Blaring dangdut koplo music, cranked up until the speakers crackled, greeted Laras as she stepped out of the blue public minivan. She paid her fare, muttering a "thank you" swallowed by the engine's roar, then quickly moved aside. Balikpapan's hot, humid air assaulted her—far more suffocating than the van's stale air. The sting of motorcycle exhaust from a passing bike bit her nostrils. At least here, she could breathe more freely.
She chose to walk the rest of the way, a habit to clear her head after a day at school. Her steps led her to the edge of the evening market, just starting to buzz. This was the source of the commotion. Not just noise, but smells too—a mix of sun-baked plastic tarps, street dust, and the faint sweetness of overripe fruit.
Her attention snapped to a small argument on the sidewalk. A woman in a headscarf was haggling with an old man who'd spread his wares on a sack.
"Come on, Pak. Fifteen thousand, okay? It's for the 17th, for the country," the woman said, holding out a twenty-thousand rupiah bill and pointing at a medium-sized flag.
The old man shook his head slowly, his wrinkled face hardening. "Twenty thousand is the cheapest, Bu. The cost of thread and fabric alone has gone up. The country needs capital too, Bu."
The woman finally relented, taking the flag with a soft grumble while the man handed her a tattered five-thousand bill in change. Laras watched the exchange, momentarily transfixed. So the price of a national symbol could be bargained down, just like a kilo of chilies, she thought.
She walked on, leaving the market bustle behind. Her gaze lifted instinctively, seeking escape from the scene below. And there it was—towering high, a billboard with a glossy surface. The beaming face of an unfamiliar local official promised a bright future. Behind him, a digital Merah Putih flag fluttered majestically, without a single crease. Laras smiled bitterly. Down there, a real flag was haggled over and sold for twenty thousand rupiah. Up here, an image of the same flag probably cost tens of millions in advertising and image-building. One on earth, one in the sky. One priced at two bowls of meatball soup, the other maybe worth a car.
Her feet carried her toward a mall. A blast of cold air from the momentarily sliding doors hit her face, offering brief relief from the heat. She glanced inside, seeing people stroll leisurely with branded shopping bags. Right above the glass doors, a giant banner stretched—its red even brighter than the old man's flag: INDEPENDENCE DAY SALE 17% + 8%.
Laras stopped at the curb, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Horns, engine roars, and vendors' shouts blended into an ear-splitting cacophony. Yet inside her head, everything suddenly fell silent and clear.
She'd just seen three kinds of Merah Putih. One traded, one politicized, and another discounted. All of them were transactions. A massive auction lining her walk home from school. The Red and White wasn't flying for spirit anymore—it flew because it carried a price tag. One cost twenty thousand. Another cost political image. And the one drawing the biggest crowd? Eight percent off.
The light turned green. People around her started moving. But Laras stood frozen, a cold question suddenly crystallizing in her mind, feeling more real than the asphalt's heat beneath her shoes:
"So... what's the actual price tag of our independence this year?"