‘Santai’ and acceptance: Lessons I learnt in Indonesia

Three kilometres – that was roughly the distance between my apartment and the office in Jakarta.

When I first moved there in August 2024, I expected the commute to be a walk in the park, an opportunity to familiarise myself with the city where I would spend three months on a work attachment.

After one attempt, I told myself I would never do it again.

On foot, it took me about 45 minutes to get to work as I tried to navigate pavements that ended abruptly, all while dodging waves of honking cars and speeding motorcycles barely inches away from me.

By the time I reached my office in central Jakarta, I’d survived at least three brushes with death, and I looked the part too – my shirt drenched in sweat.

But taking a car was only a little better. A ride-hail car would take me roughly the same time, only without the excessive perspiration.

No matter how early I left home, or the mode of my commute, the inexorable tide of traffic in the Indonesian capital would always make it seem as if the universe was mocking my time management skills.

The sulking Singaporean in me – so used to commutes on trains that were punctual to the minute – would turn into an agitated mess just like the traffic outside the car, as I fretted about being late for meetings and appointments.

With every minute added to my journey, I would let slip my growing irritation – my sighs becoming so noticeable that the ride-hail driver would find himself compelled to make conversation with me.

The chit-chat would almost always start with a lament about how bad the traffic was that day, or a question about where I came from. 

Then the driver would smile and say, “Santai”.

In English, “santai” can be translated as “relax”, but in my third week there, after several rides when I got told the same thing, I finally decided to ask a driver what exactly there was to relax about.

“The jam will still be here, no matter how upset you get. There’s nothing you can do about it. So just santai, and accept it,” he told me.

Strangely, in that nugget of advice, I found wisdom.

Santai bro, santai

Rather than rail against things beyond my control, or get frustrated over circumstances I had no chance of influencing, I could instead try to relax; accept things as they were.

That same wisdom was imparted to me, time and time again, in other parts of the country.

When I

visited Aceh in November

2024

, I was expecting to see people still in grief over the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami.

I’d only ever seen pictures and news broadcasts of the devastation wrought, and expected that memory to weigh on everyone’s minds.

Although almost 20 years had passed, scenes of the tragedy were all around when I arrived: a boat wreck on top of a house, a ship wreck in the middle of a street, a massive mosque dome swept inland.

But the smiling survivors told me that they’d moved on with their lives. They accepted that their loved ones were forever lost, victims of a monumental natural disaster that struck 15 countries across the Indian Ocean, claiming more than 226,000 lives, predominantly in Aceh.

Almost everyone there had lost a loved one that day, including a fisherman I spoke to in Banda Aceh who had lost his entire family.

He was on another island while his parents and younger siblings were at home, and found out about their deaths only when he returned to his village, which had been swallowed by the waves.

As he recounted that, I thought he would tear up, expressing his regret at not being with his family in their final moments.

It was my own eyes that welled up instead, when he said: “For those of us who survived, all we can do is keep on living.”

Ruminating on the past would not bring them back, and it would distract him from being present for his current family – his wife and two sons, he added.

Instead of spending his days wondering about the what-ifs, or cursing his fate, he was focused on living life to the best of his ability.

These days, he remains a fisherman but also runs his own eatery. But more importantly, he seems at peace. 

No blind acceptance

Santai came to mind again in a different setting, just before I left Jakarta. 

I spoke to a 65-year-old man who had taken part in a bodybuilding competition the previous weekend, and of the nine participants in the above-50 category, he was clearly the oldest.

Mr Damumar, who like many Indonesians goes by one name, told me that for three straight months, he worked out every day for hours on end, all the while subsisting on just steamed chicken, vegetables and water.

At the gym where I met him, he seemed as jacked as professional wrestler-turned-actor John Cena, although much shorter at about 1.68m. His biceps were almost the same size as his head, and compared with the much younger men around him, it was clear he had the most bulk. 

He worked harder than them too, repeatedly lifting weights while the others were taking breaks and chatting, pushing through sets until exhaustion hit. 

Despite all his effort, he didn’t win.

When I asked him if he was disappointed with the result, he replied in Javanese: “Nrimo ing pandum.”

Loosely translated, it means to accept what has been given.

Yet, being santai doesn’t mean being fatalistic.

While he may have lost that day, he said he plans to continue bodybuilding and competing in the foreseeable future.

Despite his age, he was not going to just give up.

And that stuck with me.

I witnessed this too in Jakarta in August, when

thousands came together during protests

to fight for their beliefs.

Since returning to Singapore in December, I’ve been back in the office and re-acclimatising to the hurly-burly of life on the Breaking News desk.

But I’ve also been adapting to life as a singleton again following the demise of a relationship.

These days, there’s a song constantly on loop when my earphones are plugged in – a balm as I navigate the break-up, a motivational anthem when I’m on the treadmill for what feels like forever, and most importantly, a promise.

Titled Luckily, Life Must Go On, it is sung by popular Indonesian songstress Bernadya, who croons in the opening verse: “Exactly a year ago, I was kept away from what wasn’t meant for me.”

What follows in the three-minute song is a whole narrative arc, beginning with her frustrations and ending with acceptance as the chorus refrain goes: “Luckily, the earth still spins... Luckily, life must go on.”

I’ve accepted that the relationship has ended, though I am working through my issues. 

I am no longer sweating the small stuff, and if my ride-hail cars are late, it is what it is.

They’ll still arrive regardless, as surely as life goes on.