Balinese Heritage in a Madura Village

The Nyadar Ceremony near Sumenep, Madura, Indonesia

Originally published in Bali and Beyond Magazine, September 2009

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

The murmur of Sanskrit mantras drifts through the village beneath the white-flowered frangipani trees. In the shade of a communal pavilion old men with batik headcloths prepare offerings of leaves, petals and holy water for the spirits of the ancestors while women load ceremonial platters with sacred rice. But this is not Hindu Bali; this a remote village near Sumenep on the Muslim island of Madura. Here a community of salt-makers hold annual ceremonies to give thanks for their prosperity, and to commemorate their ancestors – a party of Balinese soldiers.

Madura is separated from East Java by a narrow strait. Some time soon a bridge connecting the island with the nearby city of Surabaya will open, and airline Merpati plans to start flights to Sumenep from Surabaya and Bali. But for now the only way to reach Madura is by ferry.
A history of rebellion against the kingdoms of old Java, coupled with mass immigration from the island in more recent years, has left many Indonesians nervous of the place – and hardly likely to recommend it as a holiday destination; few people visit. This is a shame for the Madurese people are among the friendliest you’ll meet, the landscape of limestone hills and rice and tobacco fields is remarkably beautiful, and there are some perfect, deserted beaches scattered around the eastern coastline.
Madura’s reputation as rough and uncultured proves wildly unfounded in the old royal capital of Sumenep which boasts a fine palace, or kraton, the last surviving in East Java Province. Long the seat of Madurese kings, people here are proud of their refined and courtly traditions. Beyond Sumenep there is plenty more to explore. Aside from beaches and beautiful landscapes there is fascinating traditional culture. In the village of Slopeng you’ll see the very best of the carved dance masks found in Bali’s upmarket souvenir shops being made by craftsmen who learnt the trade from their own fathers. In other villages batik and inlayed woodwork are specialities. But nothing is quite as fascinating as the mysterious ceremonies known as Nyadar, held by the people of Pinggir Papas.

Pinggir Papas lies beyond the fringe of the forested land southeast of Sumenep. The village is surrounded by a stark moonscape of salt pans and every adult in the community works in the salt industry. According to legend, the process of making salt was discovered many centuries ago by Angga Suto, a local holy man. Angga Suto was walking across the mudflats surrounding what was then a poor fishing village, when he noticed that the seawater that gathered in his own footprints evaporated to leave a crust of fine, white salt crystals.
But it is not just their trade that makes the people of Pinggir Papas unusual. Other Madurese confirm that the salt-makers speak a strange dialect, said to be riddled with Balinese words, for their forefathers came from Bali.

In the 1560s, the story goes, a Balinese king led an army against Sumenep. They landed on Madura’s eastern coast and advanced on the royal capital. But the Madurese soon drove the invaders out, torching their camps and destroying their warships. One small band of Balinese soldiers fled the battlefield and found their way to a salty village on the coast where they begged for asylum. It was given, on condition that they converted to Islam, and the refugees settled in Pinggir Papas, intermarrying with the locals and creating a unique syncretic culture all of their own.

More than four hundred years later, this Balinese heritage still finds expression in the Nyadar ritual. Three times a year during the dry season, on dates fixed according to the full moon, the people of Pinggir Papas leave their work on the salt pans, don traditional dress, and cross a narrow river through the mangrove forest to the neighbouring community of Kebun Dadap where Angga Suto and the other revered ancestors are buried.
The sacred tombs stand on a low hilltop amongst the trees beside the river. It is here that the Nyadar ritual is held. Every family brings a package of petals and shredded leaves – reminiscent of the daily Balinese offerings – to place before the ancestral shrines.
Nyadar is the most important time of year for the people of Pinggir Papas, and even those who have left Madura to seek work in the big cities return for the ceremony. And when the gate of the complex that houses the tombs of the ancestors is opened a spectacular, though good-natured, struggle erupts to be first into the inner sanctum. Old men in batik sarongs leap over gravestones, pushing younger men aside in their mad dash, while bulky women in headscarves jostle with their own husbands and sons for a prime position.
Once everyone has squeezed into the inner courtyard, prayers mixing Sanskrit and Arabic are made and the tombs are anointed with petals and holy water. Villagers mark their foreheads with a murky paste made from rice-water and betel nut – another mysterious echo of Hindu practice.
As the sun sets the people of Pinggir Papas do not return home across the river. Instead they take refuge with the villagers of Kebun Dadap and spend the long, hot night preparing offerings of rice to be heaped in a neat cone on special plates known as panjeng – an important heirloom for each family.

In the first light of the next morning the village alleyways are deserted. The salt-makers have returned to the shaded ground near the tombs for the second stage of the Nyadar ritual. Here an enormous spread of upturned red and black baskets sheltering the rice offerings makes a bizarre sight.
A traditional religious leader known as a kyai leads the ceremonies, reciting a string of Arabic prayers, Sanskrit mantras and fragments of old Javanese and Balinese, blending the sacred languages of Islam and Hinduism into a seamless chant. Four old men called pangolo assist the kyai. They wear patchwork waistcoats of coloured cloth, passed down through the generations and only used during the Nyadar ritual. Their task is to make a careful count of the rice offerings.
When prayers are over villagers open the baskets and scoff a few handfuls of the rice, now blessed by god and the ancestors. Then they hurry home to Pinggir Papas where the sacred rice is dried, and a little added to the cooking pot each morning during the coming year, passing its luck and blessing into the daily meal. Within half an hour the place is deserted, only a few scraps of leaves fluttering on the soft breeze to mark where the ritual took place.

The people of Pinggir Papas are proud of their unique heritage, and for them the Nyadar ritual and the memory of Angga Suto is at the heart of their culture. They are happy too for respectful visitors to watch the events – and even to share a little of the scared rice with them when prayers are over. And although they consider themselves to be devout Muslims, they are proud of their Balinese heritage and of the hospitality that saw their ancestors given asylum on this remote coastline. The Nyadar ritual is their way of showing this.

*****

For information about the Nyadar ceremony, or about Sumenep and the rest of Madura (well worth a visit at any time of year), you can contact Kurniadi Wijaya of the official Sumenep tourist office. He can be reached on (+62) 081 79330648 or at kurniadi@consultant.com

© Tim Hannigan 2009

Salt of the Earth

The Nyadar Ceremony in Eastern Madura


Originally published in Jakarta Post Weekender Magazine, October 2008


http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2008/10/26/salt-the-earth.html


The village of Pinggir Papas is deserted. It is a stark place, near Sumenep in the far east of Madura, surrounded by a patchwork of glittering white salt pans, a barren and strangely wintry landscape, despite the fiery breeze.
Almost every adult in the village works in salt manufacture, a major industry here for centuries. On a normal day there would be dozens of figures at work out on the pans, raking over the drying crystals, shrouded against the blazing sun. But on this Friday afternoon in August there is no one, and in the village itself flimsy wooden doors are bolted and windows shuttered. The people of Pinggir Papas have important matters to attend to elsewhere.

The Nyadar ritual of Pinggir Papas is held three times each year between July and October, with dates specified according to the stages of the moon. The biggest ceremony comes in mid-August. The ritual is connected by legends to the coming of Islam, the founding of the salt industry and a history of warfare. It is at the heart of the salt makers’ identity.

The afternoon sun is dropping away to the west and the light is taking a copper-colored glow. The villagers are gathered on the banks of a muddy river that runs through the mangroves west of Pinggir Papas, the men dressed in sarongs and black pecis, the women carrying cloth-wrapped baskets. They are waiting for the fishing boats that will ferry them to the far shore, for Nyadar, though it is celebrated only by the people of Pinggir Papas, is held in the neighboring community of Kebun Dadap where the ancestors of the salt-makers are buried.
The ancestral tombs stand in a neat courtyard above the river. Kebun Dadap lies beyond the salty wastes of Pinggir Papas and here frangipani trees with sugar-white flowers break the fading sunlight. Red-tiled roofs and neatly painted white and green walls shelter the resting places of revered forebears. Most important of these is a man named Angga Suto.
Angga Suto – a local leader at some unspecified time in the early Second Millennium – is credited with both introducing Islam to Pinggir Papas, and inventing salt production. The story tells that he discovered the process after noticing that the seawater that filled his footprints in the clinging mud around the village evaporated to leave a crust of salt crystals. A commemoration of this man, and a thanksgiving for the salty prosperity of Pinggir Papas, is the focus of the Nyadar ritual.

Kebun Dadap, a village of simple white bungalows, is crowded. Nyadar is the most important time of year for the people of Pinggir Papas, and even those who have joined the huge Madurese diaspora return home for the celebration.
On a shaded pavilion outside the tomb compound, women are working to blend packages of leaves and petals – offerings for the ancestors – into one sacred mass. Each family has brought their own package, but it is handed over and added to the communal pile.
As evening approaches the crowd gathers before the gateway to the tombs. A dozen old men and women – direct descendents of the people buried here – hurry inside the compound to undertake secretive preparatory prayers. Overhead the sky is clear and pale and a full moon floats between the stands of bamboo.
A kyai – a village religious leader – conducts the waiting crowd through a chant of simple Arabic – la il aha il Allah – more and more urgently and insistently until the elders reemerge. Then the most dramatic element of Nyadar erupts: a hell-for-leather rush to enter the complex. All the usual conventions of deference collapse as men, women, young and old struggle to run through the narrow gateway and across the outer courtyard in search of a prime position within the inner sanctum. People push and shove, stumbling over gravestones and dragging others down with them. It looks more like a rugby scrum than a religious ceremony.
Once everyone is inside, a low hum of prayer begins to rise from the crowd. Offerings of petals and leaves are placed before the headstones, the tombs are doused with holy water from old brass pitchers, and villagers dab their ears and foreheads with rice-water – a strange echo of Hindu practice.
As darkness falls people filter back out and into the village and a bustling night market gets underway, the alleyways a mass of hissing paraffin lamps and glowing faces. But the people of Pinggir Papas do not return home. Instead they seek shelter in the houses of the Kebun Dadap locals – who play no other part in the Nyadar ceremonies – and begin to prepare for the second stage of the ritual.

***

The hint of Hindu practice in the Nyadar ritual may be more than a coincidence. Locals in Sumenep say that the people of Pinggir Papas speak an unusual dialect that “sounds like Balinese”.
According to legend, in the 1560s a Balinese army attacked Sumenep. A fleet of warships landed and Balinese soldiers torched fishing villages and advanced on the capital. But the Madurese defenders were victorious; the Balinese ships and camps were destroyed. Many of the invaders killed themselves rather than face defeat, but one small band fled from the battlefield to Pinggir Papas where they were given refuge on condition that they converted to Islam.

***

Saturday; the morning after the night before. The stalls of the night market have been cleared away; the alleyways of Kebun Dadap are silent and the villagers have returned to the area around the tombs. The ground is covered with upturned red and black baskets. During the night the Pinggir Papas people cooked a ceremonial meal of rice, chicken and eggs. This food, an offering to God and the ancestors, has been heaped on the platters known as panjeng that are the most important heirlooms of each Pinggir Pappas family. The red and black baskets have been placed over this food and the final stage of Nyadar is about to begin.
A group of elders in Balinese-style head-cloths enter the tomb compound to pray while the other villagers wait in the rising heat. Four ancient men are moving through the crowd. They are dressed in harlequin waistcoats dappled with rag-bag patches of color. On their heads are twists of gold and black batik. The hereditary duty of these men, called Pangolo, is to count the rice offerings.
As the elders return from the tombs everyone takes their place on the open ground under the trees, sitting cross-legged amongst the rice baskets, hands cupped in prayer. At the centre of the crowd the Kyai leads the ceremony, his head bowed. Clasped to his chest is a bulky object wrapped in tattered red cloth. It is said to be the sacred weapon of Angga Suto himself. The Kyai mutters a string of prayers and mantras. Fragments of different holy languages drift through the air: Arabic, Sanskrit and old Javanese.
When these prayers are finished the plates of rice – now imparted with the blessings of Nyadar – are uncovered and a chaos of chatter erupts as people hurriedly scoff a few symbolic mouthfuls. Then, with almost the same urgency that they rushed the tombs the night before, the rice is covered, wrapped and lifted onto heads and shoulders. The villagers dash to the river bank, eager to return to Pinggir Papas where the rice will be dried in the hot sun and a little added to the cooking pot each day throughout the coming year to ensure success and prosperity. Within half an hour Kebun Dadap is deserted, only a few scraps of leaves and paper to mark where the ritual took place.

For the people of Pinggir Papas the Nyadar ceremony is a celebration of their unusual heritage. Like so much in Indonesian religious practice, currents of older traditions run through it. For the locals however, Nyadar is very much part of Islam and the fact that their Hindu ancestors became Muslims as a condition of their asylum is an important point. But they are proud of their Balinese connection.

As the crowds disappear into the morning one Pinggir Papas man named Munir is still sitting in the shade of the pavilion in the graveyard, watching them go. He says that Nyadar is a sign of respect for the village ancestors, the leluhur, the people who came from Bali.
“Nyadar is the most important thing for Pinggir Papas people. Everyone must follow it, even if they have already left the village,” he says.
But Munir is not rushing back across the river to Pinggir Papas: he has lived in Kebun Dadap for a decade.
“My wife is from Kebun Dadap,” he says with a smile. “The Kebun Dadap people don’t join Nyadar, but there’s a connection between us because we stay in their village on the night of Nyadar.”
On that long murky night more than a few pairs of shy eyes meet over rice pots and panjeng. “There are lots of marriages between Pinggir Papas and Kebun Dadap people,” says Munir, grinning.

© Tim Hannigan 2008