Berlian's New Wheels

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Story and Characters: Berlian and Longwang L90/Qing ©  judyjudith

Art by:  tony07734123/KangWolf

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Chapter 1: The Unexpected Email

Okay, so picture this: I'm slumped on my worn-out couch in my tiny apartment in Kalideres, West Jakarta, still zipped into my crisp Trans Indonesia Airlines uniform after a grueling eight-hour flight to and from Denpasar. The scent of jet fuel lingers on my fur, mingling with the steamy aroma of the gado-gado I just whipped up—fresh vegetables, tofu, and that rich peanut sauce drizzled over rice cakes, my go-to comfort food after touching down. My paws ache from gripping the controls, and all I want is to unwind, so I grab my phone and start mindlessly scrolling through emails. Spam, flight schedules, a newsletter from the aerospace club I used to run in university... and then, bam, this one from my bank catches my eye. I've been banking with them since I was 15, back when I was squirreling away my meager allowance from chores around the village and later the cash from my part-time English tutoring gigs to fund my wild dreams. It's one of those automated prize draw notifications—the kind I usually swipe away without a second thought because, seriously, who ever wins those things? Lottery tickets, raffles, they're all just a tease for folks like me who've built everything through sheer grit. But this time? This time, the subject line screams my name: "Congratulations, Berlian! You've Won the Grand Prize!"

I blink, read it again, and my heart starts thumping like I'm powering up the engines for takeoff on a stormy runway. Me—Berlian, the dhole from the sleepy village of Ciguguk near Cimahi in West Java—who clawed her way from a tomboyish kid playing soccer with her brothers to a first officer in the cockpit, just won a brand-new 2025 Longwang L90 Family. A luxury range-extended electric minivan, gleaming with premium features and positioned as the ultimate blend of family comfort and executive style. Me! I stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity, my 175 cm frame frozen in place, my 65 kg of muscle and determination suddenly feeling weightless. Then, I burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the bare walls of my apartment. What are the odds? In a country of millions, with my hectic life zipping between Soekarno-Hatta International Airport and family visits, the universe decides to drop this on my lap? I immediately dial my mom, Tini, back in Ciguguk. She's a homemaker through and through, always keeping our modest household running with that quiet strength of hers. When I tell her, she lets out a joyful shriek, praising Allah repeatedly, convinced it's divine intervention rewarding all my sacrifices and hard work. "Alhamdulillah, Berlian! This is a blessing for your perseverance," she says, her voice thick with emotion, reminding me of how our family's devout Muslim faith has always anchored us through tough times.

The email spells it all out in vivid detail—the shiny new L90, decked out with all the bells and whistles like advanced infotainment, plush seating configurations for up to eight, and that sleek high-roofline design that screams sophistication while maximizing interior space. It's waiting for pickup at a dealership right here in Jakarta, no strings attached beyond the usual paperwork. I can't wrap my head around it. Growing up in Ciguguk, a quaint village nestled in the rolling hills of West Java where life moves to the rhythm of rice paddies and communal prayers, we were far from luxurious living. My dad, Sutoyo, was a rice farmer, toiling under the sun to supply the village's mostly herbivore residents with their staple food, his calloused paws a testament to years of honest labor. Mom handled the home front, raising me and my four brothers in our traditional wooden house with its rusty tin roof that rattled during monsoon rains. We were the only Predator-Carnivore family in a community where herbivores outnumbered us ten to one, but thanks to Dad's vital role in the village economy and the Islamic teachings that prohibit speciesism and emphasize equality among all, we were treated with genuine respect. Islam's principles of tolerance and cooperation shaped our daily lives—Dad always made sure our actions aligned with those values, fostering goodwill that turned potential prejudice into neighborly bonds. It wasn't always easy; subtle undercurrents of fear or misunderstanding about carnivores lingered in the air, rooted in old stereotypes that painted us as unpredictable or dangerous. But in our tight-knit rural setting, where gotong-royong—the spirit of mutual aid—reigned supreme, those biases rarely surfaced. We worked side by side with everyone, sharing resources and building a community where species didn't define worth.

Winning something as extravagant as the L90 feels utterly surreal, like one of those childhood dreams where I'm soaring through the clouds without an aircraft, just my own wings carrying me. From an early age, I'd climb onto our house's roof with my older brothers, Raja and Satria, watching planes roar overhead from the nearby airport that sparked my lifelong passion for aviation. Raja, with his mechanical know-how from tinkering with motorcycles, would explain the basics of engines and machinery, igniting my curiosity about how things worked. Satria, ever the analytical one with his sharp mind for math, would challenge me with puzzles that honed my problem-solving skills, laying the groundwork for the rigorous studies that would come later. As the middle child and only daughter in a family of boys, I developed a tomboyish streak, roughhousing and dreaming big in a world that sometimes questioned whether aviation was "suitable" for females. My parents initially disapproved of my pilot ambitions, rooted in traditional views, but I was determined, excelling in math and science through elementary, junior, and senior high school, earning a scholarship to a prestigious state university in Bandung where I graduated with a degree in aeronautics in 2017—the first in our family to attend college. They came around eventually, even selling some belongings to help fund my pilot training, their pride in my achievements outweighing their reservations.

But as the initial rush of excitement begins to settle while I sit there on the couch, spooning another bite of gado-gado, I start pondering how this windfall fits into my whirlwind life as a pilot for Trans Indonesia Airlines. I'm constantly on the move, accumulating over 2,000 flight hours as a first officer qualified on the Boeing 737-800, ATR 72-600, and COMAC C919, with my sights set on captaining the Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner one day. Between shifts at the airline's hub in Soekarno-Hatta, family visits back to Ciguguk every couple of months, and my side passions like amateur photography—capturing aviation-themed shots that have landed me features in regional exhibitions and over 50,000 followers on Instagram—this L90 could be a game-changer. I imagine pulling up to the airport in its elegant form, the aerodynamic lines and premium presence turning heads among my colleagues, many of whom are male pilots I've caught myself attracted to in passing conversations. As a mentor in TIA's cadet pilot program and a speaker at high schools across Java, encouraging young females to break into aviation just like I did despite the odds, I can already envision using it to ferry groups to seminars or field trips to aircraft facilities. Sharing my story of overcoming financial hardships, living in that cramped university boarding house with five roommates, and pushing through the COVID-19 delays in my training—it all feels amplified by this symbol of success.

The L90 isn't just any vehicle; it's a testament to my journey, a luxurious bridge between my humble roots and the heights I've reached. In that quiet moment on the couch, the win ignites a profound mix of gratitude and reflection. Our family's acceptance in Ciguguk, despite being the sole carnivores in a herbivore-dominant village, stemmed from Dad's contributions to the community's well-being and our shared Muslim ethos of unity and non-discrimination. It taught me early on that character and capability transcend species, a lesson that fueled my drive to excel and give back. Now, with this prize, I'm thinking bigger about paying it forward—perhaps shuttling my younger twin brothers, Teguh and Gagah, from their computer science programs at universities in Jakarta for family gatherings, or using it to support my parents in their retirement by making those trips home more comfortable. Fluent in Indonesian, English, conversational Javanese, and Sundanese, I could even turn road time into opportunities to connect with my heritage. It's more than a minivan; it's a vessel to weave together my past in that modest wooden house with the dynamic present of my aviation career, reminding me that sometimes, the universe rewards not just hard work, but the bridges we build along the way.

Chapter 2: Doubts Creep In

But honestly, my first real reaction after the shock wore off was... doubt. Big time. There I was, still lounging on that threadbare couch in my compact Kalideres apartment, the remnants of my gado-gado cooling on the coffee table beside me—crisp vegetables, chunks of tofu, and those addictive rice cakes swimming in peanut sauce, a simple indulgence that always grounded me after a long flight. The email was still open on my phone, glowing with promises of luxury, but as the adrenaline faded, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. I'm not anti-electric or anything—heck, as a pilot who's all about fuel efficiency and green aviation, I get the appeal. My undergraduate thesis back in Bandung dove deep into optimizing fuel consumption for commercial flights, analyzing everything from aerodynamics to engine performance, and I've seen firsthand how sustainable tech can revolutionize the industry. But EVs on the road? I've always been skeptical, especially in a place like Indonesia where infrastructure isn't always reliable.

Range anxiety is real, and it hits hard with my hectic schedule. I fly all over the archipelago for Trans Indonesia Airlines—short hops on the ATR 72-600 to regional spots, longer routes on the Boeing 737-800 or even the COMAC C919—and when I'm not in the cockpit, I'm constantly on the move groundside. From my apartment here in West Jakarta, it's a quick dash to Soekarno-Hatta International Airport for shifts, or longer drives back to Ciguguk for family visits every couple of months, weaving through traffic-clogged highways and rural roads lined with rice paddies. Then there are my impromptu getaways for photography shoots, chasing golden-hour shots of aircraft at smaller airfields or capturing the misty hills around Cimahi with my camera gear slung over my shoulder. What if the battery dies mid-traffic in Jakarta's infamous gridlock, horns blaring and exhaust fumes choking the air? Even though the L90 is range-extended, with that gasoline backup to kick in when needed, I couldn't shake the worry. Would the transition between electric and extender modes be seamless, or would it stutter like a novice pilot on their first solo? Stories from colleagues about hybrid systems glitching in unexpected ways only fueled my hesitation.

Plus, I already have two cars that suit me just fine, parked in the apartment's cramped lot downstairs. My 2024 Suzuki Landy GLS—essentially a rebadged Toyota Noah with its boxy, reliable frame—is super practical for hauling my bulky photography equipment or picking up friends after a group workout at the local park. It's got that no-nonsense interior space, perfect for tossing in tripods, lenses, and gym bags without a second thought. And then there's my zippy little 2023 Toyota Agya GR Sport, my go-to for quick errands around the city—dodging scooters and street vendors with its agile handling and sporty pep. It's compact enough to squeeze into tight spots near the airport and fuel-efficient for those spontaneous drives. Do I really need a third vehicle, especially one as extravagant as this luxury minivan? It felt like overkill, like winning a high-end gadget you didn't ask for, something flashy that might just gather dust in the garage while my trusted rides handle the real work.

I couldn't help but draw parallels to my own journey, remembering how my parents initially disapproved of my aviation dreams, convinced it wasn't a suitable profession for a female in our traditional Javanese household. Dad, with his weathered paws from years of rice farming, and Mom, managing our modest wooden home with its rattling tin roof, had envisioned a more conventional path for me—perhaps teaching or something grounded, literally. But I was the tomboyish middle child, roughhousing with my four brothers and climbing rooftops to watch planes streak across the sky, my passion ignited by those roaring engines from the nearby airport. I proved them wrong through sheer determination, excelling in math and science from elementary through senior high, earning that scholarship to the state university in Bandung where I graduated with my aeronautics degree in 2017. Living in that cramped boarding house with five roommates, sharing a tiny kitchen and scraping by on part-time gigs as an English tutor and airport staff, I pushed through hardships like the COVID-19 delays that sidelined my pilot training for six months. Now, with my licenses in hand and over 2,000 flight hours under my belt, here I was, questioning a free luxury minivan that symbolized the kind of success I'd fought for. It was ironic—me, the one who overcame family doubts and societal expectations as the only daughter in a carnivore family in a herbivore-dominant village, second-guessing a windfall.

The L90 is positioned as a premium family and executive transport, all sleek lines and high-end features meant for shuttling loved ones or impressing clients, but I'm single, no kids in sight—heck, I don't even want children, feeling they'd be a burden on my fast-paced life of irregular shifts and constant travel. As a heterosexual dhole, I've caught myself attracted to some of the male pilots at TIA during layovers or crew briefings—their confident banter in the lounge, sharing stories of turbulent flights or far-flung destinations, sparking that subtle chemistry. Maybe this minivan could be useful for dates, picking someone up in style for a dinner in Jakarta's bustling food districts, or group outings with colleagues to photography exhibitions where my aviation-themed shots are on display. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at me like an unresolved flight plan: Would this massive MPV handle like a boat, lumbering through turns with its long wheelbase and high roof, or could its advanced engineering surprise me with responsive steering and that electric torque I've read about?

As I mulled it over, absentmindedly scrolling through the email's specs again—the plush seating for up to eight, the state-of-the-art infotainment system, the aerodynamic design blending luxury with efficiency—I pictured the L90 slotting into my daily routine. Would its sheer size make navigating the tight airport parking lots a hassle, squeezing past rows of crew vans and taxis under the harsh fluorescent lights, or would the advanced sensors and cameras make it effortless, beeping warnings and auto-parking with precision? I worried about how it would integrate into my life beyond that—my photography hobby means lugging heavy gear on road trips, from bulky telephoto lenses for capturing distant takeoffs to portable lights for indoor setups, and while the Landy handles that adequately with its foldable seats, the L90's promised spacious interior could elevate it entirely. I could envision turning those drives into mobile studios, editing photos on a built-in screen during traffic jams or storing equipment in dedicated compartments without the usual Tetris-like packing. Yet, the skepticism persisted, amplified by tales I'd heard from fellow pilots over coffee in the crew room—EVs struggling in Indonesia's sweltering tropical heat, batteries degrading faster than expected, or charging stations few and far between outside major cities. As someone who deals with precise systems in the air, monitoring instruments and making split-second decisions at 30,000 feet, I needed ground transport I could trust without second-guessing, something as reliable as the Boeing systems I'm qualified on.

The doubts extended even to the practicality in my mentoring role, which has become a passion project alongside my flying. I visit high schools across Java, speaking to wide-eyed students about breaking into aviation, particularly encouraging young females to defy the odds just as I did—sharing stories of my university days, the all-nighters studying aerodynamics, and how I turned financial hardships into fuel for success. The L90 could serve as a perfect conversation starter about sustainable tech, tying right into my thesis on fuel optimization and showing how electric innovations are reshaping transportation on the ground as much as in the skies. Imagine pulling up to a school in that gleaming minivan, students gathering around to ask about its range-extender system or eco-friendly credentials, sparking discussions on green careers. But what if it didn't live up to the hype? What if the real-world performance fell short, turning a symbol of progress into an awkward footnote in my talks? As I set my phone down and leaned back on the couch, the apartment's ceiling fan whirring lazily overhead, I realized these questions weren't just about the vehicle—they were about whether I was ready to embrace something new in a life I'd built on proven reliability.

Chapter 3: Digging Deeper

Still, curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't just let the doubts simmer without doing something about them. That's the pilot in me—always analyzing, always cross-checking data before takeoff. So, after finishing my gado-gado and changing out of my uniform into something more comfortable, like my favorite loose workout shorts and a tank top that still carried a faint whiff of the gym from yesterday's session, I settled back on the couch with my laptop. My apartment in Kalideres wasn't much—a compact space with white walls, a small kitchenette cluttered with instant noodle packets and fresh veggies for my go-to meals like sayur asem, and a balcony overlooking the bustling streets near Soekarno-Hatta International Airport. The hum of distant planes taking off was a constant soundtrack, reminding me of why I pushed through all the hardships to get here. But tonight, instead of binge-watching Netflix or editing my latest aviation-themed photos, I dove headfirst into researching this mysterious Longwang L90. I mean, if I was going to entertain the idea of adding it to my life, I needed facts, not just flashy email promises.

First things first, I pulled up the bank's prize details again, scanning the fine print with the same scrutiny I apply to flight manuals. The terms were straightforward but firm: no reselling the vehicle for at least five years, or I'd face a hefty penalty equivalent to a good chunk of its value. That didn't faze me much—I'm not the type to flip prizes for quick cash. Growing up in Ciguguk, where my dad, Sutoyo, taught us the value of hard-earned possessions through his tireless work as a rice farmer, I've always held onto things that matter. He supplied the village's herbivores with their staple food, earning respect despite our family being the only Predator-Carnivores in a sea of ten-to-one herbivores. That sense of earning your place stuck with me; if this L90 was meant to be mine, I'd make it work, not pawn it off. But the real game-changer came when I started digging into the vehicle's specs. I'd assumed it was a pure electric van, prone to all the range issues I'd heard about from colleagues who dabbled in EVs—stories of batteries draining in Jakarta's sweltering heat or during unexpected traffic jams that could stretch for hours. Turns out, the L90 isn't a full EV at all; it's a range-extended electric minivan, blending battery power with a gasoline generator for backup. That revelation hit me like a clear weather report after a stormy forecast. It addressed my biggest fear head-on: range anxiety. With my erratic schedule—flying routes on the Boeing 737-800 one day, mentoring cadets the next, and squeezing in family visits to Ciguguk every couple of months—I couldn't afford a vehicle that might leave me stranded searching for a charger in rural West Java.

The more I read, the more intrigued I became. The range extender is a compact 1.6L turbocharged inline-four engine, producing about 120 horsepower and optimized to run efficiently between 2,000 and 3,500 rpm. It doesn't drive the wheels directly; instead, it acts solely as a generator to recharge the battery when it dips low, say below 15% capacity. This setup reminded me so much of the fuel efficiency principles I explored in my undergraduate thesis at the state university in Bandung, where I optimized consumption for commercial aviation. Back then, living in that cramped boarding house with five other female students, sharing a tiny kitchen and bathroom while juggling part-time jobs as an English tutor and airport desk staff, I learned to maximize every resource. The L90's design echoed that—seamless transitions between electric and extended modes, thanks to sophisticated control algorithms that minimize noise, vibration, and harshness (NVH). Active engine mounts and acoustic insulation ensure the cabin stays as quiet as the cockpit during cruise, which appealed to my need for a serene space after long flights. And the emissions? It meets Euro 6 standards, aligning perfectly with my growing advocacy for sustainable practices. As someone who's featured in aviation magazines for promoting green initiatives, like the seminars I organized in my university's aerospace club, extending that ethos to my ground transportation felt like a natural fit. Why preach fuel optimization in the skies if I'm not practicing it on the roads?

My research took me deeper into the L90's origins, and I found myself nodding along as if I were piecing together a flight plan. Developed by Longwang Motor, the premium arm of the Chinese state-owned Hung Autocorp, production kicked off in 2023 after a massive ¥4.2 billion investment. The project, codenamed "Project Dragon Gate," started in 2020 amid a push for electrification, drawing on collaborations with international experts: Italian design house Pininfarina for the sleek exterior styling that gives it that aerodynamic, high-roofline profile, and German specialists Recaro for the ergonomic seating. It's positioned to rival luxury MPVs like the Denza D9, Xpeng X9, Zeekr 009, and Li MEGA, targeting affluent families, corporate executives, and fleet operators who want electric benefits without the limitations. For me, as a single, child-free heterosexual dhole in her late 20s, attracted to the occasional male pilot at TIA but with no plans for kids—they'd feel like too much of a burden on my high-flying career—this van's versatility sparked new ideas. Its multiple seating configurations, up to eight plush seats, could be perfect for my mentoring role in TIA's cadet program. I often visit high schools across Java, sharing my story of overcoming financial hardships and parental doubts to become the first in my family to graduate college and earn my private, commercial, and airline transport pilot licenses by 2022. Imagine loading up cadets for field trips to aircraft maintenance facilities, just like the ones I helped organize during uni. The spacious interior, maximized by the long-wheelbase design, would handle my gym bag, photography gear, and even a few extra passengers without feeling cramped—much like how I optimized space in that tiny boarding house.

Delving even further, I appreciated the engineering details that addressed my practical concerns. The battery is a modular 50 kWh lithium iron phosphate pack from BYD, integrated under the floor for better weight distribution and thermal management, ensuring it performs reliably in hot, humid climates like Indonesia's. No more worries about degraded performance during monsoon seasons or in the intense heat of urban traffic; advanced systems monitor individual cells, adjusting charging patterns for longevity and safety. This level of sophistication mirrored the rigorous testing I endured during pilot school, including that six-month COVID-19 break in 2020 when I returned to Ciguguk and set up online study groups for local kids, teaching math and English to keep their education on track. The L90's development involved over 2.5 million kilometers of real-world testing in diverse conditions—from cold Inner Mongolia to hot Xinjiang—much like my own cold-weather simulations and hot-climate validations in training. And the DragonGPT infotainment system? Customized for international markets, it supports mapping, connectivity, and entertainment in multiple languages, including Indonesian and English, with options for conversational Javanese or Sundanese if needed. I could already picture myself using it to stream Netflix during downtime or navigate to hidden photography spots in West Java, capturing those aviation-inspired shots that have built my Instagram following to over 50,000.

As the night wore on, with the airport lights flickering through my window and the faint call to prayer echoing from a nearby mosque—reminding me of my family's devout Muslim roots, even though I've grown more secular over the years—my relationship with the L90 began to form in my mind. It wasn't just a prize or a potential hassle; it represented an extension of my eco-conscious, efficient lifestyle, forged from humble beginnings in our traditional wooden house with its tin roof in Ciguguk. There, my older brothers Raja and Satria had sparked my mechanical and analytical interests—Raja with his motorcycle tinkering, Satria with his math puzzles—while the twins Teguh and Gagah now look to me for career advice in their computer science studies. The L90 felt like a bridge, much like how my success has inspired two young females from the village to pursue aviation roles as an air traffic controller and aircraft maintenance technician. Its premium features, from the high-end materials to the advanced tech, promised to support my ambitions: advancing to captain at TIA, pursuing that part-time master's in aviation management, and ensuring my parents' comfortable retirement. The more I learned, the more my initial skepticism melted away, replaced by a quiet excitement. This wasn't overkill; it was opportunity on wheels, ready to integrate into my whirlwind life like a well-tuned aircraft engine—reliable, advanced, and poised for takeoff.

Chapter 4: Farewell to the Agya

Speaking of the Agya, I'd just made the final installment payment last month. Felt like a weight off my shoulders after grinding through those payments on top of saving for my master's and helping my brothers with uni. That little Toyota Agya had been my faithful companion since right after I joined TIA in 2023—a compact, zippy hatchback with its peppy 1.2-liter engine, perfect for navigating Jakarta's chaotic streets and squeezing into the tight parking spots at Soekarno-Hatta. I'd chosen it back then for its affordability and reliability, much like how I'd budgeted every rupiah during my university days in Bandung, sharing that cramped boarding house with five roommates where space was at a premium and every expense had to be justified. The Agya wasn't flashy, but it had a sporty edge with its sleek lines and responsive handling, reminding me of the thrill of my first solo flight—quick, agile, and full of promise. It had carried me through countless early-morning commutes to the airport, impromptu photography shoots at dawn, and those bi-monthly drives back to Ciguguk, where the rural roads tested its suspension over potholes and puddles from the monsoon rains.

But with the L90 incoming, its luxurious range-extended setup promising seamless transitions between electric silence and extended travel, I figured it was time to let the Agya go. My apartment's parking lot was already a squeeze with the Suzuki Landy GLS taking up most of the space, and adding a third vehicle just didn't make sense for my on-the-go lifestyle. Sold it quick through a friend in the aviation circle—a fellow first officer at TIA named Adi, who'd heard me mention it during a layover chat in Denpasar. Adi connected me with a buyer, a young cadet from the program I mentor, who was just starting out and needed something reliable on a budget. We met at a quiet coffee shop near the airport, the hum of jet engines in the distance providing a familiar backdrop as I handed over the paperwork. The buyer, a wide-eyed herbivore fresh out of high school, inspected the car with the same enthusiasm I'd had when I first drove it off the lot—running his paws over the well-maintained interior, noting the low mileage from my careful driving, and grinning at the custom aviation stickers I'd added to the dashboard over the years.

I got a decent price, enough to cover some personal splurges like new photography lenses—a high-end telephoto for capturing distant aircraft in flight—and a chunk set aside for my parents' Hajj fund. They've sacrificed so much for me, from selling family heirlooms and some of Dad's farming tools to fund my pilot training during those tough post-university months, to quietly supporting my "unladylike" dreams despite the traditional views in our village. Dad, with his calloused paws from years of rice farming, had always emphasized hard work and faith, drawing from our Muslim roots to teach us that perseverance brings blessings. Mom, ever the steady homemaker, had worried about the dangers of aviation for a daughter, but she'd come around, her pride shining through in the way she bragged to neighbors about my features in aviation magazines. Sending them on pilgrimage feels right, especially now that Dad's retired from the fields, his body worn from decades under the West Java sun, and Mom's enjoying her quiet life tending to the garden and sharing stories with the grandkids from my brothers' families. It's my way of giving back, honoring the gotong-royong spirit that kept our carnivore family integrated in a herbivore-dominant community, where Dad's rice supplied everyone's tables and bridged any subtle prejudices.

It wasn't an easy goodbye to the Agya—it was my first "grown-up" car, all sporty and fun, symbolizing that leap from student to professional. I'd customized it over the years with practical touches: a dashboard organizer for my flight logs and English tutoring notes from my side gigs, seat covers that withstood the sweat from post-gym drives, and a roof rack for hauling my camera gear to those misty hill shoots around Cimahi. Driving it had been like an extension of my tomboyish youth, roughhousing with my brothers on the village soccer field, where Raja's mechanical tinkering with motorcycles taught me to appreciate engines, and Satria's math puzzles sharpened my problem-solving for aeronautics classes. But practicality wins in my world; as a pilot accumulating hours on the Boeing 737-800 and COMAC C919, I prioritize efficiency, just like optimizing fuel in my undergraduate thesis.

My older brothers, Raja and Satria, teased me about upgrading to a "family van" when I told them over a family video call from my apartment, the screen filled with their familiar faces against the backdrop of our old wooden house in Ciguguk. Raja, the motorcycle mechanic whose grease-stained paws had first shown me how to fix a flat tire, joked it was like me finally settling down, hinting at my single status and occasional crushes on male colleagues at TIA. "Berlian, you're trading sporty for spacious? Next thing, you'll be hauling kids around!" he laughed, his voice crackling with that brotherly ribbing we'd shared since climbing the roof to watch planes as kids. Satria, the high school math teacher who had nurtured my analytical skills with endless puzzles that prepared me for engineering courses, calculated how much I'd save on fuel with the L90's electric mode. "Let's see, with your drives to the village and airport runs, that's at least 2 million rupiah a year in savings—smart move, sis," he said, ever the numbers guy, reminding me of how he'd helped me budget my scholarship money in Bandung. The twins, Teguh and Gagah, now deep in their computer science programs at universities in Jakarta, were excited about the tech features, bombarding me with questions about the infotainment system and how it could integrate with their coding projects. "Can we hack the DragonGPT system for custom apps?" Teguh asked eagerly, while Gagah envisioned using it for virtual study sessions on the road. Their enthusiasm mirrored my own early passions, fueled by our family's emphasis on education despite our modest means.

Selling the Agya freed up space in my life, just like how I transitioned from a tomboyish kid playing soccer with the boys—ignoring the stares from herbivore neighbors who sometimes whispered about carnivores being too aggressive—to a professional pilot breaking barriers in a male-dominated field. As I handed over the keys to the buyer under the shade of a warung near the airport, the scent of fresh kopi tubruk in the air and the roar of a takeoff overhead, I reflected on how the L90 would fill that void and more. Its range-extended setup meant no more unplanned fuel stops on a whim, aligning perfectly with my part-time master's plans in aviation management—more time for reviewing notes en route or brainstorming seminar ideas for the high schools I visit. The proceeds from the Agya also boosted my Instagram photography pursuits, where I share aviation-themed shots that have built a following of over 50,000; I could already envision the L90 starring in future posts, its aerodynamic silhouette framed against the rolling rice paddies of West Java or the bustling runways at Soekarno-Hatta, blending my professional world with my artistic one.

The farewell to the Agya deepened my anticipation for the L90. It represented growth, much like earning my licenses during the COVID break in 2020, when I returned to Ciguguk and set up online study groups for the local children, teaching them mathematics and basic English to bridge the remote learning gap caused by the pandemic. Those sessions, held in our family's modest living room with its creaky wooden floors and tin roof that amplified the rain, reminded me of the communal spirit that had always sustained us. The L90's versatility for family visits—shuttling Mom and Dad to medical checkups or picking up the twins from their dorms—or mentoring trips to aircraft facilities made it feel like a natural evolution, supporting my goal to advance at TIA while aiding my parents' retirement. In that moment, as the buyer drove off in what had been my trusty ride, I felt a mix of nostalgia and excitement, ready to embrace this new chapter on wheels that promised to weave my past sacrifices with future aspirations.

Chapter 5: Picking Up the Keys

Fast forward a couple of weeks from that whirlwind of decisions and doubts, and there I was, standing in the gleaming showroom of the Longwang dealership in the heart of Jakarta's bustling automotive district. The air was thick with the scent of new fabric and polished metal, a far cry from the familiar cockpit aroma of avionics and recycled air I'd grown accustomed to during my shifts at Trans Indonesia Airlines. My paws, still calloused from gripping flight controls on my recent hop from Denpasar, trembled slightly as I approached the prize that had upended my routine: the 2025 Longwang L90 Family, parked under strategic spotlights that highlighted its sleek, aerodynamic lines and that distinctive high-roofline design. It wasn't just any minivan; this was a luxury range-extended electric beast, marketed as the perfect fusion of family practicality and executive elegance, with its long-wheelbase configuration stretching out to maximize interior space without sacrificing style. At 175 cm tall and 65 kg, I felt almost dwarfed by its imposing presence, yet oddly empowered, like the first time I taxied a Boeing 737-800 down the runway as a newly qualified first officer.

I had arrived early that morning, squeezing the pickup into a rare day off between flights, my mind buzzing with a mix of excitement and residual skepticism from those initial doubts. The dealership was a modern marvel itself—glass walls overlooking the chaotic Jakarta traffic, with sales reps in crisp uniforms bustling about like ground crew at Soekarno-Hatta. The one assigned to me, a polite herbivore named Budi with a warm smile that put my carnivore instincts at ease, handed over the paperwork with efficient precision. No hidden fees, no upsells; just the straightforward transfer of this grand prize from my bank's draw. As I signed the forms, I couldn't help but reflect on how far I'd come—from the modest wooden house in Ciguguk, where my dad Sutoyo toiled in the rice fields to support our family, to this moment of unexpected luxury. Mom Tini would be thrilled; she'd already been texting me non-stop, viewing it as another blessing from Allah for my perseverance, even though my own faith had grown more secular over the years. My brothers—Raja with his mechanical savvy, Satria the analytical math whiz, and the twins Teguh and Gagah buried in their computer science studies—had all chimed in with congratulations, joking about borrowing it for weekend jaunts from their Jakarta universities.

But honestly, I was nervous at first, much like learning to handle a new aircraft during my pilot training days back in Bandung. How would the tri-motor setup feel under my paws? Would the advanced systems overwhelm me, or integrate seamlessly into my tech-savvy lifestyle? I'd done my homework, poring over specs in my tiny Kalideres apartment after late-night flights: the L90's range-extended architecture combined a potent electric drivetrain with a gasoline extender, designed to conquer range anxiety in markets like Indonesia's, where charging stations weren't as ubiquitous as in China's tier-one cities. Adapting turned out to be way easier than I anticipated, thanks to my background in aeronautics—optimizing systems for efficiency was second nature after my undergraduate thesis on fuel consumption in commercial aviation.

As Budi walked me around the vehicle, I ran my paws over the smooth exterior, admiring the premium finish that screamed sophistication without ostentation. The massive interior beckoned through the sliding doors, configured for up to eight in plush, ergonomic seats developed with input from international specialists—soft, supportive fabric that promised comfort on long drives, much like the adjustable cockpit seats I relied on during extended routes on the ATR 72-600 or COMAC C919. I climbed in, settling into the driver's seat, and felt an instant connection; it was spacious enough for my frame, with ample headroom from that high-roofline design, evoking the optimized cabin layouts I'd studied in university. The dashboard lit up with a customizable infotainment system, voice-activated in both English and Indonesian—perfect for my bilingual world, where I'd switch from Sundanese chats with family to English briefings with TIA colleagues. I tested the commands, queuing up a playlist of my favorite Netflix-inspired tracks, and the killer sound system filled the cabin with crystal-clear audio, drowning out the distant hum of city traffic.

The electric drive was smooth as silk when I took it for a test spin around the block—no engine rumble, just quiet, instant torque that made navigating Jakarta's infamous gridlock feel less hellish and more like gliding on autopilot. The tri-motor configuration—two at the rear and one up front—delivered balanced power, with drive modes like Eco for my fuel-conscious mindset and Sport for those rare moments I'd crave a thrill on open roads. And the space? It was a game-changer for my on-the-go lifestyle. I could already envision tossing in my gym bag after workouts at the local park, stowing my amateur photography gear—lenses, tripod, and drone—for impromptu shoots chasing aviation scenes, or even hosting a quick meetup with fellow female pilots from the cadet program in the rear seats, discussing challenges over takeout gado-gado. The range extender, a compact gasoline unit tucked away efficiently, hadn't even needed to fire up during that short loop, but knowing it was there provided the same peace of mind as having redundant systems in the cockpit. With about 280 km of electric-only range from the 50 kWh lithium iron phosphate battery pack sourced from BYD and positioned under the floor for optimal weight distribution, it covered my daily commutes from Kalideres to the airport with ease. The advanced battery management system, monitoring individual cells for longevity and safety, mirrored the rigorous maintenance protocols I'd learned at aircraft facilities—thermal management kept performance steady in Indonesia's sweltering heat, preventing the range loss I'd worried about from stories of other EVs.

I'd already mentally mapped out my first real drive: a trip back to Cimahi, weaving through the rolling hills toward Ciguguk, where the misty rice paddies and communal spirit of my childhood awaited. The L90 would handle those inclines like a champ, its modular design ensuring reliability just as my family's gotong-royong ethos had built bridges in our herbivore-dominant village. Plus, the yearly tax was dirt cheap—just 150 thousand rupiah, a fraction of the 4 million I'd paid for my old Agya, making the switch to electric not just environmentally smart but financially savvy for someone like me, saving diligently for my parents' retirement and my future master's in aviation management.

At the dealership, I spent extra time exploring the features, my tomboyish curiosity kicking in as I poked at every button and screen. The Level 2+ ADAS, powered by Mobileye technology with 12 high-resolution cameras and 5 millimeter-wave radars, felt like an extension of my pilot instincts—lane-keeping assist and automatic emergency braking that paralleled the precision of flight autopilots, all contributing to its 5-star C-NCAP safety rating with eight airbags for that extra layer of protection in unpredictable traffic. Sitting there, keys in paw, I felt empowered, much like my first solo flight back in pilot school—nervous energy transforming into exhilaration as the engine hummed to life silently. This wasn't just a vehicle; it was a testament to my journey, bridging the humble roots of playing soccer with my brothers under that rusty tin roof to the heights of accumulating over 2,000 flight hours and mentoring young females to break barriers in aviation.

As I finally drove off the lot, the L90's quiet cabin enveloped me, allowing space for reflection amid the symphony of Jakarta's horns and engines. From overcoming subtle prejudices as the only carnivore family in Ciguguk, fueled by Dad's honest labor and our shared values of tolerance, to pushing through COVID delays in training and emerging as a role model with my Instagram photography reaching 50,000 followers—it all culminated here. Picking up these keys wasn't merely claiming a prize; it was embracing a new chapter where this luxurious minivan became a companion in my aspirations, from shuttling my twins for family gatherings to advancing toward captaining the Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner, all while honoring the grit that got me here.

Chapter 6: Bonding on the Road

The first time I really bonded with the L90 was on that memorable drive to Cimahi, a journey that transformed the sleek luxury minivan from a mere prize into an extension of my adventurous spirit. It was a crisp Saturday morning in late September 2025, just a few weeks after I'd picked up the keys from the dealership in Jakarta. The sun was rising over the hazy skyline of West Jakarta, casting a golden glow on the high-roofline silhouette of the Longwang L90 Family—marketed as the Qing in its home Chinese market, a name evoking emotion and passion, which felt fitting for how this vehicle was starting to stir something deep within me. As a dhole of Javanese descent, standing at 175 cm and weighing 65 kg, I'd always prided myself on my independence, honed from years of breaking barriers as the only daughter in a family of five siblings and the first to pursue a career in aviation against my parents' initial reservations. But this drive wasn't just about solitude; it was a chance to reconnect with my roots in Ciguguk, the quaint village near Cimahi where I'd grown up in our modest wooden house with its rattling tin roof, surrounded by rice paddies and the distant hum of airplanes from the nearby airport that had ignited my childhood dreams of flight.

I loaded up the spacious trunk—boasting over 1,000 liters of cargo space in its standard configuration—with my amateur photography gear: a collection of high-end lenses for capturing intricate details, a sturdy tripod for steady shots during golden hour, and even my compact drone for those aerial perspectives that mirrored my pilot's-eye view from the cockpit. Photography had evolved from a hobby into a semi-professional pursuit for me, with my aviation-themed images featured in regional exhibitions and amassing over 50,000 followers on Instagram, where I connected with female pilots worldwide to share stories of overcoming industry challenges. As I slid into the driver's seat, it enveloped me like a familiar embrace, its ergonomic design tailored for long hauls, much like the cockpit seats I'd grown accustomed to during my 2,000+ flight hours on the Boeing 737-800, ATR 72-600, and COMAC C919. The L90's range-extended electric architecture, combining a battery-electric drivetrain with a gasoline extender, alleviated any lingering range anxiety from my earlier doubts; its development under "Project Dragon Gate" had prioritized practicality for Asian families and executives, drawing from extensive market research that identified needs like mine—reliable transport for someone juggling airline shifts, family visits, and creative escapes.

As I merged onto the highway toward West Java, the adaptive cruise control engaged seamlessly, maintaining a steady pace through the early traffic, feeling eerily similar to engaging autopilot during a smooth ascent in the skies. The L90's advanced driver assistance systems (ADAS), a Level 2+ setup developed in collaboration with Mobileye, featured 12 ultrasonic sensors, 5 millimeter-wave radars, and multiple cameras, providing features like lane-keeping assist and automatic emergency braking. On that Cimahi trip, as the road wound through rolling hills dotted with palm trees and distant volcanoes, I got momentarily distracted by a breathtaking vista of mist-shrouded rice terraces—reminders of my father's tireless work as a rice farmer, supplying the village's herbivore majority and fostering goodwill despite our family's status as the only Predator-Carnivores in a community where herbivores outnumbered us ten to one. The lane-keeping system gently nudged the steering wheel, bringing me back to center without jolt, much like a co-pilot's subtle correction. It was reassuring, especially knowing the vehicle's 5-star C-NCAP safety rating, bolstered by eight airbags and a reinforced structure tested rigorously in diverse conditions from Inner Mongolia's cold to Xinjiang's heat.

I pulled over at a familiar roadside warung along the route, the kind of humble eatery where locals gathered under thatched roofs for simple comforts. Ordering a steaming plate of nasi uduk—fragrant coconut rice with fried shallots, tempeh, and a side of sambal—I savored the flavors that transported me back to my mother's kitchen in Ciguguk, where Tini, our devoted homemaker, had instilled in us the values of our Muslim faith, emphasizing equality and tolerance that helped our family thrive amid subtle societal prejudices against carnivores. As I munched in the L90's plush cabin, the premium seating—configurable for up to eight in executive style with individual climate controls—prevented any cramped discomfort, even after hours on the road. The designers at Longwang Motor, influenced by partnerships with Pininfarina for styling and Recaro for interiors, had clearly prioritized comfort for busy professionals like me, who often transitioned from long flights to ground travel without missing a beat. The DragonGPT infotainment system, running on Android Automotive with a 15.6-inch central touchscreen, allowed me to queue up a playlist of upbeat Javanese gamelan mixed with modern English tracks, its Huawei sound system—16 speakers delivering 1200 watts in the Family trim—filling the space with crystal-clear audio that drowned out the distant rumble of passing trucks.

Subsequent drives only deepened this bond, turning the L90 into a trusted companion that mirrored my life's rhythms. One weekend, I embarked on a photography getaway to the misty hills around Bandung, where I'd earned my aeronautics degree in 2017 as the first in my family to attend university. The L90's pure electric mode handled the urban crawls through Jakarta's gridlock with silent efficiency, conserving energy much like the fuel optimization techniques I'd explored in my undergraduate thesis on commercial aviation. As the battery dipped low on longer rural stretches, the 1.5-liter gasoline range extender—developed with Magna International's expertise—kicked in without a hitch, extending the range beyond 1,000 km and feeling as reliable as switching to auxiliary power mid-flight without causing turbulence for passengers. It was during these moments that I started personalizing the vehicle: diffusing my favorite scents of jasmine and sandalwood to evoke Sundanese heritage, organizing compartments for my gear, and even installing a custom phone mount for hands-free navigation—transforming it into a mobile extension of my cramped Kalideres apartment, where I'd unwind with Netflix binges or gym workouts after shifts.

The L90 even wove itself into my family dynamics, enhancing those precious bonds I'd nurtured since childhood. On one trip back to Ciguguk, I picked up my younger twin brothers, Teguh and Gagah, from their computer science programs at universities in Jakarta. The twins, now in their early twenties and sharing my drive for academic excellence, piled into the rear seats with their laptops and snacks, marveling at the individual entertainment screens and wireless charging ports that kept them connected during the drive. As we cruised along, Raja—my eldest brother, the motorcycle mechanic who'd first sparked my interest in machinery by teaching me engine basics—and Satria, the high school math teacher who'd honed my analytical skills with puzzles, joined via video call on the DragonGPT system. We reminisced about rooftop adventures watching planes, laughing over how our tomboyish sister had defied expectations to become a mentor in TIA's cadet program, inspiring two young women from our village to pursue aviation careers—one as an air traffic controller, the other as a maintenance technician. The vehicle's quiet cabin, with advanced NVH mitigation from active engine mounts and acoustic insulation, allowed for heartfelt conversations without road noise intruding, reinforcing the communal spirit of gotong-royong that had defined our upbringing in a village where Islamic teachings bridged species divides.

The minivan also elevated my social and professional circles. I organized a group outing with fellow TIA pilots—mostly males, some of whom I'd found myself attracted to in fleeting cockpit chats—using the L90's executive seating configuration to ferry us to a seminar in Bandung. The plush, reclining seats and ambient lighting impressed everyone, sparking discussions on sustainable transport and how the L90's hybrid approach addressed range anxiety in Indonesia's developing infrastructure. As a heterosexual woman with no desire for children, viewing them as a potential burden amid my ambitious trajectory toward captaining the Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner and pursuing a master's in aviation management, the vehicle became a symbol of my self-reliant lifestyle while still allowing space for meaningful connections.

And get this—Jakarta's new citywide odd-even plate policy? The L90's exempt because it's electric. Before this, I was alternating between the Landy and Agya every day just to comply, like some annoying dance routine. Now? Freedom. I can just hop in and go, no planning around license plates. Plus, the yearly tax is dirt cheap – just 150 thousand rupiah, even way, way less than the Agya's 4 million rupiah. Who knew going electric could save me that much? Ultimately, the L90 has become more than just wheels—it's a partner in my multifaceted story. From overcoming the subtle prejudices as a carnivore in a herbivore-dominant village, where my father's contributions and our faith fostered acceptance, to inspiring females in aviation through school visits and my online network, every drive reinforces that profound connection. It fuels my ambitions, from monthly contributions to my parents' retirement fund and supporting my brothers' education, to envisioning a future where this luxurious minivan shuttles me between airport hubs and family gatherings, all while honoring the grit, tolerance, and passion that define me.