Editor’s Note: In just a matter of days, the inaugural edition of Malakapost will make its debut. We admit, the delay in its release has been a journey of its own, marked by challenges that go beyond deadlines. The primary reason? Craftsmanship. Our site design wasn’t built on a generic template but created from the ground up. Each element was meticulously tailored to ensure a seamless experience, whether on mobile or desktop. This commitment to quality required countless adjustments and revisions, but we are now in the final stages of fine-tuning.
While you wait, allow us to introduce one of Malakapost’s defining strengths: English-language reporting. Why this focus? Because Batam, as a city on the border, has stories that deserve to be heard not just locally, but globally. And no, our translations aren’t the product of an algorithm. Each sentence is thoughtfully crafted, with the occasional error owing not to machines, but to the fallibility of human hands—ours.
Thank you for your patience as we embark on this mission. With Malakapost, we’re not just launching a publication; we’re elevating journalism in this city to a higher standard, one story at a time.
Bintang Antonio
For decades, Batu Ampar Port has stood as a monument to disarray, a grim backdrop for millions of passengers aboard PT Pelayaran Nasional Indonesia (Pelni) ships. The chaos intensifies during the homecoming season, leaving lasting scars on those who pass through.
Passengers are forced to navigate treacherous paths shared with roaring container trucks, their journeys punctuated by choking dust, blistering heat, or torrential rain. Shelter? None to be found. Toilets? Miles apart and barely functional. Waiting areas? Cramped to the point of suffocation. The port’s infamous porters, meanwhile, charge extortionate fees, while rat infestations and smuggling rings thrive in the shadows.
“Batu Ampar is nothing short of a hell terminal,” said Fidel Castro Hutasoit, a loyal Pelni passenger who braves its purgatory every Christmas. In an interview on December 8, he shared his indignation: “Everyone knows the conditions are abysmal, but nothing ever changes.”
The irony stings. Every passenger ticket includes a Rp10,000 surcharge intended for terminal maintenance, funds that flow directly into the coffers of BP Batam. Yet, the terminal’s dilapidated state suggests these non-tax revenues are little more than a paper promise. From January to November 2024, over 280,000 passengers passed through Batu Ampar, each contributing to an invisible fund that has done nothing to ease their suffering.
Even aboard the Pelni ships, indignities persist. Toilets are an enduring source of misery, reeking of decay, with floors perpetually slick with waste. “I’ve been riding Pelni ships for 18 years,” Fidel lamented, “and the toilets have always been the same—disgusting.”
Government regulations mandate proper sanitation facilities, outlining clear standards for the number, size, and cleanliness of toilets. Yet, such policies remain lifeless words on paper. How long must passengers endure this contempt?
Enter Captain Bharto Ari Raharjo, the newly appointed head of Batam’s Special KSOP. In less than two months, he has already managed to do what his predecessors failed to attempt: relocate the chaos.
On December 8, 2024, the first passengers disembarked and embarked at Terminal Bintang 99 Persada, a facility that promises a more dignified experience. The terminal, just a short distance from Batu Ampar, offers shelter from the elements, proper waiting areas, and an end to the forced pilgrimages through dust and danger. Gone are the illegal entry points and makeshift encampments on terminal floors.
While far from perfect, Terminal Bintang 99 offers a glimpse of what could be—a port that values human dignity.
Relocating a terminal plagued by decades of neglect is no small feat, but it is only the first step. The question remains: will this new chapter truly deliver justice for the passengers who have endured years of indifference? Or will the promise of progress dissolve into more of the same?
The answer, like so much in Indonesia’s sprawling bureaucracy, lies in the hands of those in power. Until then, the passengers of Batu Ampar can only wait—hoping that the chaos they’ve endured for so long has finally met its end.
The long-awaited transfer of port operations from the aging Batu Ampar Terminal to the sleek new Bintang 99 Terminal was anything but smooth. The process, intended to ease passenger suffering, became a theater for political drama and bureaucratic chaos. Over the span of a month, four tense meetings saw Bharto, the region’s port authority chief, sparring with officials reluctant to act.
“Use your hearts,” Bharto implored during one meeting, his frustration palpable. “Imagine your own families enduring the conditions at that hellish terminal.”
His words cut through the room, but they weren’t enough to shake some officials from their inertia. To representatives from Pelni, the state-owned shipping company, he was even harsher. “If you can’t make a decision to accelerate the transfer, why are you here?” he asked, his tone laced with contempt. When answers failed to satisfy, Bharto bypassed local representatives altogether, calling higher-ups at Pelni headquarters. By the end of the call, the Batam delegate was dismissed for incompetence.
Excuses came in waves: the dock was too shallow, the fenders and bollards unavailable, and the work too complex to complete quickly. But Bharto refused to let bureaucracy stall progress. What officials claimed would take months was resolved in just a week. He ordered the dock’s depth increased by a meter, and the supposedly elusive fenders and bollards appeared almost instantly under his directive.
When the time came for the KM Kelud to trial the new berthing facilities, another roadblock emerged. Officials called for yet another survey despite the ship being ready. Bharto turned to Captain Herman, the ship’s seasoned skipper. “Can this ship berth here?” he asked. Herman’s answer was immediate: “Yes, it can.” Without hesitation, Bharto boarded the ship, inspecting every detail to ensure there were no further excuses.
For Bharto, the transfer was about more than port logistics. “This isn’t for me,” he said later, speaking through Yusirwan Nasution, his head of law enforcement. “This is for the people, especially those in the lower economic strata.”
While Bharto represented the nation at an international conference in London, his team marked the official opening of Bintang 99 Terminal. At dawn, officials gathered at the terminal, led by Yusirwan, to witness the first embarkation and debarkation—a moment brimming with significance for a city seeking modernity.
Yet, even with this milestone, old frustrations lingered. Fidel, a veteran passenger, raised a perennial grievance: the ship’s toilets. “We pay for these services, but they’re poorly maintained,” he lamented. Yusirwan assured him that passenger feedback would be prioritized as part of an ongoing evaluation of the terminal.
From Chaos to “Humane”
Few would argue against the need to replace Batu Ampar Terminal, long derided as unfit for purpose. Batam’s Mayor and BP Batam Head, Muhammad Rudi, hailed the new terminal as “a more humane facility.” But what should have been a seamless transition became mired in delays and red tape.
The development of Bintang 99 Terminal, part of Batam’s Port Master Plan under the Ministry of Transportation’s 2009 decree, was a project years in the making. For Yuwangki, the terminal’s private owner, the wait had been arduous. “The capital I’ve poured in—it’s beyond counting,” he said, speaking to Utopis. Known not only as a terminal entrepreneur but also as one of Batam’s prominent hotel and nightclub owners, Yuwangki remains steadfast in his commitment to improving passenger experiences.
The terminal’s current waiting room, with a capacity of over 1,000 people, will soon double. Construction is underway, with Yuwangki promising swift progress. “Once we start, we won’t drag our feet,” he said optimistically.
The Human Cost
Not everyone greeted the new terminal with enthusiasm. For porters, the move introduced regulation where there had been none. An official rate of IDR 60,000 per 40 kilograms of goods replaced their once flexible pricing system. Some porters, speaking anonymously, accused management of taking a 30% cut from their earnings, leaving them struggling to make ends meet.
Yuwangki, the entrepreneur behind Terminal Bintang 99, appeared perplexed when asked about the porters’ grievances. The new tariff system, he explained, was not his responsibility but fell under the purview of the local dockworkers’ union, TKBM. “Our concession with BP Batam governs terminal operations,” he said, distancing his enterprise from the finer points of porter wages.
Yet inside the terminal’s bustling corridors, the tensions were palpable. Tika Sihombing, the head porter, was fielding disputes with the agility of a seasoned mediator. As a heated exchange flared between porters and Pelni officers over whether luggage should be loaded directly onto ships or held until passengers arrived, Tika stepped in decisively, prioritizing passenger convenience over logistical expediency.
Terminal Bintang 99 employs 218 porters, a workforce now operating under a stricter, more transparent system. At the notoriously chaotic Batuampar terminal, where arbitrary charges often led to passenger complaints, porters had sometimes demanded as much as IDR 500,000 for a single load during the holiday season. By contrast, Terminal Bintang 99 has fixed rates—IDR 60,000 for every 40 kilograms of goods—clearly displayed at the entrance.
“It’s a better system. No one feels cheated,” Tika said, though she acknowledged that his team’s income had taken a hit. Under the new rules, porters surrender 30 percent of their earnings as a deduction, a point of contention he promised to review. “The goal is fairness,” he said, adding that her team used to earn between IDR 150,000 on a slow day and as much as IDR 450,000 during peak seasons at Batuampar.
Tika has worked to professionalize the porters, organizing them into teams and holding them accountable for passenger belongings. “If something goes missing, the porter responsible will have to answer for it,” he said. For him, the move to Terminal Bintang 99 represents not just a logistical upgrade but an opportunity to instill discipline and pride in a traditionally overlooked workforce.
A Tug-of-War Over Bureaucracy and Interests
The relocation from Batuampar to Terminal Bintang 99 has been anything but smooth. Years of delays, endless meetings, and shifting narratives have fed suspicions of deeper conflicts. Officials have dodged responsibility, pointing to the complexities of interagency coordination. But for those who have watched the process closely, it is hard to ignore the shadow of vested interests.
“It’s a collective effort,” said Muhammad Awaluddin, President Commissioner of PT Pelni Batam, emphasizing collaboration as key. He praised the new terminal’s facilities—its canopy and modern waiting rooms offering much-needed protection from Batam’s unforgiving weather.
Still, one question lingers: Why had Pelni not advocated for better facilities at Batuampar sooner? Awaluddin deflected, explaining that while Pelni operates the ships, the responsibility for terminal upgrades lies with other agencies. “We’ve explored alternatives for years because the facilities at Batuampar were insufficient,” he said.
Robert Sinaga, Pelni’s Director of Fleet and Engineering, echoed this sentiment. “We’ve been asking for improvements at Batuampar for some time,” he said, but added that Pelni lacks the authority to secure funding for such upgrades. In his view, the transition to Terminal Bintang 99 was the logical choice. “It’s about delivering integrated services and better comfort for passengers.”
But the broader narrative remains murky. Was the shift to Terminal Bintang 99 driven purely by practical considerations, or were unseen hands shaping the outcome? Sinaga denied any undue influence, framing the relocation as the result of “mutual agreement after evaluating all aspects.”
Even so, the delay has raised suspicions of deliberate foot-dragging—of factions leveraging the dysfunction at Batuampar to justify an entirely new terminal. What should have been a straightforward decision appears entangled in bureaucratic inertia and whispers of backroom maneuvering.
A Cllasic Case of Half-Hearted Management
The morning after the inaugural voyage from Bintang 99 Terminal, Dendi Gustinandar, Director of the Port Business Entity, sat down with Utopis for an exclusive interview. His tone was measured, his answers rehearsed, as he attempted to explain the years-long delay in relocating operations from Batuampar Port.
The story began in 2016, when then-Minister of Transportation Ignasius Jonan deemed Beton Sekupang Port unfit to handle KM Kelud, a Pelni passenger ship. The solution? Relocate operations to Batuampar Port—primarily a cargo terminal teeming with shipping containers and heavy equipment. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone: passengers now navigated their way through hazards ostensibly in the name of safety.
“We were simply following orders from the central government,” Dendi said, deflecting responsibility to a faceless authority. National safety standards, he claimed, had necessitated the move. But the result was chaos, with every Pelni ship arrival grinding Batuampar’s loading and unloading operations to a halt. Safety was preserved, but efficiency and passenger dignity were sacrificed.
The relocation to Bintang 99 Terminal—a facility designed with passengers in mind—had been in the works since 2021, but progress was glacial. Dendi cited licensing hurdles, channel dredging, and dock feasibility tests as reasons for the holdup. Meanwhile, passengers endured spartan conditions at Batuampar: makeshift tents and open areas that could barely be called a terminal.
When pressed on whether this delay reflected poor management, Dendi avoided the critique. “I would call it a learning experience,” he said. “We are grateful that the maiden voyage was finally realized. This is the beginning of improvement.”
But for passengers, improvement remains an elusive promise. The port’s revenue from Pelni activities—around IDR 1.7 billion annually—is negligible, according to Dendi, especially when funneled into Non-Tax State Revenue. Public service rhetoric fills the gaps left by material shortfalls, while complaints about Batuampar’s threadbare facilities continue to pile up.
When asked about the role of the Port Authority (KSOP) in expediting the relocation, Dendi skillfully sidestepped the question, suggesting it be redirected to KSOP officials. “I don’t think it’s ethical to comment on matters beyond my jurisdiction,” he said, then pivoted to platitudes. “This is a collective success. Without the cooperation of all parties, this relocation wouldn’t have been possible.”
The unveiling of the new terminal may offer a glimmer of hope, but it’s hard not to see it as business as usual. The pattern is familiar: the public absorbs the costs of inefficiency, while institutions shuffle blame and evade accountability.
For now, passengers of KM Kelud can enjoy a better waiting area, shielded from the rain and heat. But it will take more than a terminal to address the deeper dysfunction. Perhaps the greatest irony is that, for all the grand narratives of improvement, the people most invested in the port’s success—its passengers—are consistently left behind.
