Bandung

Bandung occupies a high plateau in western Java, Indonesia, its skyline punctuated by distant volcanic peaks and interlaced with streets that carry the echoes of colonial ambition and post-independence reinvention. At 768 metres above sea level, the city sits within a basin ringed by late-Tertiary and Quaternary volcanoes, their slopes once draped in tea and coffee estates. Today, Bandung ranks as the nation’s third-largest city after Jakarta and Surabaya, while its greater metropolitan region is home to more than eleven million people. Here, altitude tempers the equatorial heat, and mist-shrouded mornings offer a muted light that softens both art-deco façades and the hurried traffic below.

Bandung’s origins trace to the Dutch East Indies era, when eighteenth-century planters established tea gardens on its fertile northern foothills. A road stretched northwest toward Batavia, linking remote highland fields with the colonial capital. By 1906, Bandung had earned the status of gemeente, and within decades it acquired elegant hotels, cafés, and boutiques—so many, in fact, that residents dubbed it Parijs van Java. Gedung Sate, with its distinctive satay-skewer dome, and the refined colonnades of the Preanger Hotel still stand as reminders of a time when European sensibilities shaped local skylines.

Geologically, the Bandung Basin conceals the remains of an immense Pleistocene volcano known as Mount Sunda. Two catastrophic eruptions sculpted the landscape: the first hollowed out a broad crater, the second dammed the Citarum River, creating an ancient lake whose eventual drainage remains a subject of scientific debate. Beneath the city, more than six billion cubic metres of groundwater lie locked in volcanic and alluvial strata, supplying potable water, irrigation, and sustaining fisheries. The Cikapundung River bisects the plain, while Tangkuban Perahu—literally the “upturned boat”—looms to the north, its truncated summit a reminder of untamed power.

In the decades following Indonesian independence in 1945, Bandung expanded beyond its colonial footprint. Rural tracts gave way to suburbs, and population density climbed past sixteen thousand souls per square kilometre. New high-rise towers have since altered the skyline, while villas multiply in what once was protected upland forest. These shifts have brought fresh challenges: flooding derived from inadequate drainage, a complex traffic network strained by limited arterial roads, and the relentless scramble to manage solid waste.

Yet the city has also pursued innovation. In 2017, it claimed the ASEAN Clean Air Award for large-city air quality, a recognition of sustained environmental management. Municipal authorities have harnessed communication technologies to alert residents to floods and gridlock, earning Bandung a reputation as one of Indonesia’s “smart cities.” In 2015, UNESCO welcomed it into the Creative Cities Network on the strength of its design, craft, and new media communities. At the same time, Bandung has emerged as a national hub for technology firms and startups, drawing students and investors alike to its research institutes and incubators.

Architectural history remains palpable on many corners. The work of Henri Maclaine Pont, who founded the city’s first technical university campus at Technische Hogeschool te Bandung, introduced “New Indies Style,” an early attempt to blend Art Deco forms with local motifs—most evident in the ceremonial hall’s steeply pitched Sundanese roof. By the 1920s, J. Gerber’s design for Gedung Sate anticipated the proposed transfer of the colonial capital from Batavia, while Wolff Schoemaker’s mastery of modernist lines enriched buildings such as the Villa Isola and the regional military headquarters. Albert Aalbers contributed the streamlined elegance of the DENIS Bank and lent fresh grandeur to the Savoy Homann Hotel. Together, these architects transformed Bandung into an architectural laboratory.

Despite the preserved relics of the past, the present cityscape includes more than a hundred high-rise structures, with many under construction or awaiting approval. Commercial districts now stretch along the Dago corridor, where glass-front towers share space with lineage-aged trees and souvenir stalls. In parts of North Bandung, the sandstone angles of colonial public works buildings cast long shadows across a motley of kiosks and cafés.

Bandung’s economy rests on a broad foundation. Tourism thrives on the proximity of volcanic craters—Tangkuban Perahu to the north, Kawah Putih and Patenggang Lake to the south—where milky sub-alpine lakes sit amid tea estates. Museums—among them the Geological Museum, the Postal Museum, and the Asian-African Conference Museum—preserve scientific specimens, philatelic archives, and the history of the 1955 meeting that shaped the Non-Aligned Movement. Visitors board the Bandros tourist bus to navigate central landmarks, while local entrepreneurs operate “distros,” small outlets specializing in non-branded fashion, magazines, and artisan records. These shops have become symbols of youth identity, setting themselves apart from mass-market factory outlets that line Cihampelas and Riau streets.

The municipal government has earmarked seven industrial precincts for specialty trades: from textile hubs in Cigondewah and Cihampelas to footwear workshops in Cibaduyut and artisanal tempeh producers in Cibuntu. These zones underscore the city’s role as a center for manufacturing and creative enterprise.

Population growth has brought demographic shifts. Traditionally Sundanese, Bandung now hosts significant Javanese, Chinese, Minang, and other communities. While Islam remains the predominant faith, Christian, Hindu, and Buddhist minorities maintain places of worship across its thirty districts. At the 2023 mid-year estimate, 2.5 million residents—almost evenly divided between men and women—claimed Bandung as home, making it Indonesia’s third-most populous city.

Transport arteries reflect both ambition and constraint. The Cipularang Toll Road, completed in 2005, reduced travel time from Jakarta to an average ninety minutes, though weekend gridlock is still common. In 2005 the Pasupati Bridge finally opened, its 2.8 kilometres spanning the Cikapundung Valley and easing east–west traffic. The city’s three intercity bus terminals—soon to be consolidated at Gedebage—operate alongside angkot minibuses, the basic but ubiquitous private shuttles that knit neighborhoods together. Public bus lines have multiplied under schemes like Trans Metro Bandung and Trans Metro Pasundan, yet full fare integration remains a future goal.

Rail connections extend from Bandung’s two main stations to Jakarta, Surabaya, and Yogyakarta; regional services link surrounding towns. A high-speed line—provisionally called Whoosh—now runs to Jakarta’s Halim station, with feeder trains shuttling passengers to the city center. Air travel has shifted as well: Husein Sastranegara International Airport, once the city’s primary gateway, ceded most commercial flights in late 2023 to the larger Kertajati International Airport, whose modern terminals handle greater passenger volumes.

Amid these transformations, Bandung has retained a measure of familiarity. Central squares like the Alun-alun—the grassy heart beside the Grand Mosque—continue to draw families at dusk. Narrow lanes labelled Jalan or its abbreviation, Jl., give way to Gangs where motorbikes thread between food stalls and faded shopfronts. The tomb of Dutch-built water channels, sunlit colonial mansions, and the solemn dome of Gedung Merdeka stand as chapter headings in a story that remains in progress.

In every season, Bandung’s climate stays moderate. August brings the driest skies; March, the heaviest rains. Temperatures hover around a mean that seldom strays more than a few degrees from the mid-twenties Celsius. For urban planners and cultural custodians, the challenge lies in guiding growth without losing the qualities that first drew planters and artists to these heights: cool air, fertile slopes, and enough open space to let a city breathe. As Bandung moves forward, its layered history—geological, colonial, and modern—insists on being remembered, even as new chapters are written against the backdrop of sleeping volcanoes.