Madura – a Much Maligned Island.

The little-visited island of Madura

Originally published in Bali and Beyond Magazine, October 2008

http://www.baliandbeyond.co.id/bnb_oct_08/beyond.html

People warned me not to go to Madura. It was hot and dirty, they said, with nothing to see. And the inhabitants of the long, low island that lies off the north coast of Java were rude, aggressive, and possibly even dangerous. But none of the people who told me these things had ever been there. I was looking for an off-the-beaten-track destination easily accessible from East Java, and the terrible rumours only made me inquisitive: I went, and I discovered how wrong people were about Madura…

Madura is dwarfed by its southern neighbour, Java, but it is a big place, 160km long and 35 km wide. The gateway to the island is the sprawling East Java capital of Surabaya, a thirty-minute flight from Bali. Madura is just twenty minutes from Surabaya by ferry across a narrow channel crowded with shipping, but it is a world away from the hectic metropolis.
Madura is overwhelmingly rural, with small, orderly towns, far removed from the gridlocked cities of Java. A ridge of low limestone hills runs its length, cloaked in dry forest, and the level plains are a patchwork of rice fields and villages. And as I travelled east from the ferry port at Kamal, the first thing I noticed was just how beautiful it was. The fields were heavy with ripening rice, running out to banks of dark trees, and neat clusters of whitewashed, red-tiled houses stood back from the road. Inland there were craggy outcrops of weathered stone, and by scrambling to the top of one of these I was rewarded with a fabulous panorama of forest and fields sprawling south to the pale blue of the channel. There was no sign of the filth and squalor people in Java and Bali had warned me of; in fact it all seemed remarkably neat. And as for the infernal heat – well, this was Indonesia after all, so of course it was hot, but a light breeze was stirring the treetops, and there was not even a whiff of traffic fumes!
I travelled on eastward sometimes passing close to the coast, sometimes bending inland. In the late afternoon I reached my destination, the little town of Sumenep.

Sumenep is definitely the best destination in Madura, a grid of clean, lazy streets where brightly decorated becak (pedicabs) trundle by. It was here that I chose to spend a couple of nights. Virtually no tourists visit Madura – perhaps put off by the ill-informed stories of Indonesians from other parts of the country. But there are a few simple hotels scattered through the towns, and it took no time to find a bed.
Sumenep was a wonderfully friendly town. People were not used to foreign visitors, but they were eager to chat and as I wandered the streets I was met with warm greetings. It seemed that the negative stories I had heard about the Madurese people were far from the truth.
Sumenep has a handful of interesting sights, and the next morning I wandered from the crowded traditional market at Pasar Anom to the remarkable Mejid Jamik, the town’s oldest mosque. The mosque was built in the 18th Century by the ruler of East Madura, and it is fronted by a remarkable tiered gateway of stark white edged with yellow. It seemed to glow in the morning sunlight. Not far from the mosque is the keraton, the palace, a miniature version of the famed royal houses of Yogyakarta and Solo. I wandered the cool hallways, admiring the fine woodwork, and the decorations of the little pavilions in the courtyard outside, shaded by towering banyan trees. I found more notable architecture on an airy hilltop on the edge of town where the members of the old royal dynasty that once ruled Madura are buried. The mausoleums were crowded with pilgrims who come here to pray at the graves, and to make offerings of delicate flower petals.

Sumenep was a charming little place, and I wondered why it saw so few visitors, but once I headed out into the countryside beyond the town I became more bemused by Madura’s lack of tourists. The eastern part of the island is gorgeous. Narrow lanes wind through stands of tall palm trees, and cut through level rice fields of rich emerald green; side tracks open suddenly to gentle coastline and blue water, the horizon marked by the offshore islands of the tantalising Kangean Archipelago.
At Lombang Beach at the eastern tip of Madura a great sweep of yellow sand lies in front of a bank of whispering casuarinas trees, and following the rough track north along the coast from there, I found many other tiny beaches, utterly deserted beside the wide blue of the Java Sea. The next day too as I travelled on along the north coast road, passing through fields, palm stands and bustling fishing villages with inlets crowded with traditional white boats, I passed many stretches of clean, empty sand.

Madura is famous for a few things. Its crafts are renowned. In the little hamlet of Tajjian I was shown the intricately carved and decorated masks known as topeng, used in the dance versions of the great Hindu epics the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Villagers in East Madura have passed the skill of carving from generation to generation for hundreds of years, and traders from Yogyakarata and beyond still make their way there to buy the pieces. Madura is also famous for its batik. The silks and cottons here are decorated with some of the most elaborate and intricate designs anywhere in Indonesia. Motifs of birds and flowers in rich, deep colours are the norm, and in the batik-making village of Tanjungbumi with its warren of whitewashed alleyways, I was shown some of the most gorgeous pieces of cloth I had seen, far more impressive than the staid, formal designs of mainland Java.
Another famous Madurese export is its food. Throughout the archipelago simple stalls sell sate and sotto, renowned Madura specialities. But of course, locals will tell you, it is only on the island itself that you can taste the little kebabs of skewered chicken, and the deliciously fresh-tasting chicken soup as they should be eaten.

And Madura is famous for one more thing; indeed it has only one acknowledged tourist attraction: bull racing. As an agricultural heartland cattle have always been important on Madura, and out of a fun way to plough the rice fields a spectacular, high-octane sport developed. Every year in the Dry Season great championships are held in the towns of Madura where teams of two bulls and a man race a astonishing speeds across a hundred-metre course.

There were no bull races when I went to Madura, but I didn’t care. I had discovered that the island had a wealth of other attractions. There was beautiful countryside, pleasant, slow-paced towns and a cluster of historical sights; the food was good and the traditional crafts were still practiced as they always had been, without the effects of mass tourism. The coastline was dotted with clean, unspoilt beaches, and the whole island was the ideal place to sample a traditional part of Indonesia completely untouched by tourists. And above all, the people were delightful. Everywhere I went there was open hospitality and good humour.
As I made my way back to the western part of the Island, and back across the channel to the chaos of Surabaya, I was very glad I hadn’t listened to the terrible rumours.

© Tim Hannigan 2008

Real Madura a haven of peace, tranquility

The Rarely Visited Indonesian Island of Madura

Originally published in The Jakarta Post 08/04/07

http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2007/04/08/real-madura-haven-peace-tranquility.html

Tell the average Indonesian that you're going to Madura for a holiday and he'll laugh.
Then, as the realization that you're not joking dawns, jaws will drop; concerns may even be expressed for your safety.
Madura rides like a ship at anchor just off East Java's north coast. It is as big as Bali and rich in culture and sights, but it has a terrible reputation and no one visits.
It was the tales of filthy towns and villages, aggressive, rough-spoken people and infernal heat (all from people who had never been there) that made me determined to go and see for myself.
So, one Saturday morning I rode my motorbike to Surabaya's Tanjung Perak port. As the ferry slipped across the busy channel the grim silhouette of the docks fell behind and a more attractive coast of dense forest took shape ahead.
The dire warnings of Indonesian friends faded in my ears. Twenty minutes later I was breathing in clean air as I rode between sweeping rice fields.

Lush fields, deserted beaches

The road from Kamal to Sumenep, my destination at the eastern end of Madura, stays close to the coast, winding through broad vistas of rice fields, and stretches of cool forest.
Limestone outcrops rise among the hills that form the center of the island, and there are neat and delightfully friendly villages of red roofs hidden in the trees.
The journey was a pleasure as I skirted fishing villages, made detours down narrow lanes, and paused to chat with happy, easy-going locals. All the way to Sumenep I wondered why such a beautiful, charming place had such an awful reputation.
Sumenep is undoubtedly the nicest place to stay in Madura. It is a charming town of quiet streets where brightly decorated becak (pedicabs) roll by.
The great gateway of the Agung Mosque glowed in the sunlight next morning. Its heavyset, tiered faade was painted white, and edged in yellow, and a narrow passageway led to an elegant mosque with a three-tiered roof and a cool, airy interior.
It is one of the oldest mosques in Java, built in the 18th Century, and certainly one of the most striking. From the mosque I made my way across Sumenep's central square to the old palace or kraton (the last remaining in East Java province).
It was a quiet spot of high ceilings and soft breezes. A young man, Yanto, who worked in the nearby museum showed me around.
He pointed out a huge, sprawling banyan tree in the garden which was already standing in the 18th Century when the kraton was built. He also led me to the Taman Sari, a compound of pools and gardens where the women of the royal household used to bathe.
The baths are empty now, but for a few large goldfish, and Yanto told that at night the garden was haunted by ghosts. After a visit to the old royal cemetery at Asta Tinggi on a hilltop just outside the town where the faithful come to pray, and a quick stop in the bustling Pasar Anom market, I set out east on a deserted road.
The countryside was even more gorgeous than the day before, the forest now dominated by tall coconut palms, and the rice fields greener and richer, touched with a film of light mist.
The road ran close to the coast, and often by picking through the trees I found deserted beaches where a strip of tilting palm trees bent away and the shapes of small islands showed offshore.
At lunchtime I reached Lombang Beach, where a vast stretch of yellow sand backed by a bank of casuarinas trees faces a broad sea.
There were a few warung (food stalls) under the trees and I ate a bowl of tasty soto, Madura's most famous dish. It is a yellow soup with a delicious, lemony flavor mixed with rice, vegetables and shredded chicken.
Beyond Lombang the coastline hardened as the central ridge of limestone pushed up against the coast. The soil was thinner here and ribs of gray rock showed through the surface.
The villages were fewer, and there were many spots where a patch of clean beach lay utterly empty close to the road.
As I drove I asked myself over and over why this beautiful landscape was not crawling with tourists. I was glad that it wasn't, but baffled none the less.

Big-city gridlock a world away

That evening back in Sumenep I met a charming young man named Adi. A native of Sumenep, he works for the local tourism department and also acts as a guide.
He was a mine of information, whetting my appetite for a return visit with tales of all the places I had missed, and tantalizing talk of deserted islets of pure white sand and crystal-clear coral seas in the sprawling Kangean archipelago east of Madura.
He had his own theory about Madura's terrible reputation. Most outsiders form their opinion from the large numbers of Madurese migrants who have left the island in search of work.
Madura is beautiful and tranquil, and its people are laid-back and friendly.
Coming from such a place, Adi claimed, the clamor and chaos of the big cities of Java and beyond disturbs and unsettles the Madurese, and they respond with ill-temper and harsh words, a poor advert for their homeland.
The theory had some merit: after just two days in Madura I was relaxed and unwound, but the very thought of Surabaya gridlock was enough to sharpen my temper!
The next morning I crossed the central ridge where villagers were plowing fields of rich red earth with teams of cattle the same color as the soil. I reached the northern coast road at Slopeng village.
Here a great bank of sand knitted with palm trees, shelters the road. But stop anywhere and scramble up the dunes and you will meet a glorious panorama of empty beach, stretching far in each direction, and a shining blue ocean scattered with fishing boats.
Adi had told me that this area was famous for topeng, the carved masks used in the dance versions of the Mahabharata and Ramayana epics.
After an enjoyable wild goose chase through palm groves and rice paddies in the bright sunlight I found the hamlet of Tajjan where Pak Suraji, a topeng-maker lived.
As I sipped delicious green tea, a Madura specialty made from pandanus, he showed me his collection of masks, all carved from the local bintaos wood and skillfully painted in bright colors.
There was snub-nosed Semar the clown, hideous Ravana, handsome Arjuna, and a multitude of others. Pak Suraji told me that the masks had been made in the area for centuries, the skill passed from generation to generation.
His collection was not for sale: They were heirloom pieces used on the occasions when the villagers stage a dance, but in another hamlet nearby I bought a mask of Arjuna, decorated in fine red and black.
Madura is proudly Muslim. Arabic names are common and as you drive along the back roads you will pass men collecting donations for new mosques, and schoolboys in black peci caps walking home from village pesantren (religious schools).
But people in Java had painted a picture of something approaching Taliban-era Afghanistan. The high Hindu-culture of the topeng dances, and tales Adi had told of southern villages where spectacular Balinese-style ceremonies are held, proved that this was not the case.

Irresistible batik

The road west ran through friendly fishing villages where brightly decorated boats were moored in narrow inlets. I stopped several times to swim in the warm waters off deserted beaches. The hills were green to the south and running cloud dappled the sea with purple and turquoise.
In mid-afternoon I reached the village of Tanjungbumi. Back from the road a warren of white-washed alleys clustered around a glittering mosque.
In a cool courtyard of shade and broken sunlight I admired exquisite batik sarongs, the work of Hajji Affandi, a kindly, soft-spoken man.
Madura batik is famous, characterized by motifs of flowers and birds, with hints of Chinese art. The best pieces are made of silk, and painstakingly decorated by hand, sometimes taking several weeks to complete.
Tanjungbumi is one of the centers of batik-making, and there are many workshops hidden in the white alleyways.
I had not intended to buy anything, but one piece, an intricate spread of birds and flowers in rich reds and greens was the most gorgeous batik I had ever seen: I was unable to resist.
My special souvenir safely in my bag, I rode on. As the land softened and the hills fell away I turned south again.
Here, elegant new mosques stood beside the road. They were far more pleasing than the modern mosques of Java, and I stopped beside one particularly startling Mughal-style building.
A jolly man, Pak Suni, led me to the rooftop. I was not far from the port at Kamal now, bringing my journey full circle. As I looked out over the colored plain of rice fields and villages, the sea shining golden in the lengthening light, the hills dark behind, I wondered why it had taken me so long to come to this marvelous place.
Half an hour later, as the ferry slipped over the murky brown water of the channel back towards the grimy smudge of Surabaya I was certain of two things: I would be back to Madura before long, and the next time I heard someone bad-mouthing the place, I would be sure to set them straight!

© Tim Hannigan 2007