Rena Budhiarta, Indira Paramita, dan Nayika Kumara – Denpasar
Heroines of Pasar Badung (photo by Indira Paramita)
Less than a kilometer from the heart of Kota Denpasar, Pasar Badung stands as its lifeline, a reflection of its culture, and the true face of a city that never sleeps. Looking back at the origin of the name Denpasar, it comes from two words: den, which means ‘in the north’, and pasar which means ‘market’. This shows that without “market”, “Denpasar” would not have been born. This name refers to a city that is located to the north of Pasar Kumbasari and Pasar Badung (formerly known as Peken Payuk). It is time for us to not only mention the city’s name without caring about the livelihood of its very origin — the market itself, Pasar Badung.
At four in the morning, when the world is not yet fully awake from its sweet dreams, some souls have already killed their dreams and replaced them with a basket balanced on their heads. They walk with the sliver of hope that today too, a few rupiah notes will fill their pockets. They are tukang suun — the head-load carriers unique to Bali. This work is mostly done by women, from the young to the elderly. They bear dozens of kilograms every single day, leaving no room for rest. This stark reality portrays how unrelenting economic pressure squeezes the most marginalized layers of society, turning women’s bodies into the backbone of survival.
Amid the rush of modernization, tukang suun remain visible among the hustle and bustle of Pasar Badung. The term suun refers to the act of carrying goods balanced on one’s head. This occupation offers a unique portering service where goods are placed in a large basket, then carried atop the head through the crowded market. Shoppers pay whatever they wish, with no set fee, just based on how much they’re willing to give.
Tukang suun navigate through narrow aisles and climb endless flights of stairs with baskets weighing tens of kilograms perched gracefully atop their heads, as if they have mastered the art of maneuvering themselves to slip through the backs and shoulders of the market’s crowd. They are not just the visible faces of the market’s daily life, but also the embodiment of resilient women with determination to stand and walk on their own feet.
This job is chosen for many reasons. As shared by Mé Karya (60), she decided to become a tukang suun at the age of 30. Back then, she worked as a domestic helper in Lampung, however, because she had a desire to go back home to Bali, but also keep on working and can see the outside world, Mé Karya decided to be a tukang suun. “When you work as a housemaid, you don’t have freedom. You don’t know what’s happening outside. You don’t get to see and do meyadnya (offerings) in the village. And when you’re a housemaid, it’s hard to go home. Even once a year, you might not get permission to return. But as a tukang suun, I can go home whenever I want.”
It is much the same as Wayan Karimiati (47) who has spent 23 years of her life offering this head-load carrying service. Before she turned 20 she made ends meet with her past job as a domestic helper. But when she had to take care of her newborn, she chose a job with flexible hours. “Back then, my husband and I took turns to take care of our child. I worked from morning until noon, and he worked from noon until night. Now our child is already in middle school,” she said.
For women like them who have dedicated half their lives behind the walls of the market, there is a quiet happiness in being able to talk and laugh with other tukang suun, despite the heavy loads they must bear. That simple answer reflects resilience forged over years. Behind these women’s bodies lies the strength to carry dozens of kilograms, fueled by the hope of keeping the kitchen fire burning at home.
The heavy baskets they must carry are out of proportion with the amount of rupiah they gain. This poses a huge challenge for them. “Since the fire, this market (Pasar Badung) is not as busy anymore. Then came the pandemic, the market went silent. If the market is quiet, there are fewer people using the head-load carrier service. Now there are some customers, although just a few, not as many as before.” Mé Karya continued her story.
In a single trip carrying goods, the amount they earn varies. Some customers give a ten thousand rupiah note, sometimes just five thousand. If they’re lucky enough to meet a generous buyer, they might pocket fifteen thousand rupiah. On good days, when regular customers come on the same day, they can go home with as much as a hundred thousand rupiah. But when the market is not busy, they may bring home only seventy five thousand. With such unpredictable income, a tukang suun can only earn about one to two million rupiah per month. Far below the regional minimum wage of Kota Denpasar.
Heavy Steps with Fragile Protection
They climb each stair with heavy steps, each one far too big for tired feet (photo by Indira Paramita)
Health complaints are common among these women porters. It’s no surprise with the fact that every day they carry (suun) loads weighing tens of kilograms while climbing steep, oversized stairs with wide gaps between steps. Each step must be stretched longer, as if the stairs were never designed for these tired aging feet balancing heavy baskets on their heads. Their bodies must compensate on these steep stairways. Stairways that don’t always have railings. The risk of slipping is ever-present. Knee pain, neck muscle strain, shoulder and back aches are frequent. These complaints worsen with age, especially for tukang suun who also have conditions like gout.
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The long-awaited railings that doesn’t exist (photo by Rena Budhiarta)
This situation then raises a question, what kind of health and social protection do these informal workers have? Not all tukang suun have health insurance. Only two out of seven tukang suun we interviewed had it. According to Anak Agung Ngurah Wijaya Kusuma, the Head of Pasar Badung Unit, these tukang suun also do not yet have BPJS Ketenagakerjaan–Indonesia’s national labour insurance scheme. Based on the data retrieved from Pasar Badung Unit, there are 160 tukang suun in Pasar Badung. However, the data only consists of their names and addresses without any further meaningful demography data. So far, within the Pasar Badung ecosystem, only the potential traders — who are considered more established — have had help from market management to access these labour protection programs. According to him, beneficiaries can even receive death compensation of up to 40,000,000 rupiah. But that is not the case for these tukang suun. Whether it’s due to a lack of awareness about labor protection and health rights, or because of limited access to information and resources, the reality remains the same. If awareness of these protection programs remains low and access stays limited, shouldn’t it be the government’s role to reach out proactively and ensure vulnerable groups like the tukang suun are included?
Pak Agung, Head of Pasar Badung Unit (photo by Indira Paramita)
The Void of Responsibility
In a corner of Pasar Badung stands a small clinic run by Yayasan Rama Sesana (YRS). For decades, YRS has provided continuous social support, serving as the backbone for general and reproductive health services in Pasar Badung. However, the foundation has recently undergone significant changes. In the past, YRS was fully supported by foreign donors, which allowed it to offer free services, but not anymore. The foundation also used to actively run reproductive health campaigns for the people who work and live in the market, but now these campaigns mostly happen through social media. The word-of-mouth approach that was once so effective in the old market spaces has become difficult, because the post-revitalization design is much more segmented. Before, it was easier to give health education because the traders were closer together and mixed freely, but now they are farther apart and grouped according to their products. Today, the clinic relies on voluntary donations to keep operating, despite running at a loss. Although there is no obligation to pay, some tukang suun admit they feel hesitant to seek treatment because they worry about being a burden.
“The clinic runs without any government subsidy. The honorariums I earn from teaching and TV invitations all go to the foundation,” said dr. Upadisari, the founder of YRS. Sadly, the foundation is still charged rent to occupy the tiny corner where they serve the community. It is as if the role they play in filling the gap left by the lack of public health services at Pasar Badung, which should be the government’s duty, has become the foundation’s responsibility alone. The YRS clinic is located on the first floor, tucked in one corner of Pasar Badung near the spice and seasoning stalls. The clinic provides basic health services, such as treatment for colds and coughs, with a focus on reproductive health.
dr. Upadisari, founder of Yayasan Rama Sesana, which has served the Pasar Badung community for more than two decades (photo by Indira Paramita)
Social assistance from foundations and private companies is often assumed to be a permanent solution, as if it erases the government’s obligation to provide proper and sustainable social protection. In reality, the aid given to tukang suun is often just a donation of basic food supplies, which is not a long-term solution. Providing health coverage, labor protection, and better infrastructure are some examples of sustainable support that could make their daily work easier and offer them a sense of security. Even so, the government tends to act only as a channel for social assistance from foundations and private companies to the tukang suun.
The current Head of Denpasar’s Social Affairs Office (Dinsos), I Gusti Ayu Laxmy Saraswaty, explained that labor protection is the responsibility of employers. She clarified that Dinsos Denpasar does not have a specific program for social aid or labor protection for tukang suun in Pasar Badung. According to her, this is because most tukang suun do not have Denpasar ID cards and do not live permanently within the city limits. Even though they work in Pasar Badung, right in the heart of Denpasar, the classification for assistance still follows ID and residential address, not workplace. She added that decisions on social and labor coverage depend on assessments done by local neighborhood and village heads in the areas where they live.
Still, Laxmy said she has been involved in helping the tukang suun before. During the COVID-19 pandemic, some of them did receive aid, but not through any Social Affairs Office program. Instead, it came from Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) initiatives facilitated by Denpasar’s Regional Secretariat. At that time, the aid was provided by organizations such as Food Rescue and Inti Bali, and the CSR coordination was led by Laxmy herself, who was then serving as Head of the Cooperation Division.
Regarding labor protection, Laxmy pointed to Perumda Pasar Sewaka Dharma, the market’s management body, as the responsible party. “If you want to ask about the tukang suun, go to Perumda,” she said. However, according to information we received from Perumda, the available data only includes names, place of origin, and total number of tukang suun. There is no deeper demographic information or proper protection system.
Information from both the Social Affairs Office and Perumda shows that there is no single agency claiming full responsibility for the social protection of tukang suun. They are caught in administrative bureaucracy based on ID cards and place of residence, when in fact these workers keep the city’s markets alive. Instead of adapting to the fluid realities of urban labor, the system remains rigid. This rigidity creates gaps in protection, where the workspace is recognized as city property, but the workers who keep it running are not considered the city’s responsibility. Collaboration with CSR can indeed help vulnerable groups like the tukang suun, but when CSR is treated as a permanent substitute for the state’s responsibility, it becomes problematic. The government effectively shifts its structural role onto philanthropy, reinforcing the idea that social protection should come from the goodwill of third parties rather than being a basic right of every citizen.
This brings up a new question: if the government itself is tangled in complex bureaucracy, CSR is unpredictable, and tukang suun do not have a fixed employer, then who can they really rely on? Who will guarantee their safety, health, and livelihood as informal workers in the city’s public spaces?
The Double Burden of Balinese Women
Behind the lack of health and labor protections, these women still carry a double burden. Most women who work as tukang suun also shoulder their roles as housewives while fulfilling traditional cultural duties expected of Balinese women.
Some of their days begin before the sun rises and end late at night, only after the household chores are done. Working as a tukang suun at the market is only one part of their role, they also have to manage the household. At home, domestic responsibilities like cooking, preparing banten (offerings), washing clothes, or even caring for grandchildren await them, with no regard for their joints that desperately need rest.
As Made Kondriani shared, “I wake up at dawn to cook, make banten saiban and banten wedang, then pray. Around seven in the morning, I leave for the market. I come home around one in the afternoon, rest for maybe an hour, and if there’s laundry, well, I do the laundry.” She explained that she handles all the housework herself because her husband and children work from morning until night.
It is much the same for Wayan Kardiyani (60), who has worked as a tukang suun since she was 40. She said, “I wake up at five in the morning, do mebanten at home first, then go to the market. When I come back from carrying loads, I usually make canang offerings.”
When one falters, the other supports her, a glimpse of grassroots feminism (photo by Indira Paramita)
Amid the discourse of feminism that fights for women’s right to work, Balinese women have gone even further: they don’t just work, they never stop working. Yet this right to work often becomes indistinguishable from an obligation, as they are squeezed by economic realities and cultural demands. The rising cost of living and the considerable expenses of traditional ceremonies force them to keep going, to steel themselves and stay strong.
Struggling amid the hustle and bustle of Pasar Badung (photo by Indira Paramita)
One of the tukang suun at Pasar Badung, Wayan Catri (63), described how exhausting it is to be a tukang suun, the sole breadwinner for her family, and a woman in Bali. “I’m tired. Sometimes I get frustrated seeing men like this (not working). If I die, I wish I could be reincernate as a man instead.” Her words reflect a weariness that has never had space to rest or be heard. The tukang suun are not people waiting to be empowered. They have long been pillars of their family’s and community’s economy and tradition, even though their voices are almost forgotten amid the busyness of the world.
A Design That Should Have Listened
The revitalization after the massive fire that burned Pasar Badung to the ground in 2016 has long been completed. The market has even been visited twice and officially inaugurated by President Joko Widodo. This step is often praised as a symbol of modernization, with a tall new building, new roof, shiny floors, and neatly arranged stalls. Yet behind Pasar Badung’s polished facade are workers who have been pushed aside. The tukang suun have lost their foothold, replaced by oversized stairs, narrow stairways that make it difficult to maneuver, and steep main staircases that become dangerously slippery when it rains. On top of that, the elevators and escalators only operate during official hours, with no thought for those who work outside those times. They now face this new reality without ever truly being invited into the conversation.
Pasar Badung’s Fancy Facade (photo by Indira Paramita)
Infrastructure is often mentioned as one of the main complaints shared by people who spend their days in the market. The people who live and work there every day are the ones who understand the heartbeat of traditional market life best. Yet ironically, according to the tukang suun and YRS, they feel they were never invited to take part in discussions about the redesign process after the fire. This market has indeed tried to be more inclusive by providing escalators, a few lifts, and ramps so that people with disabilities can access the space. But it has overlooked the needs of those who not only carry baskets on their heads, but also carry their hopes.
O marks the spots that are often complained about by the tukang suun because of the steep staircases, oversized steps, and the lack of railings that make their work even harder.
In architecture, space is not just a shape; it goes on to influence behavior. We interviewed Yoka Sara, a senior Balinese architect, to explore his views on participatory architecture, a principle that should have guided the design of Pasar Badung’s revitalization years ago, given how closely the market building itself shapes the behavior and perceptions of its users. “A building influences the behavior of its people. If they don’t feel a sense of ownership, their habits will be different too,” Yoka explained. He emphasized that the design of public spaces must educate the market community, create a sense of safety and comfort, and build a sense of belonging. The concept of participatory architecture should bridge this by involving the entire pasar community, not only the traditional market managers, but also the kiosk traders, street vendors, and tukang suun. Yet this approach was overlooked during Pasar Badung’s post-fire revitalization.
Yoka Sara, Senior Balinese Architect (photo by Indira Paramita)
Yoka witnessed firsthand how the Pasar Badung Design Competition was held. He and his team were among the finalists in the competition. “The biggest weakness was in the data. So the main hope was in PD Pasar (the traditional market authority). Back then, there were no proper statistics about the traders and how they were classified. For example, you’d want to know the categories of street vendors, kiosk traders, tukang suun. But that data was really lacking. So quantitatively, we just had to make assumptions,” he recalled. This once again shows the absence of responsibility that has become a determining factor in the market’s current conditions. The lack of accessible data and the tight competition deadlines made him feel that his team’s results were less than optimal.
At first, the competition’s launch really stirred the enthusiasm of Bali’s architecture community. There was a sense of hope that local residents living around Pasar Badung, once affectionately called Peken Payuk, could genuinely contribute to its redesign. But in the end, he felt the competition was just for show. “The competition ended up feeling like a formality. There was no follow-up on the winning first, second, and third place designs that were supposed to be combined. What was actually built has nothing to do with those top three designs. The final form is completely different,” said the veteran architect, whose critical thinking remains sharp to this day.
One of Yoka’s main concerns is the loss of the market’s true spirit. “The original character of Peken Payuk has disappeared. The interaction among the street vendors used to be so much stronger. Back then, next to Pura Melanting, it was always crowded with traders,” recalled the architect, who grew up in Banjar Gerenceng less than 500 meters from Pasar Badung. He regrets that this revitalization has erased the communal soul that once thrived. Today, the open area near the Pura that Yoka mentioned is indeed quiet in the mornings and afternoons, only coming alive at night when there is a special event
When asked what could be done now to create a market that truly serves its people, Yoka said that improvements must start with the market’s governance itself, ensuring that the competence of the human resources within it is strengthened. His hope is that revitalization would not just give the market a new face, but also make it function in a more humane way. A concrete step toward better governance could start with building a systematic database of the entire market community. The principle of participatory architecture must be properly applied by involving market workers and users in the planning process. Ideally, this process should be led by a cross-disciplinary design team — including architects, anthropologists, statisticians, and urban planners. This interdisciplinary approach, he said, could help address the complex social and spatial needs of traditional markets. These structural aspects are crucial, because he pointed out that physical improvements are actually the easy part. “Physical changes are not the issue. You just break open the stairs and fix them. The complaints are there — the question is, are they being acted on?” His statement shows that change will only happen if those in charge are willing to make it happen.
Two Different Worlds in the Same City
The trend of “a day in my life” on social media is an example of how the urban middle class romanticizes its routines. It often shows waking up early, working in a cubicle behind a computer, sipping iced coffee from a favorite local brand, and ending the day with the latest trendy workout. In stark contrast, tukang suun also have their own “day in my life,” one that cannot be romanticized. It is filled with heavy, exhausting routines and a reward that is never truly fair. If this daily pattern is not carried out, the kitchen fire goes out, cultural obligations go unmet, and they risk becoming the talk of the community for not taking part in ngayah at the banjar. These are two very real faces of the same city.
But beyond that, let us stay aware and sensitive, because not far from us, though they may never appear on your For You Page, there are still women who carry not only baskets on their heads, but also the survival of an entire family and a living culture in this city. They do not ask for pity, but they truly deserve to be heard.
A Tukang Suun Holds Her Weapon (photo by Indira Paramita)
As citizens, as young people, and as readers who may have grown up in more comfortable spaces, let us pause for a moment and ask: has this city’s development truly been fair? Because justice does not come from grand projects that prioritize aesthetics. It is born from the courage to open our eyes and ears and to involve those who struggle to make a living at the grassroots.
If this piece has managed to unsettle your comfort, it means our hearts are still alive, and the hope for a fair city that stands by its people is not yet lost. Fighting for the livelihoods of market workers like the tukang suun is, in itself, an act of honoring the roots of the city’s own history.
(This article is one of the recipients of the Balebengong Citizen Journalism Award scholarship grant)
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