Yamaha YT115 the day of delivery, in March 1992
I think there is an argument strong to the law "period of reflection" when people want to buy weapons. Instead of completely flip and run to the shop of the nearest gun to purchase the final winner of the argument, people are forced to be calm and make rational decisions before they blow the brains of the other outside. Of course, some people can stay angry for a long time, so it's not the perfect system of governance, but I'm sure it has prevented more of a "crime of passion" and probably a "crime Parking "or two in places where the law exists.
I think he also would have a "period of disillusionment" mandatory law before people clearly under the influence of alcohol may be allowed to buy anything (or go home with somebody). Case in point, a Friday afternoon in 1992, three of my friends and I walked into a mall in Jakarta when we stumbled on a Yamaha motorcycle screen. It was pay day, we had a lot of money in our pockets and we had to leave the pub after a dozen dishes liquid lunch, so the shiny new motorcycles took our eyes. Long story short, 30 minutes later, we had given the money, signed some papers, accepted a kind of contract with a handshake and staggered away.
After we agitated bye-bye to radiant seller, we decided to stop at another bar and another small glass to celebrate our purchases. Sure, we were beyond the point of no return at this time, it was actually 2 am before we take the magic carpet ride home from home, we shared in Tomang. We all made our beds and fell into a comatose sleep, taking comfort in knowing that the next day was Saturday so we did not need to get up for work.
At 9:00 the next morning, I woke up to see my roommate Tony standing at the end of my bed wearing nothing but his underpants. My head pounded, my vision was blurred and for a moment I thought he was sleepwalking, but my brain finally began to extract a few words grunts he was doing. "Truck ... F *** ing bikes ..." I thought he was complaining about the traffic noise. I focused on Tony's face as hard as I could and tried to sharpen my attention. I tried to deal with what he was saying as he groaned louder and louder while pointing to the window, and after a while I realized with a start that he was saying. I jumped out of bed to look for myself, and of course, outside the house there was a truck with four f *** ing bikes on it. The memories of the day came impetuous. Oh sh * t. What had we done?
After we had signed for delivery, we were in the aisle in our dressing gowns watching silently four new brands and identical black, yellow and orange YT115s Yamaha. They were a hell of a lot smaller than they had appeared the day before in the mall, and they were not nearly as cool as they had seemed when we sat on them, leaning right and making motorcycle noises stupid and left while planning enthusiastically motorcycle camping trips across the archipelago. My friend Mark broke the silence. "Do you think I can ride here without a permit?" The rest of us shrugged and muttered unintelligible. Dave chipped with a relevant question. "Which is mine?" We all shrugged and murmured again. Tony then spoke very seriously, immediately ending all shrugging and muttering and inducing hysterical laughter. "How the f ** * do you drive one of these things tions f *** anyway? "He had never driven a motorcycle before in his life.
A sobering compulsory period of at least 24 hours we could certainly save two million Rupiah each - in those days about a thousand dollars and almost a whole month salary