There exists on the northeast coast of Java an arid island by the name of Madura, or Pulau Garam. It is a big, dry place that ranks among the largest regions in that part of Indonesia. But despite its size, Madura nestles in some cloud of vague obscurity, as though the name itself conjures up a fog that dissipates only when one stops thinking of Madura.
It is strange that so many people could ignore such a body. Madura juts out of mainland Java like the tooth of an apex predator. The island’s aggressive, rugged shape suggests a huge beast cut loose from the moorings of East Java. This spirit of flight seems to attract few foreign visitors, resulting in a lack of resources and buzz that further pushes the island away from the forefront of people’s minds.
Madura and Majapahit
The scholarly reader will pick up that the island played a key role in the growth of Indonesia. History is a beast with many strands that stretch to all points of all things. Thus, a focused gaze on Java in 1292 may land on Raden Wijaya, a scion of the Rajasa dynasty.
Having escaped the clutches of Jayakatwang’s rebellious Kediri kingdom, Wijaya settled on Pulau Garam in Sumenep. There, he looked to form a new kingdom with the aid of that region’s governor, Arya Wiraraja. The pair planned to defeat the Kediri rebels and the Mongol hordes who had invaded Java.
This game of political intrigue worked. In 1293, spirited fighting and poor weather forced the invaders to flee. The rebels fared no better, smashed to pieces on the battlefield. And so, Wijaya became the founder and first monarch of Majapahit.
This Hindu-Buddhist empire would become one of Southeast Asia’s most powerful kingdoms. Many have deemed Majapahit the precursor of modern Indonesia in how it unified the archipelago. The kingdom’s red and white colours even inspired Indonesia’s national flag.
Madura’s Obscure Position
But past influence does not mean current sway. For some, Madura hides in plain sight; closer checks show a place with the uncanny ability to deflect attention away from itself. The uninitiated, who may not know of the island, simply assume that any references to it are mistakes and that the speaker must mean somewhere else.
Rarely does Madura haunt any kind of ‘must-visit,’ ‘most underrated’ or ‘hidden gems of Indonesia’ list. This pity becomes almost tragic when people discussing the go-to places in East Java – acidic Ijen, iconic Bromo, colourful Malang and so on – do not even note the giant land across the Suramadu Bridge from Surabaya.
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One possible cause for such an oversight is that the very idea of Madura proves so frail that it evaporates upon exposure to fresh air. A second, much more likely, scenario: an army of playful elves patrols the coastline and erects mirrors whenever they sense a newcomer looking in the island’s direction from the coastline of places like Probolinggo and Karagajar. The upshot: attention deflected away.
In the real world, however, the answer is much more obvious: logistics. If a holidaymaker has, say, two weeks in East Java, it stands to reason that they could easily stay on mainland and have an extremely satisfying and stimulating time heading ‘twixt volcano and lake, Batu and Tumpak Sewu Waterfall, surfing at G-Land and touring Majapahit sites at Trowluwan and never even considering enigmatic Madura, which is just out of the way enough to relegate it to the ‘next time’ portion of people’s itineraries, where it stays in perpetuity.
The reason is simple. Pulau Garam, for all its intrigue, warmth and vibrant culture, doesn’t have a major thing – a brooding volcano, a giant waterfall, a divine stretch of beach – to hook the majority of visitors and draw them onto the island.
Its many charms work on subtle levels and require a person’s physical presence to discover them, for they often appear in the form of passing conversations and hearsay that leads to other things, like a steaming bowl of Soto Madura, bull races or a pencak silat demonstration.
But if said person has already swerved the island, citing a lack of awareness about the place, they’ll never know of these vibrant, joyous occasions that could most likely rank amongst their finest times in the whole of Indonesia, if only they had the chance to experience them.
Consensus, though, has already consigned the island to the periphery, ensuring that its depths will go unappreciated by the majority. Such is the ridiculous echo chamber that swirls around Pulau Garam.
Moreso, it would come as no shock to find Madura Island propping up a list based on phonetics. Research has shown (Editor: No, it hasn’t) that when asked to name places that sound a bit alike, many people defer first to volcanic, beautiful Madeira in the Azores.
Later answers land on autonomous Extremadura in Spain, which has the kind of self-rule that Madura might well enjoy. Or perhaps the Indian city of Madurai (formerly Madura) in Tamil Nadu. Only then, when all other places are exhausted, does Madura call for a mention. But only after somebody asks: ‘Don’t you mean that place in India?’
Never do people confuse these places for Madura in Java. Only the other way around. AI seems to agree: a slight spelling mistake of ‘Madura’ on a search engine often corrects the word to Madeira. But maybe Pulau Garam (repeat: the place in Java) thrives in such anonymity.
The island claims a size of 4.43K km², not too dissimilar to nearby Bali, hidden by the rump of East Java. But the distant Javanese cousin merits only a fraction of the interest that goes Bali’s way.
A recent update of the world’s most well-known travel resource (Editor: Too kind…) dedicated tens of pages to the Balinese village of Canggu and its surrounding areas. In contrast, somebody decided that the whole of Madura merited only a page and a half of coverage.
But such a gulf may serve a purpose. Madura is an Islamic island with a conservative, traditional mindset. It may have noticed the surface noise, in the form of soulless overdevelopment, massive influx of visitors, loss of green space, general dilution of culture and the fears this pattern will repeat itself ad infinitum, generated by certain places in Bali – Canggu, Ubud, Uluwatu, Bingin, Pererenan, Kedungu – and, sighing, made itself invisible to ensure it never suffers such concerns.
A visitor to Madura will note the total lack of ‘scenes’ that permeate other, more well-known places further east: YouTubers; Instagrammers; property developers; influencers; digital nomads; surfers; skaters; yoga heads; and food vloggers who like to film themselves eating and talking. So, too, is there an absence of crypto people and those weird Ponzi cults that hide behind the mask of high-ticket affiliate marketing.
None of these groups has made a mark on Madura. Nor are they likely to inspire others, an unwieldy amount thereof, to swamp the island and soak up resources, leaving certain places in chaos as traffic and home-building increase at an alarming rate.
All bodies have certain magnetic pulls, but wise Pulau Garam knows to make itself attractive to the few. It is these people who will find the unshakable inclination to visit Madura implanted in their minds, and they cannot resist the urge.
This lack of curation and artifice on Madura means Pulau Garam will most likely never suffer the same fate as its brethren, Bali and Lombok. In parts of those latter places, foreign entrepreneurs, upon buying a piece of land, may strip that land of its soul by labelling it an investment opportunity.
A cursory glance at social media shows that many people make such investments and bloat the island to near ruin. Or at least certain parts, according to some people; the reader can make up their own mind about whether the popular places in Indonesia suffer from the blight of over-tourism.
Madura and Migration
One may ask with all fairness if Madura’s privacy stems from some deep-rooted resistance to outside influences. History has told that millions of people from Madura – an ethnic group known as Orang Madura, Tijang Madura or Wong Madura – migrated to other parts of the archipelago, such as Java, Sumatra and Kalimantan.
But in some of these places, feuds arose between the settlers and the natives. In particular, the early 2000s clashes with the Dayaks of Kalimantan proved violent and deadly.
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Thus, one may notice a mutual dislike between some Wong Madura and most other places. For instance, the Javanese call the islanders ‘kasar,’ or ‘unrefined.’
Anecdotal evidence from Surabaya, a place with many Madurese settlers, also suggests that not all islanders ingratiate themselves within their new communities. Some on the mainland have voiced concerns over a lack of respect shown by the newcomers for cultural or business boundaries, for instance.
From the other side, though, one should consider the quiet calm of Madura, and that many transplants have moved from rural villages and settlements. No wonder, then, that the chaos of big cities or unfamiliar places in Java and beyond confuse the Madurese settler, who, troubled by the clamour, may become hot-tempered and combative, fermenting a mutual dislike with their new communities.
Trade on Madura
Many foreign visitors will never see such tension. The Madurese, like most, rarely share their problems with the uninvolved. Instead, the visitor may note the prevalence of physical, hands-on trades. The island’s dry climate does not lend itself to cultivating rice and other such goods.
Instead, many work as farmers, traders and producers of livestock, often employing a Celurit, or Sabit, sickle. This agricultural tool has a distinct crescent-shaped blade and a long handle. Alongside its designated purpose, practitioners of Pencak Silat employ the Celurit in their martial art.
Madura has a strong bond with the sickle. So much so that one may associate it with Madurese culture as much as clothing bearing the thin red and white stripes of Majapahit’s naval flag.
The Madurese have also forged a reputation as fine sailors and fisherfolk. An observer will note the ease with which they use nets, bagan platforms and traditional boats, such as the eyebrow-shaped lis-alis, to catch their prey.
Salt Island
Less trouble exists in the soil. For, although Madura’s dry earth does not lend itself to cultivating food crops, tobacco thrives in the island’s ground.
The island has become a prime producer of this plant; so, too, of cloves, making Madura an integral player in the domestic kretek, or clove cigarette, market. The subtle swirl of sweet, crackling smoke that meets wherever people congregate often has its roots in this corner of Java.
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Madura’s salt production and export, also ranks as one of, if not the, largest in Indonesia. Salt’s stature means people honour this type of farming, leading some to call Madura ‘Pulau Garam,’ or ‘Salt Island.’
Those who visit the villages of Pinggir Papas, Karang Anyar and Kebundadap in Sumenep district may see the rite of nyadar and witness this importance for themselves. Here, participants gather food offerings in a red panjhang bamboo basket.
Next, they collect seven kinds of flowers. They then honour those, such as Sheikh Anngasuto, who, with God’s will, introduced salt farming to Madura. The parties then drink water and smear lalongsoran powder on their bodies. Finally, they pray to Allah to ensure the salt farming industry’s continued health and eat the food offerings.
Beneath the Surface
The forcefield that surrounds Madura dilutes many people’s interest in the island. As a result, many who’ve never been to Pulau Garam tend to add a caveat when they discuss the place. ‘You may do such-and-such a thing on Madura,’ they may say, ‘but apart from that, expect to find very little to pass your time.’
Sad to state, it is also true that, occasionally, well-travelled people who have crisscrossed the length and breadth of the archipelago and gained an understanding of its rhythms also adopt this attitude. However, such a common outlook does not make it correct.
This disconnect may stem from the fact that few people speak English, the shared tongue, on Salt Island. Thus, many things, otherwise welcoming and inclusive, hide behind an air of incomprehension.
Add to this gap sometimes cramped public transport, sometimes obscure tourist infrastructure and a mood of blunt honesty, and one may find that outsiders get few concessions. But not a lack of clarity.
As an Islamic island, alcohol is not widely available on Madura. Mostly, a friend of a friend of a friend can acquire such goods. But since so few people have reported sufficient devotion to Bintang or Arak that they would wait upwards of a day or two just to savour some, many who imbibe simply choose to go without.
All of this makes Madura Island such an endearing destination. Each visit feels like a trip into the unknown. A cramped bus ride introduces colourful characters – or vomit – into the traveller’s orbit, strangers warmly welcome newcomers, and vibrant festivals display the island’s storied history.
Locals greet tourists – a rare species – with arms wide open and a touch of shock that folk not of Indonesia knew of Salt Island, let alone made it that far.
After all, a person does not end up on Madura by mistake. Few flights reach Trunojoyo Airport in Sumenep, save from Banyuwangi and Bawean, and clearly marked buses leave from Bungurasih terminal in Surabaya.
It would require an exceptional turn of events for someone to trip, unnoticed, onto a bus, be ignored by the ticket collector or driver and somehow, upon alighting at the terminus on Pulau Garam, find that they’ve reached Madura. ‘Where? Don’t you mean Madeira? In the Azores?’ an all-knowing voice, rich in inflection, asks off-stage.
Madura’s Information Network
This shows that a person must make the conscious decision to head for Pulau Garam. Once there, they may find that many islanders abide by the Islamic belief that a guest is a gift from God. This notion manifests itself in a warm, genuine and uncynical welcome that some may find overwhelming.
Those invited to a family home for companionship have told of receiving plate upon plate of food. They eat it under the watchful eye of all present, who ensure that the visitor has had their fill; and nobody eats before the guest does.
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One foreign visitor to Sampang shared a time when, trying to walk 100 metres down the road to buy a lighter, a trip of no more than five minutes took nearly two hours. The man could not pass a building without the residents rushing out to shepherd him into their homes for food, coffee and a hang.
This happened many times, and the visitor has since reported feelings of guilt because after eating five full meals in quick succession, he instinctively declined the kind offer of one more in the sixth house.
But if a gift is offered, one should accept, and the guest felt a bit sheepish for denying his hosts the chance to fulfil their roles as dutiful Muslims. They did at least have a lengthy, friendly chat, and many photos were taken by all present in a sign of comdradeship. In his defence, the guest also expressed gladness for avoiding the danger of exploding, through overconsumption, in the unsuspecting host’s front room.
Views of Outsiders
The frequencies on Madura often run beyond what the eye can see—a prevalent underground network of information charges through the island. It comes in many forms: WhatsApp, text, WAYN. The usual modes.
Since Madura receives so few outside visitors, an outsider can spark interest. This means the same outsider cannot hope to blend in; people will note their presence and share their movements, presumably as nothing more sinister than a topic of conversation. On Madura, as in most places, the watchers always track the watched.
A few years ago, a foreign traveller encountered this network firsthand. They had made friends in Sumenep – a welcoming place – and thought nothing of it. They soon noticed, though, the lengths of Madurese perception; these same friends, upon asking the visitor about their day, then went ahead to share this person’s movements and describe the clothes they’d worn.
The friends meant no harm. Instead, it showed a slow absorption into the island’s rhythm. In the same way that the member of a community knows small bits of its members’ lives, through word of mouth and the like, so too did the visitor become, however briefly, a part of the town’s gossip framework.
This reach extends between places; a town boundary, for instance, does not inhibit the network’s movement. The next day, this same traveller, having left Sumenep, went to Pamekasan, the next town due west. There, they explored a new place. Of a sudden, a stranger approached them unexpectedly with no fanfare, wielding a ringing phone and indicating that the traveller should answer it.
This the traveller did, to find their friend from Sumenep on the line; the friend spoke with a decisive knowingness, as if they had expected to talk to the traveller all along. But since the traveller had not told anyone of their movements, this incursion came as a surprise and showed the strong pulse of the bush telegraph on Madura Island.
But what other things can a visitor expect on Pulau Garam? Tune in for Part 2 to find out about (some of) Madura’s myriad sights, sounds, smells and tastes. The next bit’ll probably be longer than this one, heads-up.
[2025 update: A few bits edited, streamlined and reworded to remove some of the smugger and shitter phrasing. It’s still not a great article and it’s nowhere near definitive, but hopefully it can contribute to a wider dialogue about Madura.]
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