#FaceOfWander
In the misty stillness before Tuban wakes, between 1AM and the first hint of light, a man in a humble uniform has already begun his day at Pasar Bongkaran. The market is alive with early trades—the scent of earth and vegetables still fresh from the fields, the clinking rhythm of weighing scales, and the familiar banter of vendors warming up their stalls. Among this vibrant choreography, Mas Yuda stands quietly—an anchor, a guardian of passage, and an unlikely storyteller of the everyday.
He is 40 years old, born and raised in Kutorejo, and for the past two years, he has served as a Juru Parkir—a parking guide—in a way that subtly rewrites the narrative. Unlike the transient, often impersonal figures commonly found in larger urban centers, Mas Yuda’s presence is a constant. Not an interruption. Not a last-minute wave from the sidewalk. But someone known, recognized, and felt before you even park your vehicle. He doesn’t merely appear; he belongs.
His shift is part of a team rotation, a collective effort to ensure that Pasar Bongkaran functions smoothly across its busiest hours. From the deep night of 1AM to the quiet close of magrib, and again from 3AM to 7AM, Mas Yuda and his fellow Juru Parkir work in cadence, each responsible for their section, each with a silent understanding of duty. Though his role is shared, Mas Yuda’s way of working stands out—not in grandeur, but in the grace of detail.
Every motorcycle that enters is not just parked but ditemani—accompanied, aligned, looked after. “Tak tatakin motormu,” he says, placing a steady hand to guide the tires just right. This is not about claiming space—it’s about holding it well. That single gesture, repeated across the hours, becomes a thread of care woven into the marketplace’s living fabric.
Mas Yuda is formally employed by the local dinas—a rare structure for a role often left informal. But the real framework he operates within is older, deeper: tepa salira—a Javanese philosophy of empathy, awareness, and respect for others. He embodies it not in words, but in posture: a tilt of the head in greeting, an open stance when you speak, eyes that truly see you. These small things are not decorative. They’re ethical.
To many, the Juru Parkir might be just another face in the crowd. But to the vendors of Pasar Bongkaran, Mas Yuda is part of their daily rhythm. He greets them by name, knows their routines, senses their moods. He doesn’t need to ask where they’re going; he already knows. One seller put it simply: “Kalau nggak ada Mas Yuda, rasanya kayak ada yang kurang.” If he’s not there, something’s missing.
His professionalism is not driven by hierarchy or rules, but by rasa—a Javanese sense of inner feeling, intuition, and subtle attunement. Where others chase speed and efficiency, Mas Yuda offers presence. In a world leaning heavily toward automation and detachment, his way of working reminds us that true service is a kind of spiritual practice. That attention is sacred. How we welcome someone—even in the briefest of moments—matters deeply.
There’s a kind of elegance in how he carries out his duties. Not flashy, never theatrical. And perhaps that’s the most remarkable part: how seamlessly Mas Yuda turns ordinary work into an act of cultural continuity. Each gesture, each greeting, each careful placement of a motorbike speaks of something older than the market itself—an inheritance of care passed down not through ritual, but repetition.
In the busy alleys of Pasar Bongkaran, amid crates of produce and morning calls to prayer, we are reminded of something quiet and essential: that dignity is found not just in grand traditions, but in those who uphold the flow of daily life with humility and heart. Mas Yuda is one of those people. And while his task may be small in the eyes of some, it becomes expansive when viewed through the lens of what truly holds a community together.
Here in Tuban, tradition doesn’t always shout—it whispers. And in the calm voice of Mas Yuda, in the gentle way he points and guides, it continues to live.