There’s a notorious stretch of road in Indonesia, by the border of North Sumatra and Aceh provinces, that passes through kilometres and kilometres of oil palm plantations. There are few people there, besides the occasional plantation worker. Trees stretch in grids as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful country, but the pastoral scene provides cover for the illegal activities that take place along its fringes.

Truckers who pass along the road have told me that bandits roam the area. The bandits typically follow behind transport trucks, then mount them at high speeds to throw valuable goods off the back. Lost goods are subtracted from the truckers’ wages, so it’s in their best interests to avoid the hijacking at all costs.

For this, the truckers have devised a strategy: they stop in the last town before the empty stretch of road and wait for a convoy to form before taking off into the danger zone. They’ve learned that it’s safer to travel in a group.

While the truckers sit and wait for their convoy, they often smoke methamphetamine (sabu-sabu) together. Meth is popular among truckers due to its specific effects: as an upper, it gives users prolonged feelings of euphoria, energy, and invincibility, allowing them to work for hours on end without eating or sleeping. Drug use is so widespread in Indonesia’s trucking industry that it is specifically monitored by the National Narcotics Agency (Badan Narkotika Nasional/BNN), which reports that 10% of all employees in the transportation and warehousing sector used drugs in the past year. From my conversations with truckers, it would appear the real figure is much higher.

High on meth, and ready to outrun the robbers, the truckers take off together towards Medan, North Sumatra’s capital. No one wants to be at the back of the convoy—the most vulnerable position—so they jockey with each other as they accelerate down the highway, speed coursing through their veins.

Meth helps truckers outrun the hazards they find along this empty stretch of road, but it also reflects a stance towards modern working life that is affecting young workers throughout Indonesia. As the country’s economy grows, and workers come under increasing time pressure, young people are racing to meet the demands placed on them to deliver Indonesia’s promised prosperous future. For many, drug use is becoming a tool of survival in this new economy of speed.

Over the past year, I have been conducting field work in Aceh, Indonesia, as part of my doctoral project on youth drug cultures. As a volunteer at a drug recovery centre in a medium-sized city, I’ve had many chances to speak with recovering addicts about their trajectories into and out of the world of illicit drug use. While many existing theories of addiction focus on drug use as an “escape”, either from traumatic life experiences or from structural violence, my research participants instead talk about the ways that meth “helps” them to find money.

I have had to start my research with a different question: In what ways does drug use work with the demands of contemporary labour?

This has brought me to the question of temporality itself. Drugs, especially amphetamines, change users’ sense of the passage of time—much like work. Historian E.P. Thompson famously argued that during industrial revolution, “clock time” newly segmented the day into productive and unproductive units. Nowadays, however, it seems that every minute is potentially optimisable. In Indonesia, the acceleration of the economy has placed new demands on the bodies of workers, and drug users have told me that meth aligns with their perception of their country’s historical moment: ever faster, ever upwards.

Studying drugs helps answer the question: what are the costs of Indonesia’s economic transition, especially for those working to make it happen?

Young people in a changing economy

Indonesia, the world’s fourth most populous country, is undergoing a major economic transition. Former president Joko Widodo pledged to make Indonesia a high-income country by 2045. This plan relies heavily on the “demographic bonus” that Indonesia is predicted to benefit from in the coming decades as a large cohort of young people ages into their productive years. Those of working age currently make up 70% of the population—the highest ever share of “productive” citizens since the national census began. On top of that, almost 25% of the population is under the age of 14 and will come of age in the coming decades. Unlike ageing populations in Japan, North America, and Europe, Indonesia’s population is young, growing, and poised for economic transition.

Yet Indonesia is still a vastly unequal country. Much of the wealth is centred on the island of Java, while for underclass and undereducated workers in outlying provinces, future prospects look grim. Moreover, the most productive industries—mining, agriculture, and manufacturing—are still heavily reliant on manual labour. In other words, responsibility for this industrial transition weighs heavily on the shoulders, quite literally, of the younger generation. Add to this increased job insecurity and a shrinking middle class, and many seem to be turning to drugs just to keep up.

Drug use both facilitates and responds to changes in the Indonesian economy—changes that are largely premised on the acceleration of everyday life. Truckers, delivery drivers, and gig economy workers, for example, are tasked with delivering just-in-time goods for online shopping conglomerates like Shopee and Tokopedia. One drug user writes, “I still use [meth], especially when I work at night so that I have the energy to work and don’t get sleepy.” Increasing rates of drug use seem to indicate that some young workers are unable to keep up with the demands of a shifting economy, turning to chemical support to stay afloat in a new economy of speed.

Left behind in Aceh

In Aceh province, where I have been conducting my research, young people I talk to complain of dwindling job prospects. After the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami that devastated the province and obliterated the provincial capital, Banda Aceh, billions of dollars of development aid flowed in. But most of this aid dried up by 2010, and many of the hastily planned development projects are now empty and crumbling. Aceh today has an unemployment rate higher than Indonesia’s national average.

Through my conversations with recovering addicts, I’ve learned that many young people feel left behind and are turning to the drug trade to support themselves. Nyak (not his real name) was only a teenager when he started making money from drugs. Nyak comes from a small town on the north coast of Aceh, where he grew up with a single mother and two younger siblings. At age 14, he was recruited as a drug mule by some dealers in his village.

Nyak’s job was to go out to sea at night to meet a boat coming from Malaysia. He would meet the boat on the open waters, make the exchange, then come back to shore and pass the meth to the dealers. The amount of money on offer was hard to resist: Nyak was promised Rp5 million (about US$320) each time he went out to sea—almost double the average monthly salary in Aceh. But often he would only be paid Rp1–2 million per operation, with a promise that he would be paid the rest the next time he went out. This trapped Nyak in a cycle of dependence on the dealers, who would force him to continue smuggling just to access money he was already owed.

While meth production within Indonesia is minimal, the country’s close neighbour, Myanmar, is one of the largest producers in the world. The ongoing conflict there has fuelled drug production as armed groups produce and sell meth in exchange for weapons. Aceh, the closest Indonesian province to Myanmar, has now become a major point of entry. The drug is brought to Aceh via the Malacca Strait—usually in small fishing boats, which use the vast inlets and mangrove forests on the north coast for cover. Some of the smuggled meth flows through Indonesia on its way to Australia, while some is sold locally.

After a few years of smuggling, Nyak started using meth himself, and his addiction quickly spiralled out of control. He dropped out of high school and started smuggling in exchange for drugs rather than cash. Nyak’s family worried about his future and finally scraped together the money to send him to rehab (the average rehab stint in Aceh costs Rp2.5 million per month, about US$150). When I met Nyak at the rehab centre he seemed keen to turn his life around but unsure how to do it. He worries about going back home, since many people he grew up with now use drugs, making it easy to relapse. Besides, he admits that he still has cravings—not just for meth, but also for the quick money he can get from smuggling. “I don’t know what else I can do to make money,” he tells me “I haven’t graduated high school, and without an insider contact (orang dalam), it’s hard to find a job”.

Pressures of the “golden generation”

Politicians and development experts have dubbed Indonesia’s younger generation the “golden generation” (generasi emas). Their plan for a “qualified, competent, and highly competitive” generation by 2045 focuses on the development of young people’s personal character as a path towards national prosperity. Some of the qualities emphasised by the plan include “healthy social interactions,” “having a strong character,” and “comprehensive intelligence in service of productivity and innovation.” In other words, the golden generation framework repositions individual health and wellbeing as a matter of national concern.

Drug use evidently works against this plan. Many anti-drug campaigners argue that drugs are “destroying the mentality of the nation” and threatening young people’s standing as “the nation’s asset”. BNN, in its 2023 National Survey on Drug Abuse, frets over how “drug abuse (has) a negative impact on a nation’s economic competitiveness” and will “produce a damaged generation”. For BNN, drug prevention is a matter of national concern—reflected in Indonesia’s extremely harsh drug laws—and virtually all prevention campaigns are targeted towards young people.

Ibrahim worked as a truck driver for five years before he finally made the decision to go to rehab. He drove the heavily trafficked route between Banda Aceh and Medan described above. “I started using sabu-sabu at work”, he told me. Ibrahim said he was first given meth by the person who taught him how to drive. His mentor not only taught him how to weave in and out of busy traffic, but also how to make a bong and smoke meth.

Ibrahim kept up with the job—and the drug use—because the pay was good. Besides that, he enjoyed the nights in Medan. “We’d get to Medan and we’d still be high, so we would go and enjoy ourselves. The women in Medan, they like to have fun”, he said with a smile. “And they like Acehnese men. We usually come ready to spend.” It was only after Ibrahim contracted an STI that he considered going to rehab. “I’m married, and I realised I was putting my family at risk.” His family was supportive of his decision to seek help, but now Ibrahim is worried about returning to his old life: “If I go back to trucking, I know I will start using drugs again. I have to try to find another job, but trucking is all I know. How will I support my family? This is what worries me about the future.”

Men make up 70% of drug users in Indonesia, and gendered expectations around providing for the family often place particular economic pressure on young men. In Aceh, traditional family values are strong, and men are expected to become the economic and spiritual heads of their households. Whereas older Acehnese theories of masculinity emphasised religious knowledge (adab) and rational thought (akal), contemporary economic change has reshaped what it means to be a man around the demands of the economy. For Ibrahim, drugs are so tied up with his sense of identity that he can’t imagine working without them.

Boredom

On the flip side of the economy of speed are those who have been left out of it entirely. For some, it’s not the requirements of work that drives them to drug use, but the boredom and sense of worthlessness brought on by unemployment.

“Nothing scares me more than being called a pemalas (lazy person)”, says Saed, another drug user in recovery. Saed comes from a well-off family and graduated from university with a degree in electrical engineering but found it hard to find a job after graduation. “I applied to a few companies, but they all said I wasn’t a good fit. One told me I was overqualified, while another told me that I needed more work experience. It was confusing.” For Saed, it feels like he can’t get anything right. “I think they wanted to hire someone they already knew, a family member or something. What can I do in that situation?”

What began as casual drug use in university turned into a regular habit once Saed struggled to find a job. “At first I started doing it just for fun when hanging out (bergaul), but after a while I started to do it alone in my room”. He says he didn’t want to feel like a pemalas, and meth made it feel like he was working towards something. “After a while, I started smoking meth and gambling online”, he explains. “Meth would help me focus. I would win some money, and it would make me feel excited.”

But soon Saed started losing, a lot, and spending more money on drugs. His financial troubles eventually alerted his family to his drug use, and they forced him into rehab. But Saed’s worries about being a lazy person haven’t gone away. He complains to me that he can’t shake this feeling of worthlessness, a feeling that just gets worse as he passes his days in rehab.

As the government speeds towards a “developed economy” status, not everyone is pulled along in its wake. For those who watch friends and acquaintances move forward while they themselves can’t get a break, developmentalism makes them feel left behind, and left out. Some, like Saed, turn to drugs to pass the days and chase away their feelings of worthlessness.

Drugs in Indonesia’s future

BNN’s 2023 National Survey on Drug Abuse shows there are upwards of 3 million drug users in Indonesia. In the face of this large and persistent problem, small, underfunded drug recovery centres are one of the last hopes for drug users looking to get clean.

Every week, the head of the recovery centre in Aceh where I work takes some of the patients to his farm about an hour away where they practice skills in farming and construction. All the patients love it there; they say it refreshes their minds. The head of the centre chooses each week who needs it most and takes the group there in his four-wheel drive. On one of the side doors he has painted three big English words: “Band of Brothers”.

Back at the centre, Nyak, the drug smuggler from the small village along the coast, received some bad news. His family came by to say they no longer had money to pay for his treatment and that they had to take him home early. As he was leaving, I asked what he was planning to do when he got back to his hometown. “I’m not sure”, he said, “there aren’t many opportunities for me there. I might try to work as a fisherman until I can move to another city (merantau). Or I might have to go back to smuggling. We all need money to survive, after all.”

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This post is part of a series of essays highlighting the work of emerging scholars of Southeast Asia published with the support of the Australian National University College of Asia and the Pacific.