For me, travel is not just a physical object. Travel is an inner experience and the freedom to interact with the city. I love stepping among the crowd at Manggarai Station. I enjoy listening to the sound of vehicles when waiting for TransJakarta at Harmoni Bus Stop. I travel in Jakarta which is like a museum without walls. In the simple joy of this, there are thousands of life lessons hidden. The city seems to always find a way to whisper wisdom through unexpected things. It becomes harmonious when my soul needs awareness. It gives me the opportunity to seek the meaning and purpose of a journey. Sometimes it also reminds me to take a breath for a moment even as the city is swept by endless busyness.
Recreation is a breath for the weary soul---a natural human need to experience the world in a lighter, freer way. Amidst the glittering hustle and bustle of life, traveling becomes a favored escape for many people: a time when we don't just seek new places, but also a happier version of ourselves. I travel in my own way---wandering aimlessly on the main streets of Jakarta, among skyscrapers that rise like altars of modern civilization. Walking is a process of absence and boundless search (de Certeau & Rendall, 1984). In line with the concept of the Flaneur, it means someone who wanders aimlessly without a plan to enjoy the city.
Behind my headphones, the city sounds transform into a personal soundtrack wrapped in music, while the sky slowly changes color from orange to dark purple, as if painting a poetic transition of time. As the sky grows darker, Jakarta reveals its most honest face. Streetlights one by one light up, forming a string of dancing lights on dusty asphalt. Above the bus stop platform, the hoarse voices of TransJakarta officers echo in the air, "Next bus—Blok M, Senayan Roundabout, Gelora Bung Karno, left side!" while the crowd of passengers moves nimbly like leaves swept by the wind, each dancing to their own rhythm of destination. Here, amidst the never-ending hustle and bustle, I find peace.
As Pico Iyer writes in The Art of Stillness, 'Sometimes we have to go far away to realize how close everything is.'
This aimless journey is a form of meditation. Each step reminds me that life is not just about achieving, but also about feeling. It's as if I'm being guided to appreciate still being blessed with feet that can stand and lungs that continue to breathe, simple blessings often forgotten amidst the hustle of life. In the TransJakarta bus stop filled with unfamiliar, equally tired people, on the motorcycle of an online driver who spends his time flowing into the streets, in the jolts of the TransJakarta that jostles its passengers' shoulders—beauty hides there.
"Do you often walk alone?" asked the Online Motorcycle Taxi Driver when he was dropping me off at the nearest bus stop.
"Yes, Sir. It's just when I'm alone, Jakarta feels pleasant," I replied with a smile.
Stop at Bundaran HI not just as a transit point. This is a theatrical stage: commuters pretending not to see each other, neon lights flickering like secret Morse code, and the air always smelling of a mix of coffee and gasoline. I come with a sincere heart—visiting the TransJakarta shelter on its top floor is like being an urban hermit. In front, thousands of smiles scattered under the Bundaran HI statue; they take photos against the backdrop of magnificent buildings, chasing instant happiness amidst the city's roar. Usually, I offer a brief greeting to that view before switching to the true ritual.
But my paradise is actually behind me.
A space that is often quiet, sometimes just me alone. The wooden platform, already smooth from time and footsteps, warmly welcomes me. Here, behind the simple support pillars, I find an unexpected luxury: friendly solitude. I let my feet rest as well, sitting while watching Jakarta. I allow the evening breeze to caress me, while below me, Jakarta continues to pulse like a giant organism that never tires. The vibrations of passing buses can still be felt. From this height, I feel the vibrations that indicate the buses have started moving. They queue up, coming and going like children's toys, the faint sounds of horns, and the calls of attendants do not fade. In the distance, the city lights begin to glow one by one, like fireflies shining too brightly. I savor with reverence how special this moment is. It's not about the beauty of the landscape, but about the silence that gives me room to breathe, to reflect on a life that lately often feels like TransJakarta route number 13 during rush hour: full, hurried, and sometimes without a clear destination.
For some reason, every time I find myself in that corner, my heart beats to a different rhythm. Not because of haste, but due to an odd vibration between excitement and calm. I seem to vanish from the map, merging with the air, with the faint noise, with the slowly moving shadows of clouds on the wooden floor. Two hours passed. Three hours. Time melted like iced coffee in the midday sun. My body was still, but my mind wandered far away. I navigated through memories, grappling with plans, or sometimes just stared blankly at the car lights at the end there.
The notification from Mama arrived suddenly: "Ny, where are you? It's already late." This simple message was like an anchor pulling me back from my journey. Slowly, I realized how tired my body was from the wind, how the sun had shifted, and how Jakarta below had changed its attire from orange to deep blue. But here, in this quiet small balcony, I've just discovered something invaluable: myself in its most honest form, one that doesn't need to smile when it doesn't want to, that can be silent when tired, that can be anyone or aware of being no one at all.
I am a flaneur without a map, walking on the sidewalks of Jakarta with headphones covering my ears but eyes wide open. Every journey is a meeting with a different self. Like at the TransJakarta bus stop, in conversations with motorcycle taxi drivers, in the speeding trains. Jakarta is a harsh but honest teacher. It never gives the same lesson twice. Today it taught me about beauty in imperfection: puddles in potholes reflecting neon signs, the smile of a scavenger sharing their food with wild dogs, or how the sun sets between entangled electrical wires. The day grows late, but Jakarta never truly sleeps. And me? I just keep walking, storing every small detail like someone collecting seashells on the beach. Perhaps it's not valuable to the world, but it means everything to me.
Reference
de Certeau, M., & Rendall, S. (1984). The Practice of Everyday Life.
Iyer, P. (2014). The art of stillness: Adventures in going nowhere. TED Books.
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