The Dying Salt of Kusamba: A Heritage Beneath the Rising Tide

In the coastal village of Kusamba, Klungkung, Bali, the rhythmic sound of the ocean is no longer just a backdrop to life; it is a persistent, encroaching threat. Here, 71-year-old Nengah Bantat and his wife, Ketut Keprug, stand as silent sentinels of an ancient craft. Their hands, weathered by decades of labor, move with practiced precision, folding synthetic geomembrane sheets that cradle the lifeblood of their livelihood: seawater.

They are among the last practitioners of a traditional salt-making method that has defined the identity of the Kusamba coastline for generations. However, as the 21st century presses in with climate-driven erosion and rapid coastal development, this artisanal legacy is teetering on the edge of extinction.

A Legacy Fading with the Tides

For Nengah Bantat, the sea has been a provider since 1979, when he began his journey as a salt farmer at age 24. He recalls a golden era in the 1990s when the coastline from Kusamba to Pesinggahan was a bustling hub of activity, home to hundreds of farmers working in harmony with the sun and the salt-rich sands.

"Back in the 1990s, there were hundreds of us," Bantat reminisces, his voice echoing the nostalgia of a bygone era. "From the shores of Kusamba all the way to Pesinggahan, the beach was alive with salt production."

Today, that vibrancy has been replaced by an eerie stillness. Only 14 farmers remain in the area, a stark decline from the 180 individuals who occupied these shores in the 1970s. The generational chain, once robust, has been snapped. Bantat’s own daughter, Nengah Sudarmini, chooses not to follow in her parents’ footsteps, citing the profound instability of the trade.

"I feel for my children, but making salt is simply too uncertain," Bantat admits. Sudarmini concurs, noting that the combination of unpredictable climate patterns and the relentless advance of the ocean makes it impossible to view salt farming as a sustainable future.

The Anatomy of a Traditional Craft

The salt production in Kusamba is not merely labor; it is a sophisticated, traditional technology. Unlike conventional salt pans found elsewhere in Indonesia, the Kusamba method centers on the palung—a hollowed-out log that serves as a trough.

The process is a testament to human ingenuity. It begins at 8:00 AM, when farmers draw seawater through a pipeline—a modern convenience that replaced the back-breaking labor of carrying water by shoulder-pole. The seawater is spread across raked sand and left to evaporate under the fierce Balinese sun. By early afternoon, the sand is encrusted with salt crystals. This sand is then collected and filtered through a concentrated brine solution, which is then dried once more until, by 5:00 PM, pure, crystalline salt is ready for harvest.

In recent years, researchers and government agencies have introduced "geomembrane" technology—synthetic polymer sheets that speed up evaporation and increase yield. While this has provided a temporary lifeline, many farmers still prefer the traditional palung method, as it produces a specific quality of salt that remains in high demand among niche consumers.

Chronology of a Disappearing Industry

The decline of Kusamba’s salt industry is not a sudden event, but a slow, systematic erosion.

• 1970s: The peak era of Kusamba salt, with roughly 180 active farmers.
• 1990s: A period of stability, though early signs of market shifts began to emerge.
• 2014-2018: Klungkung reaches its zenith as the highest salt-producing district in Bali, yet production starts a downward trajectory.
• 2020: The COVID-19 pandemic and the expansion of the Tribuana Port infrastructure begin to significantly shrink the available land for traditional salt production.
• 2022: A study by Widyani et al. records that the number of farmers has plummeted to just 19.
• 2023: Unprecedented coastal abrasion causes the worst destruction to salt-making infrastructure in living memory.
• 2026: Fewer than 15 farmers remain, with production levels dropping to a fraction of their 2014 figures.

The data is damning. Research from Udayana University indicates that from 2014 to 2024, production plummeted from 4.6 million kilograms to a negligible 45.9 kilograms, according to specific institutional records. While data collection methods vary, the trend is clear: the industry is collapsing.

The Twin Threats: Abrasion and Infrastructure

The primary antagonist in the story of Kusamba’s salt farmers is coastal abrasion. A 2023 study published in the Journal of Marine and Aquatic Sciences noted that the coastline in Klungkung is receding at a rate of 0.058 to 1.846 meters per year. Even more alarming, research using radar imagery (2014–2021) shows that the Karangdadi beach area is losing 5 to 15 meters of land annually, affecting a 3.3-kilometer stretch of coastline.

For farmers like Nengah Diana, the physical loss of land is a daily reality. "We have had to move back so many times because of the abrasion," she says. "What was once solid ground is now swallowed by the sea."

When massive waves overtop the government-built sea walls, they bring with them large rocks and debris, contaminating the sand-beds and forcing farmers to spend weeks clearing the terrain before production can resume.

Furthermore, the government’s push for infrastructure—specifically the construction of the Tribuana Port to facilitate tourism to Nusa Penida—has inadvertently squeezed the salt farmers out of their ancestral space. Studies on the marginalization of salt farmers confirm that while the port serves a macro-economic goal for tourism, it has effectively ended the viability of salt production in its immediate vicinity.

Official Responses and the Governance Gap

Ni Made Candrawati, Head of the Fisheries Division at the Klungkung Food Security and Fisheries Office, acknowledges the dire situation. "We are witnessing the potential extinction of the Kusamba salt heritage," she admits.

The government’s response, however, has been largely reactive. In 2022, the Bali-Penida River Basin Agency (BWS) constructed a 10.64-kilometer sea wall to mitigate abrasion. While intended as a protective measure, the wall has proved insufficient against extreme weather. Furthermore, the construction itself has restricted the space available for salt drying and has left behind residual debris, making the sand less suitable for the delicate, traditional salt-making process.

Currently, the government offers only basic assistance with tools and infrastructure, but there is no comprehensive policy to address the systemic displacement of the farmers or to integrate their heritage into a sustainable coastal management plan.

Implications for Heritage and Future

The loss of Kusamba’s salt farmers is not just an economic concern; it is a cultural catastrophe. The palung technology is a rare historical heritage, unique to the coastal communities of Amed, Tejakula, and Kusamba. If these artisans disappear, a piece of Bali’s maritime history will vanish with them.

For Nengah Bantat, the future is uncertain, but his commitment to his craft is unwavering. As he and his wife weigh the day’s harvest, they are not thinking about the statistics of their industry or the policy failures of the government. They are thinking about the immediate necessity of survival.

"I do what I can," Bantat says, lifting the bag of salt to his head to begin the walk toward the city. "It is enough to get by. It is enough to eat."

As his silhouette fades into the distance, one is left to wonder if the next generation will ever know the taste of this ancient, hand-harvested salt—or if, like the land it is made upon, it will eventually be washed away by the tide of progress.