I didn’t expect to sweat this much over culture.

When I imagined learning something traditional in Indonesia, I pictured myself sitting cross-legged in the shade, listening politely, nodding at the right moments, maybe trying on a batik scarf and smiling for photos. I did not picture myself standing barefoot on a wooden floor in a small open-air pavilion, palms damp, heart thudding a little too loudly, while a man with calm eyes and a voice like still water asked me to mirror his stance.

This was my introduction to pencak silat.

Not in a museum. Not in a performance for tourists. But in a quiet village not far from where roosters still act like they run the place, where the air smells like clove cigarettes and damp earth, and where movement is learned the way it has been passed down for generations: by watching, trying, failing, laughing at yourself, and trying again.

Before this trip, I only vaguely knew that pencak silat was an Indonesian martial art. I imagined something dramatic and aggressive, all sharp kicks and fierce expressions. But standing there, awkwardly trying to keep my balance while my instructor moved with the ease of someone who had been born knowing where his body should be in space, I realized how wrong that picture was. Pencak silat is not just about fighting. It’s about awareness. Of your body. Of the space around you. Of the person in front of you. Of the ground beneath your feet.

The word “pencak silat” itself is a small history lesson. “Pencak” is commonly used in Java, Madura, and Bali, while “silat” (or “silek”) is more familiar in Sumatra. What we now call pencak silat is actually an umbrella term, created to unite hundreds of different styles and schools spread across Indonesia’s thousands of islands. The idea of using one official name was part of Indonesia’s effort to define itself after independence, to weave together its enormous diversity into something shared. The Indonesian Pencak Silat Association (IPSI) was founded in 1948, but it wasn’t until 1973 that different schools formally agreed to use “pencak silat” in official contexts. Even now, locals often still use their regional names. And somehow, that feels right. The art is unified, but its roots remain stubbornly local.

The place where I trained was simple. No mirrors. No air-conditioning. Just wooden beams, woven mats, and the open sides of the pavilion letting in the sounds of the village. Chickens argued outside. A motorbike coughed past occasionally. The rhythm of everyday life continued, completely uninterested in the fact that I was about to attempt something that had shaped warriors and kingdoms.

My instructor told me that pencak silat didn’t begin as a sport. It began as survival. Long before kingdoms and borders, people observed animals, the way they defended themselves, the way they moved when threatened. Those movements became techniques. Over time, as communities fought over land and resources, these techniques grew more refined. Power and status became tied to physical skill. Fighters were respected, sometimes feared. Eventually, these movements were systematized into what we now recognize as martial arts traditions.

As he spoke, I tried to imagine the long chain of people who had stood where I stood. Men. Women. Children. Warriors. Farmers. People who learned these movements not for fitness or curiosity, but because their lives might depend on it. The thought made my clumsy attempts at copying his footwork feel strangely significant.

When I finally tried my first sequence of movements, it felt less like learning to fight and more like learning a language my body had forgotten it once knew. The steps were low and grounded. The gestures were precise but fluid. Nothing was rushed. Every movement had intention. Even the pauses felt meaningful, like commas in a sentence. I wobbled. I laughed. My instructor smiled in that patient way people do when they’ve seen hundreds of beginners think they understand, only to realize how much there is to learn.

What surprised me most was how gentle the atmosphere was. There was no macho posturing. No shouting. No pressure to “be tough.” Pencak silat, at least the way I experienced it, wasn’t about proving strength. It was about control. About knowing when not to use force. The movements often mimic animals or elements of nature, and there’s a softness to that idea. Strength that comes from observation, not domination.

Later, sitting on the edge of the pavilion with my legs stretched out and my muscles already protesting, I learned more about how deeply pencak silat is woven into Indonesian history. Ancient kingdoms like Srivijaya in Sumatra and Majapahit in Java trained their warriors in these fighting systems. Archaeological evidence suggests formalized combative systems existed as early as the sixth century. These skills helped kingdoms expand and defend their territories across what is now Indonesia, Malaysia, and Singapore. Pencak silat was not just personal self-defense; it was a tool of state power, a way of shaping soldiers and protecting empires.

There are stories too, passed down in poetry and oral tradition. In the Minangkabau culture of Sumatra, silek is said to trace back to a legendary ancestor, Datuk Suri Dirajo. In Javanese literature, like the Kidung Sunda, warriors skilled in pencak silat are described fighting with honor to the very end during historical conflicts between kingdoms. These stories are dramatic, tragic, and deeply human. They’re about pride, loyalty, and the brutal reality of power struggles. Hearing them while still feeling the ache in my legs from practicing basic stances made history feel strangely close, as if the past wasn’t something locked in books but something still living in people’s bodies.

What I loved most was that pencak silat is not frozen in time. It evolves. Some schools emphasize spiritual elements. Others focus on performance, with graceful, dance-like movements. Some are more combative, more direct. Yet at the heart of all of them is the same idea: balance between body, mind, and environment. It’s a philosophy as much as a practice.

Trying pencak silat as a traveler felt different from watching a performance. When you watch, you admire. When you try, you understand — even if only a tiny fraction. You feel the discipline in your burning thighs. You feel the precision in the awkwardness of your hands. You feel how much patience it takes to move slowly when your instinct is to rush. It made me respect the art in a way that no amount of reading ever could.

I walked away from that session sweaty, humbled, and oddly calm. There’s something grounding about moving your body in a way that has been shaped by centuries of human experience. It reminds you that travel isn’t just about places; it’s about practices. About stepping into someone else’s rhythm of life, even briefly, and letting it change you in small ways.

Later that evening, sitting in a small warung with a plate of nasi goreng in front of me, I replayed the day in my mind. My muscles throbbed pleasantly. The smells of frying garlic and sweet soy sauce filled the air. The village was settling into evening. And I realized that this was one of those travel moments that doesn’t photograph well but stays with you longer than any perfect sunset shot.

Pencak silat didn’t make me feel powerful in the action-movie sense. It made me feel connected. To the land. To the people who developed these movements out of necessity. To the generations who refined them into art. It reminded me that culture isn’t something you consume. It’s something you participate in, even if you stumble through it with clumsy feet and a racing heart.

If you ever find yourself in Indonesia and have the chance to try pencak silat — really try it, not just watch from a distance — say yes. Go with respect. Go with curiosity. Go knowing you will be bad at it, and that this is perfectly okay. Let your body learn what your mind can’t quite grasp yet. Let yourself feel the weight of history in a single, simple stance.

I came to Indonesia looking for landscapes and temples and beaches. I left with sore muscles, a deeper respect for an ancient martial art, and the quiet realization that some of the most meaningful travel experiences happen not when you’re watching something beautiful, but when you’re brave enough to step into it and let it move you, one unsteady step at a time.