Postcard from Sumba

POSTCARD FROM | CABANA TRAVEL | WORLD OF CABANA

Unlike Bali, the Indonesian island of Sumba remains defiantly wild, as if it hasn’t yet been swayed by the tides of tourism or the clamor of the modern world, finds Harrison Thane. The photographer shares a postcard from a real Indonesian paradise - where wild horses roam the beaches, women weave textiles by hand with remarkable patience and hotels are carefully woven into the island’s gentle rhythms.

BY HARRISON THANE | CABANA TRAVEL | 14 DECEMBER 2024

Wild horses charge along Nihiwatu beach at dawn © Harrison Thane

Sumba is an island on the edges—the edges of Indonesia, the edges of time. Unlike Bali, Sumba remains defiantly wild, as if it hasn’t yet been swayed by the tides of tourism or the clamor of the modern world. There are no bustling markets or yoga retreats, no curated beaches or cocktail bars. Instead, Sumba greets you with rugged cliffs, wide savannahs, and an open sky stretching endlessly above.

The first tourists who came here decades ago were surfers and wanderers, drawn by the fierce waves and the mystery of a place that seemed forgotten, untouched. Even today, Sumba keeps its distance, revealing itself only in layers.

Our journey led us to Nihi Sumba, a place perched on the island’s wild western coast, yet carefully woven into the island’s rhythms. Nihi isn’t your standard luxury resort. Each room has been crafted as if grown from the landscape itself, with thatched roofs and open spaces that echo the architecture of traditional Sumbanese huts. In one villa, you might wake to the sounds of the horses charging down Nihiwatu Beach at dawn. You might sleep under bamboo rafters that seem to stretch toward the heavens in another. There’s a harmony here—a sense that the place breathes along with the land, each room its own world, yet intimately connected to the spirit of Sumba.

Sumba greets you with rugged cliffs, wide savannahs, and open sky © Harrison Thane

At Karaja, we met the weavers—women deeply connected to the land, crafting textiles by hand with remarkable patience. One woman glanced up as we watched, no fuss, just the hint of a smirk. Through our translator, I asked her why a single piece could take months to make. She shrugged and looked at me like I’d missed the obvious.

Their hands kept moving, knotting reds and blues, colors pulled from roots, plants, the earth itself. Some of these pieces take nearly a year to finish, with prices to match the sheer effort. Yet what they hold goes deeper than time or value; it’s something tied to the land, spun quietly into each thread.

We left Nihi after a few days and spent a night at Maringi Sumba. Built entirely from bamboo, Elora Hardy (Bali Green School) designed Maringi Sumba as a seamless blend of architecture and nature, using sustainable bamboo structures to create an open-air space where learning and living connect directly with the land.

Here, Sumbanese students learn the subtle arts of hospitality. Everything feels alive as the bamboo rafters sway slightly in the breeze. There’s an undercurrent of quiet focus. It’s a place where the future of Sumba gathers, one lesson at a time.

Indigenous crafts and decorative details at Nihi Sumba © Harrison Thane

Sumba had one more surprise for us at Oro Beach Houses, a hidden corner run by Siska Lali, a woman as wild and unpredictable as the island itself. She welcomed us with shots of local moonshine and tales from her days spent in Germany, a mix of laughter and madness in her voice. Oro is as unpolished as Nihi is refined—it's an eclectic scatter of rooms filled with old maps and Sumbanese artifacts that seem to contain the spirit of the island. Here, surrounded by the found objects of Siska’s life, we felt Sumba not merely as a beautiful destination, but as a state of mind.

Sumba’s beauty is profound and revealed in glimpses: a woven cloth drying under the sun, the smell of dye and dust, the sound of horses’ hooves echoing across the beach at dawn. This is an island that doesn’t just welcome you; it pulls you in, layer by layer, until you feel part of it, woven into its landscapes and its legends, like one of those ikat patterns whose threads never truly end.