When Dealing With Bureaucracy, Simply Smile And Act Stupid !

At this time of year I  find myself once again dealing with that most unwanted of trials that afflict us all…. bureaucracy. I am actually no stranger to this dreaded disease, only this time I am living in a foreign land trying to decipher rules, regulations and a million forms all in a language that I’m desperately working to come to grips with.

Right now, I have just returned from that most holy of temples dedicated to that most sacred God of frustration, IMIGRASI.

It is a place where it seems it's  sole purpose is to test the staying power of its legions of applicants and I am one of those as I am currently in the midst of the long and arduous process of renewing my visa.  However, in order to get my paws on that most elusive of documents one must extend last year's visa prior to applying for a new one.

Each day like a weary warrior I set forth into battle heading into Denpasar on my steed of choice, the trusty, ‘motor sepeda' (scooter) braving suicidal traffic in order to arrive on time. Given that it is my fourth year of doing this I have to say that the process does not get any easier! 

Once I arrive and secure a parking spot amidst 10,000 other bikes,  I enter through the imposing portals and  acquire a ticket from a rather colourful vending machine, which, on demand vomits out a tiny slip of paper giving me my assigned number whereupon I proceed, with the hundreds of others to wait and wait ...and wait some more. 

After what seems like an eternity, magically, and completely out of sequence, my number appears on a flickering monitor fixed at an ungainly angle to the discolored ceiling and so, like the  proverbial Pavlovian dog I dash to my assigned counter with forms at the ready salivating for that simple treat which is the desired stamp in my passport.

My forms, meticulously completed in my finest handwriting in the colour blue are pushed beneath the slot to the awaiting attendant who after a cursory glance tells me  that in fact only black ink is acceptable as of 1st January this year! 

 Fresh sets of forms are handed to me with a flourish and I am forced to retire from the fray to head home and fill them out using my well -thumbed Bahasa Indonesian dictionary.

Once done, it’s back on the bike in the late morning with all forms once again completed in the obligatory black ink. Number taken I retire once again to the crowded waiting room to watch the screen with bated breath as the digits tick down until mine appears and once again I leap out of the gates like a greyhound on steroids and sprint for counter two. By this time Wayan, (my assigned visa chap) and I are becoming quite pally but not really that pally as now it seems that a police report is required.( This was not required last year! )

Helmet on, poncho donned, (It’s the wet season and it's pouring with rain) bike filled and it's off to police headquarters I go, only to find that they are 'closed between 12.30 pm - 2.30pm. I wait of course and I bide my time pondering the merits of  committing heinous crimes in that two-hour window of opportunity that they have given the good citizens of Bali as the police officers 'on duty' satisfy their hunger. 

The waiting room is directly opposite the cells and I become rather chatty with a couple of the incarcerated souls whose arms protrude far enough beyond the bars so that I can hand them cigarettes. Eventually the doors to the good citizens office  open promptly, fifteen minutes late and I storm the counter like a rugby forward elbowing criminals aside like small children in order to get my 'good chap' report done properly.

"Oh no" says the copper, who is literally bursting out of his tight khaki uniform, ( he had the appearance of having enjoyed a splendid lunch)  " you must to bring one employee with you to say that you are of good character. "

Poncho and helmet back on, I leap onto my steed and make a mad dash back to the house, pick up Koman (our housekeeper) plonk her on the back of the bike and it's back to the Polisi we go. “Yes, this is most acceptable,” I am told by the portly policeman, “Come back in three days for report, but before we can proceed we must be needing your passport!"

Of course  this vital document is unfortunately at IMIGRASI and so I immediately abandon Koman who is left  trying to avoid the leering glances of the incarcerated who are puffing away with gay abandon on my cigarettes.  I re-don the wet poncho, brave the rush hour traffic and race back at high speed to the temple of paperwork in order to retrieve said passport. The forecourt and parking area is for some reason eerily deserted. On the gate is a handwritten sign affixed to the bars with a piece of gaffer tape, it read;

 CLOSED EARLY FOR CEREMONY 

Get the picture? 

However, if I have learned anything from all of this it's that Bali  instills in one an infinite sense of patience.

Stay posted!

Paul  v Walters is the best selling author of several best selling novels and when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali he scribbles for several international travel and vox pop journals. His latest offering, Asset, will be released in late 2017.