The first time I pulled up to a customer’s house on my motorbike, helmet still on, the woman looked at me like I was lost. “Masnya mana?” she asked—“Where’s the guy?”

I laughed. “Saya mas-nya hari ini,” I said. I’m your guy today.

In Jakarta, where I’ve lived all my life, being a Gojek driver is still seen as a man’s job. You need to be street-smart, tough enough to deal with Jakarta’s traffic, and ready for anything—from a flooded street to an angry customer. But after my husband lost his job during the pandemic, and with two kids to feed, I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about what people would think. I borrowed my brother’s motorbike, signed up for the app, and started riding.

Gig Work as Lifeline—and Risk

Indonesia has over 2.5 million app-based gig workers, according to a 2022 report by the International Labour Organization. And while there’s no official gender breakdown, a quick scan of riders waiting at a stoplight shows how few of us are women. That invisibility can be dangerous.

I’ve had customers refuse to tip because I’m a woman. Once, a man insisted I come inside his house to drop off food—even though Gojek’s rules are clear: delivery is to the door. I stood my ground. He slammed the door in my face. Another time, someone followed me for five kilometers before I lost him in traffic. That night, I parked my bike inside my house.

Still, there’s strength in numbers. A few of us—maybe eight or nine women riders—have a WhatsApp group where we share safety tips, routes to avoid, and sometimes just pictures of our kids. We call ourselves Perempuan Gojek Tangguh—Resilient Gojek Women.

Defying Expectations, Redefining Respect

My mother was horrified when she found out what I was doing. “You’ll get dark,” she said, worried about sun exposure. “It’s not a job for a woman.” But a few months later, when I paid for my son’s school fees in full, she stopped commenting.

For me, riding is more than just income—it’s freedom. I set my own hours. If my daughter is sick, I don’t have to beg for leave.

During Ramadan, I start early and finish before iftar. Some weeks are hard—especially if there’s rain or gas prices spike—but at least I’m in control.

The stereotype that women aren’t strong enough for this job is slowly fading. Customers still do double-takes when they see me, but more often now, they smile. Some even say, “Wah, hebat ya, Mbak!”—“Wow, that’s impressive, Miss!”

Solidarity on the Streets

One thing I’ve learned: women riders look out for each other. We share our location when we get a bad vibe from a customer. If someone’s bike breaks down, we ping the group and help tow or fix it if we can. Once, when I saw a young woman crying by the side of the road in her green jacket, I pulled over and sat with her until she felt okay to ride again.

There’s no union, no health insurance, and not much protection from the companies we ride for. But there is gotong royong—community help—and sometimes, that’s enough to get through the day.

Riding Toward the Future

I don’t know how long I’ll keep riding. My back aches more than it used to, and the streets are rough on my knees. But I do know this: my daughter sees me wake up every morning, put on my jacket and helmet, and go out into a city that wasn’t designed for women like me. And she knows I come home tired, but proud.

Maybe one day, when she’s grown, she won’t have to prove she belongs in a job like this. Maybe she’ll choose it anyway.

For now, I ride.