A Voyage through Tumultuous (Visa-Run) Territory

A couple of days after the final results were called in the recent Indonesian elections; and in the wake of violent protests that had broken out across Jakarta, and led to deaths of innocent civilians, I joined the long queue outside the Indonesian Embassy in Singapore. It was a typical hot and sunny morning in the tropics, the sky cloudless, and a breeze rustling through the palm and banana trees gracing the surrounding residential neighborhood.

For the better part of 8 years, I’ve waited in this line; I’ve handed over my Canadian driver’s license to the kindly man in the security booth, in exchange for a visitor’s pass hanging from a lanyard; I’ve had my documents and photo inspected before handing them over to the Visa clerk sitting behind the thick, bullet-proof (my guess) glass; and I’ve paid for the processing at the opposite counter, exclusively with Sing dollars. Other than an unexpected and startling new addition to the packet of documents required since last fall (a nonsensical letter), I’ve long known the ropes, the norms, the overnight wait, the going rate. I’ve learned when to speak English; when (and whom) to thank in Bahasa.

During these 8 years, my dressing habits have rarely changed. Life in the hot n humid tropics translates into thinly layered clothing – and minimalist footwear. For myself, that means sleeveless tops (or short sleeves), open-toed sandals (most often Birkenstocks or Tevas), and leggings (in my case, for comfort and ease of folding over into a downward dog if need be). Notwithstanding the forever sign posted on the embassy’s front gate, noting permissible attire, I’ve seen applicants garbed in a wide array of gear, top to bottom.

I will never know for sure why I was pulled aside this time; why the guard pointed at my feet and blurted out “straps!” as if I’d violated a cardinal rule; why he insisted that I slip my feet into a filthy pair of oft-worn slippers stored beside his desk, when the posted sign clearly stated that slippers were verboten. I will never fully understand why I was called back from the stairs leading up to the waiting room; why the second guard pointed at my bare shoulders and blurted out “cover up!” when women walked by me – blatantly sleeveless. I rolled my eyes and wrapped my scarf around my offensive upper body.

I was too stunned, flustered and alarmed, to resist. But mostly, too nervous that I might be sent packing if I spoke up – when my need for the visa trumped my need to call them out.

Perhaps an extremist policy was enforced because we were still in the midst of Ramadan.

Perhaps the government’s response to my protest, would turn ugly too. What then?

Curiously, when I returned the following Monday afternoon, to retrieve my passport, nobody called me out. I strode past the guards in my strappy Birks, and the same sleeveless top (with the scarf hanging off my bag). Not a peep.

Perhaps, in the interim, Prabowo - Indo's Major Domo - had clamped down on his supporter-protesters, and duly accepted the final election results.

Perhaps, quite simply, the ambassador wasn’t in the house. And all went lax. Good thing. Lax laws have their perks. Among them, not being forced to wear a stranger’s smelly (and otherwise prohibited) slippers.