campur with Gusti, she had trouble swallowing the rice. Her neck felt stiff and her temples throbbed. She couldn’t think.
“Saya pusing,” she said when Gusti demanded to play on her mobile. Stressed. She snatched her phone back off him.
Schools had closed early in Indonesia, and it was already Gusti’s second week at home. He wasn’t an active child, and they had no TV, so he was bored. Luckily he loved colouring in and doing sums. Each night Ayu wrote out a list of simple additions and subtractions for him to work through. Tonight she did the same and then turned back to her phone.
Standing in front of the mirror in one of her nice blouses, she posed this way and that. She took a lot of selfies, showing off her best angles, and shared them all on facebook to brighten her mood. Taking selfies was her hobby. She had four profiles and more than a thousand friends. Responding to her phone pings kept her occupied during the long nights.
Before falling asleep she said her prayers as always, and when she looked at Gusti sleeping on the floor beside her, she remembered it was important to stay grateful. None of this was his fault.
“Maaf, Gusti.” She kissed his soft cheek; he was seven already, but thanks to her good cooking he was as pudgy as a toddler. I’m so sorry. I do try to be the best mamma for you.
Even though she didn’t need to go in to work the next morning, the dawn chirping of the birds in the mango trees woke her early. She wanted to cook something tasty for Gusti, but when she looked the shelves were almost bare.
“Saya mau bungkis,” Gusti pleaded. I want take-away. But Ayu shook her head. She’d counted her money and knew they had to stop going to the local shop.
Two weeks went by and her manager hadn’t said anything more. No meetings were called nor announcements made.
Ayu had stopped buying treats for Gusti. Their electricity was running low. Electricity in her kos room worked on a pre-paid system, and she’d been watching the meter drop. It was going to run out in a few days. Some of her friends, who’d lost their jobs already, had no power.
One morning, she put on her sarong and sash, gathered the offerings and went out to the simple household temple that was part of the kos. She chanted a mantra quietly to her spiritual guides and the ancestors. Her hands gracefully wafted incense over the offerings and around the statues. Bringing her palms together gently in front of her heart the same way she did every day, she lowered her chin and prayed.
Afterward, as she stood in front of the mirror putting up her hair, her belly grumbled. The neighbours were cooking and she inhaled a distinctive curry aroma all the way into her empty stomach. Suddenly her foggy mind cleared. She lifted her chin once again and shook her hair from side to side. Her thoughts were moving fast.
A few mornings later, the day after she received her monthly salary, Ayu rose early and nervously but determinedly rode to the pasar. She walked from seller to seller, bargaining as best she could, and spent 250,000 rupiah. This was more than she’d usually spend in an entire week. Garlic, ginger, turmeric, red onions, peppers, birdseye chillis, tomatoes, oil, terasi, galangal, lime and lemongrass. Even a bag each of small fish and squid. And a stack of plastic trays and jars.
At home Gusti looked into each of the bags. When he found no treats he stomped off in a huff. Ayu got to work. She peeled and sliced and diced. She ground the pestle into the mortar, scraped the paste into her wok, and over her single gas stove, spent the rest of the morning making various sambals. Sambal bawang cumi, sambal bawang ikan – concentrated sauces that Indonesians loved to eat with their rice.
Each of the dry sambals she split across the flat containers, spreading spoonfuls onto pieces of banana leaf. And the wet sambals she spooned into the jars. She placed them along the table, scattered frangipani flowers around, and took photos. Her selfie skills came into good use. Borders were softened like glam photos, giving the dishes an almost dreamy appearance, and showing off the generous portions. She also took sharp close-ups to highlight the fresh ingredients.
It didn’t take her long to upload the pictures, and add prices of 15,000 or 25,000 rupiah. It was a good deal; each sambal would last for days.
In her neighbourhood many working people rented a small flat similar to the kos she and Gusti lived in, but often they had no kitchen. If they worked long hours in shops or factories they usually had limited time to cook from scratch, but also not enough money to buy take-away every day. So a lot of them simply kept a rice cooker in their room, and bought snacks and vegetables from street vendors to supplement their diet. Ayu knew they would all love the taste and goodness that comes from sambals bursting with chili heat and spicy flavours.
She knew she was a good cook, but still, when her phone started pinging within minutes and people came that afternoon, she was surprised.
“Enak!” some of them messaged her later. Delicious!
The next morning she carefully added up how much money she’d received from her sales. She calculated how much it had cost her and how many sambals she had left. Smiling just a little, she realised she’d made enough money to safely buy another batch of ingredients, as well as a little bit of electricity.
The Governor of Bali was encouraging people to stay at home, but she knew the locals in her region – the ones who hadn’t lost their jobs anyway – had to go out every day, just like she did. And each day she got more customers.
But she wanted to be responsible, so she started adding the familiar logo “Di Rumah Aja” on the photos she uploaded. Just at home. To keep attracting customers, she had Gusti take videos of her cooking and added some funky music to liven them up. Gusti put a bucket of water and a cake of soap under the outside tap and asked everyone to wash their hands.
By the end of the second week she realised she’d made just enough to make up for her lost salary. Finally she could let herself relax a bit, knowing that even if her employment stopped, she might just be ok.
By the third week, she even started thinking of expanding her little business to include fresh local food ready to eat; but she knew she’d need help to get a little capital first.
“Terima kasih,” she whispered gratefully in her prayers. “Thank you. Thank you so much for helping me take care of my son. May I always be a good mamma for my best son.”
And Gusti felt happier, not only because his mother was less stressed, but because while she was cooking her sambals he often got to play with her phone. And because, sometimes, she brought home treats again.