Notes from Kupang and Atambua
Abellia Anggi Wardani
Kupang, is a city (or more accurately perhaps, a town), that has a special place in my heart. It’s a place of memory—a place I first visited over a decade ago in 2012, as an eager student intern in the Ministry of Environment. I remember thinking, on my way from the El Tari airport to my hotel, how Kupang felt like an outpost, a serene, faraway town that seemed blissfully immune to the frantic pace of Jakarta.
It was here, on the sun-drenched streets and in the sleepy marketplace, that I saw life in a way that challenged my assumptions. Kupang’s residents, unlike the ones in Jakarta, took time to rest in the middle of the day. Shops and market stalls would close between 2pm and 4pm—hours of intense heat—leaving the streets quiet, like a collective, orchestrated pause. Coming from Jakarta – the economically driven, bustling capital city, known by the motto ‘go big or go home’, the scene seemed too bewildering. Weren’t they wasting precious time to earn? How could they just…stop? Adjusting to the leisurely rhythm, I couldn’t quite comprehend it. But as I also observed in the Aru islands years later, the people here weren’t poor in spirit; they radiated a contentment that was, in a way, as rich as or maybe richer than anything I’d encountered before.
A decade later, in 2022, I returned to Kupang, and I found it subtly but undeniably changed. As I walked its familiar streets, there was a growing hum of development—new roads, expanding urban infrastructure, and the palpable energy of a place straddling two worlds. Kupang was starting to catch up with Jakarta’s relentless tempo, swept into the tide of modernisation and market economy that has left few corners of the world untouched. With the coming of gig-economy services, such as Gojek and Grab, fast-food chains available for uninterrupted service from early morning to late evening, to the proliferation of cafés, Kupang might need some rest. The siesta culture, once emblematic of the city’s rhythm, felt increasingly like an anomaly, something clinging to its last threads.
I found myself drawn back to Baudrillard’s concept of simulacra, which I’d taught to students for years in the Faculty of Humanities Universitas Indonesia. Kupang’s transformation had become, in a way, a simulation of Jakarta’s developmental model: a vision of progress crafted by infrastructure projects and paved highways that promise a better future. But at what cost? The loss of communal spaces and time—siestas, marketplaces and the ebb and flow of Kupang’s slower pace of life.
In Kupang, space has always had a different meaning. Lefebvre’s concept of ‘produced space,’ where landscapes are shaped by social interactions, is perhaps even more visible in Kupang’s border neighbour, Atambua.
Largely populated by the indigenous Atoni people, Atambua, often seen as a sister city to Kupang, lies nearly 300 kilometres east, on the border with Timor-Leste and is, bound by its own mix of indigenous customs and cultural hybridity. The road linking Kupang and Atambua, once a rugged path through untamed terrain, is now lined with construction—a visible line of ‘progress’ through what was once considered feral and untouchable land. This border zone has become not only a territorial marker but a site of economic opportunity, a boundary defined as much by capital flows as by the interactions of those who live within its spaces.
Border towns like Atambua - where I visited twice in 2022, first in March then in November - encapsulate this production of space, where physical landscapes morph to fit the aspirations of those in power. Once a small border town with the pace of a village, Atambua is turning into a cross-border economic zone, symbolising the promise of the ‘better life’ that development supposedly brings. Yet, for the residents, these changes are a double-edged sword: they’re now part of Indonesia’s push toward regional connectivity, an aspiration that resonates nationally but feels a little more complex on the ground.
Atambua’s fields, once known for their agricultural abundance, are seeing transformations as well. The fertile lands of Kefamenanu, once a source of vegetables and crops for the region, are now partially given over to new infrastructure. Highways, which promise to ‘improve lives,’ also end up straining the fabric of daily life. Farmers who once thrived on local trade now compete with cheaper imported goods and mass-produced commodities. During my visit, I had the chance to go to the market in Houmeni Ana, bordering with the Timor Leste Oecusse Enclave. The farmland here now serves a different function—its purpose transformed by a vision of economic progress that doesn’t necessarily serve the lives it impacts most directly.
As I travelled these routes and spoke to people, the question of choice—who gets to choose this future—seemed to hang in the air. In many ways, development creates an illusion of choice. As Baudrillard suggests, the choices offered by capitalism are often no more than simulacra, illusions crafted to create a sense of autonomy where, in reality, choices are shaped by distant markets and urban planners in Jakarta. Kupang’s residents may have the ‘choice’ to join the rush toward modernisation, but it’s not clear that this choice will necessarily make their lives better.
The siesta, once a choice rooted in culture and climate, is now a fading practice. The market vendors who once closed shop and napped in the heat are now being nudged by the changing economy to stay open all day, stretching their working hours to compete with larger stores and imported goods. There’s a sense of urgency in Kupang now, a sense that everyone must hustle, even if that hustle erodes the very rhythm that once made life here unique. The balance is delicate: people are told to cherish tradition while the forces of change alter the context of that tradition, making it harder to hold onto.
The allure of modernity, the pull of fast money, is seductive. For the young, especially, Kupang is now seen as a stepping-stone—a place to make money and eventually leave for the big cities. The younger generation yearns for the bustle of Jakarta, Bandung or Bali. They pursue the urban ideal that places wealth and material success above community and contentment. In this context, Lefebvre’s notion of ‘produced space’ finds new meaning: the spaces once marked by leisurely rhythms and community are being repurposed for economic transactions and aspirations not born here, but imposed.
Kupang and Atambua, at this junction, illustrate the tension between preservation and progress. They stand as testaments to the resilience of communities in the face of the rapid, and often disorienting, changes that capitalism brings. The siesta may fade, and the marketplaces may change, but the enduring challenge for Kupang is whether it can retain its spirit amid the shifting landscape.
The more I see of Kupang’s new roads, expanding infrastructure and the hum of development, the more I wonder if the loss of a slower, contented life is worth the potential of economic opportunities? Is the choice between chasing wealth, or remaining in tune with community values, really a choice at all? For some, perhaps, the allure of capital is too strong to ignore. For others, the fading siesta, the changing market hours, and the shifting landscape signal something else—an uncertain future, where the contours of contentment are redrawn with each new mile of asphalt.
At this crossroad of cultures and economies, Kupang and Atambua become a microcosm of a larger struggle: the struggle to reconcile the intangible richness of local heritage with the relentless march of progress. Perhaps, for Kupang’s residents, the question isn’t just about choosing between tradition and progress but finding a way to hold on to the essence of both. Amidst the cacophony of change, the challenge is to preserve a space for siesta, for community, and for a kind of wealth that isn’t measured in rupiah. It’s a reminder that not all choices lead to happiness and that, sometimes, the true wealth lies in the pauses—the chance to stop, reflect, and, just for a moment, breathe.
Abellia Anggi Wardani (abellia@ui.ac.id) is a lecturer in the Faculty of Humanities, Universitas Indonesia and a former Research Director at Knowledge Hub Myanmar – Center for Social Integrity. She has a PhD in Culture Studies from Tilburg University, The Netherlands.
