The ‘Express’ KITAS Renewal Process

Knowing that I could not travel for a few months, I grudgingly surrendered my passport and soon-to-be-expired KITAS to the Immigration office. Of course the usual raft of paperwork had to accompany this, including solemn written promises that I will employ Indonesian staff, that I will live in an approved tourist zone, and that I will not, under any circumstances, engage in gainful employment. Truth be told, I actually welcome this latter injunction, as it validates my choice to live a life of slothful drifting from one day to the next. In fact, I have no idea how I ever managed to fit work into my daily life before coming here.

As in previous years, I was a little worried about not having my travel documents while the tedious process of KITAS renewal dragged on for several months. One can’t travel at all without documents – not even within Indonesia, where ID is mandatory. The supposed 12-month KITAS which I pay for is not really usable for the whole year anyway. Not that that matters, because the essential Multiple Entry and Exit passport stamp is now only valid for eleven months, because the authorities have decided that they don’t like you travelling during the final month of your KITAS term …

Two years ago, it took two and a half months for the renewal process, because my documents were ‘lost’ – and then the official who had to sign off on them was ‘on leave’. Last year the process was incredibly protracted because the Immigration Office was being investigated by the anti-corruption people, during which time most of their normal work – glacially slow at the best of times – ground to a halt. Ironically, it was suggested to me that a ‘facilitation fee’ might speed up the process, but given the reasons for the low work output, I thought it best to decline.

This year, I planned, perhaps optimistically, for a eight-week turnaround. Naturally, only five days after feeding my entire legal identity into the maw of the Immigration Office, I found out at 9am on a Monday morning that I needed to travel urgently to Australia to help out a friend who had been incapacitated in an accident.

Luckily, I have an excellent agent, who immediately put in an urgent request for ‘express processing’. By 11am, I was in the Immigration Office being fingerprinted yet again, presumably because my fingerprints had changed in the intervening twelve months. I was told that processing would take about a day, so I couldn’t travel on Tuesday, but was assured that I could pick up my completed travel documents by noon on Wednesday. The nice official told me that it would be quite OK for me to book  a flight for Wednesday afternoon. The only flight I could get at short notice was via Jakarta, which meant that I had to be at the airport by 5pm on Wednesday. With Bali’s notorious traffic, I had to leave home by no later than 4pm.

But by noon on Wednesday, there is no sign of my passport or KITAS. I feign stoicism until 1pm, when I call my agent. She says my passport “is on its way and will be there this afternoon”. I begin to worry; “this afternoon” is a rubbery concept in Bali.

At 3pm, my rising stress levels making my voice rise an octave, I speak to my agent again. With insufferable calm, she says: “They’re still waiting for a signature at Imigrasi”. Ye gods. At 3:05pm, she tells me my documents will be arriving in 40 minutes. She also chooses  that moment to inform me that I need to bring 1.5 million with me for the express processing fee. Oh, wonderful. Three hours ago I discovered that my debit card has stopped working at all of the ATMs I tried, and I have just enough cash for the taxi, a humble snack and the obligatory departure tax.

At 3:45pm, not game enough to call the agent again because my voice is approaching ultrasonic frequencies, I hurtle over there on my bike. Praise be to The Great Squirrel! My passport and KITAS has just arrived! The agent apologises for the delay, explaining that, only that morning, a team of workmen had unexpectedly descended on the Immigration offices to perform ‘unscheduled maintenance’, which stopped all work. I am so speechless that I brush off her request for money and rush back home to call a taxi, finally departing for the airport, my stomach full of hydrochloric acid, a mere half an hour behind schedule. But I have my passport back!

On the way to the airport, I puzzle over my itinerary, which doesn’t tell me whether I leave from the domestic or the international terminal. The cab driver laughs. “If you transit in Jakarta, you go from domestic terminal”, he says assuredly. I am sceptical; after all, isn’t it a normal international flight with a stop-over? “No”, says the cabbie. “This is Indonesia. You go from the domestic terminal, because that way you have to pay 40,000 departure tax, and another 150,000 when you leave Jakarta.” He grins wickedly. “The government likes that.” Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?

So, finally on the plane, I have time to think about how it is possible, for extra money, to get a two-day KITAS renewal instead of waiting for two months. And I realise why it normally takes that long for us normal schmucks to get one – because the full resources of the immigration department are engaged in making money from the express delivery set.

Some might think that it’s almost like a sort of, er, bribe. But when you need something done right now, and people have to make a special effort to make sure you get it – well, I reckon paying a fast-tracking facilitation fee is worth it. Despite the last-minute panic, it certainly was for me.

Security Strictly By The Book At Denpasar Departures

Departing from Ngurah Rai, Bali’s International Airport, is always a quirky experience. Even more so now, with the passenger drop-off point having been shifted to a point five kilometres from the terminal. Well, it feels like it anyway. It’s now right in the middle of the gigantic and thoroughly disorganised car park. A long walk through jostling crowds brings me to the crowded international arrivals area, whereupon I have to walk another 200 metres to the departures section …

Never mind, I’m there now, and it’s only taken me 15 minutes to go through the congested first security screening post, fight some inebriated turkey for my carry-on bag (because he’s convinced it’s his), put my belt and shoes back on, and line up at the Garuda check-in counter.

A security person scrutinises my bags. “Any lighters in your suitcase?” he asks suspiciously.
“No”, I answer truthfully, because my lighter is in my hand luggage. He neglects to ask me about explosives, knives, guns, box cutters or tasers. That’s fine; I didn’t bring any on this trip anyway.

I pay my Departure Tax and start filling out my Indonesian Departure card. An Immigration official zeros in on me. “Wrong card to go back to Australia”, he declares. I explain that I am a KITAS holder, and that I do, in fact, need to fill out this card. He looks at me askance, then pounces on my passport and minutely examines my KITAS expiry date. It is in order. Then, he finds the separate Multiple Entry/Exit stamp and his face falls. “Ahh, it’s still OK”, he mutters. Still OK? Of course it’s still OK – it expires at the same time as my KITAS, doesn’t it? Wrong. I discover that the essential multiple entry stamp actually expires one month before my KITAS expires!

I have no idea why that is, and my puzzlement must be apparent. “Many people get caught!” says the officer. “But no problem – only small fee to fix …” Ahh, now I understand his zeal. I resolve to check my expiry dates more carefully during my next renewal. I also need to find out why the two supposedly linked permits are not date-synchronised. Another little trap uncovered.

As boarding time approaches, I head off to Gate 6, the designated departure gate for my Garuda flight. It’s completely deserted. Uh oh. There are no status boards and there have been no gate-change announcements either. A few anxious moments later, I am directed to Gate 8, where another bag scan takes place. Then, further on, another security checkpoint officer physically checks my carry-on bag. “Do you have a lighter in your bag?” he asks. “Yes, I do – I’ll put it in my pocket”, I say. See, I’ve done this before. I know that in Bali, you can’t take a lighter in your hand luggage. You are always told, “Put it in your pocket”, for some completely incomprehensible reason. Perhaps airlines think that burning a hole in your own lap is preferable to scorching their overhead lockers, although I have never heard of a lighter spontaneously igniting in either location.

But not this time. “No, you can not take your lighter. Not in handbag, not in pocket. New rules say that we must confiscate all lighters.” I reluctantly put my brand-new lighter in the proferred plastic bag which already contains perhaps a hundred lighters. No doubt they will be re-sold at the nearest warung.

So I wander off to the departure gate – and stop dead. The illuminated sign says Gate 8: Jetstar Flight JQ36. It is now five minutes to my scheduled boarding time, but the plane firmly glued to the aero-bridge is Jetstar’s, not Garuda’s. The first tendrils of panic start to curl through my intestines. “Umm, where is the Garuda flight?” I enquire. “Here”, says the gatekeeper, waving his hand towards the Jetstar plane. OK, it’s midnight, my brain isn’t working and I’m tired, but I can still tell the difference between aircraft livery, even at night.

The gate person looks at my baffled visage and relents. “Here, but later. In one hour. Jetstar flight is delayed. Blocking gate, so Garuda plane has to wait. Sorry.” Damn. I am specifically flying Garuda this time after my last rage-inducing experience with Jetstar, because it’s cheaper, cleaner, more comfortable and the service is light-years ahead of Jetstar. And here I am, still unable to get away from their operational problems even when flying with a different airline! I feel like I am being haunted.

Luckily, there is a smoking room in the departure area for addicts like me, and I head off for a consoling puff. Of course, I have no lighter. There is only one traveller – from Aceh – who has one, and he charitably allows everyone in the room to use his. I start thinking that maybe if I spin some pathetic yarn, I can somehow borrow my lighter back from the security checkpoint. I will even do it under armed guard if necessary. So I head back to the place where all the lighters have been confiscated. I am not overly optimistic, because, you know, security is security, but I’m willing to give it a go.

Explaining the flight delay, my desire for a cigarette and my need to borrow a lighter is easier than I anticipate. Without even blinking, the security man hands me my lighter and smiles. I think to myself, ‘but what about the new rules?’ He apparently reads my mind. “Rules say we must confiscate all lighters.” He grins. “But no rule about giving them back!”

I return to the smoking room. The Aceh man has disappeared. In the absence of Boy Scouts, desperate would-be smokers are rubbing sate sticks together to try to make fire. I brandish my lighter triumphantly, and explain how I got it. Five minutes later, every smoker in the departure lounge has their lighter back.

Ah, Bali – I just love your quirky rules!

The Inadvertent Travel Ban During Your KITAS Renewal

I can’t help feeling just a little bit cheated. My Retirement KITAS, plus its essential companion, the Multiple Entry and Exit endorsement, lets me live in Indonesia for a year while using it as a travel hub to explore other countries, right? Umm, not really. Yes, I can live in Bali for a year. Yes, I can travel wherever, and whenever I want – unless the authorities have my passport for some reason.

To renew my KITAS each year, I need to provide the usual mountain of bureaucratic guff. This includes bank statements to show that I am not an impecunious drifter and can actually afford to live here, and proof of health insurance, life insurance and liability insurance. I also need a copy of my accommodation lease, one affidavit to confirm that I will employ Indonesian staff, and another one solemnly swearing that I will not engage in work while I am here. Then there is the mandatory Curriculum Vitae, a document hardly likely to change much from year to year for me now. Oh yes, and the eighteen, yes eighteen photographs, in three different sizes, which are only acceptable if they are on a red background.

At the time I provide this folder of goodies to the Immigration Department, I also must surrender my passport, Blue Book, and KITAS.  These documents must be in their hands well before the KITAS expires. Processing is supposed to take less than a month, but this is Indonesia, so most agents recommend that the annual renewal circus starts at least two months before expiry.

And there’s the problem. A passport is, of course, mandatory for overseas travel, so I’m stuck in Indonesia while without one. For me, this is a big issue in case of a family emergency back home. But even for travel within Indonesia, a passport serves as the preferred ID for just about everything, with a KITAS coming in a poor second. So, if I’m unwilling to be caught short without valid ID, I can’t travel outside Bali either. And because my KITAS gets me local rates at clinics, hospitals, hotels and shops – even Waterbom Park – I lose those benefits as well while not in possession of this document.

In Indonesia, the wheels of authority grind through their incomprehensible by-ways with excruciating slowness. My first annual renewal took over six weeks, ostensibly because “computer problems” caused the process to get stuck in the works. When I finally did get the call to report to Immigration – just ten days before an optimistically-booked overseas flight – I thought my problems were over. On the day, the paperwork went relatively quickly, I was fingerprinted again (even though I didn’t think my fingers had changed all that much in a year), photographed again (eighteen photos aren’t enough?) and was finally standing there in anticipation of getting my passport and KITAS back.

“Oh no,” said the man. “They will be sent to your agent.” My heart sank. “How long will that take?” I asked with some trepidation.  ”Two weeks,” he said casually. Several panicky phone calls, some inspired grovelling and much waving of flight itineraries later, my agent came through for me. I got my documents back two days before my flight. That’s too close for comfort.

My second renewal, earlier this year, took more than 2 months. This time, the more creative excuse was that the Immigration office was being investigated by an anti-corruption squad, so no work could be done. I thought of offering a bribe, but under the circumstances thought that wasn’t such a good idea. So this year, two months were completely blocked to travel. And apparently I’m one of the lucky ones. One acquaintance reported a processing time of  five months! At this rate, it will take twelve months to process a KITAS renewal by 2015, which will sort of defeat the purpose of having one in the first place.

Surely one small change in procedures would help to eliminate this unwanted and undesirable travel ban? After all, it’s just a side-effect of the current requirement to surrender our travel and residency documents, so why not just get notarised photocopies and give those to the Immigration Department while they do their thing? Then we could retain possession of our most important documents and have the freedom to travel year-round, instead of only nine (or fewer) months of the year. Then, when the administrivia has been completed, we could just drop in again to get our passports stamped with the new visa, collect our new KITAS, and go. I wouldn’t feel quite so cheated, or trapped on the island if they did it this way.

Or is this suggestion too sensible?

Coffee Spills, Hungry Dogs And Serviettes In Bali

I must be hard to please. For me, Bali is a place where, no matter how good things get, they’re never 100% satisfactory. I feel like I’m getting short-changed at least 25% on every life experience.

If I roll up to my agent’s office armed with ten of the mandatory documents, letters and affidavits needed for my KITAS renewal, I will always need to go home and unearth two more obscure pieces of paper before the convoluted process can even start. If I am told that it will take ten weeks for the process, it always takes at least two weeks longer. When, after the inevitable delays, I am finally instructed to pick up my new KITAS, it won’t have a Multiple Entry/Exit stamp. “Oh no sir,” the ever-helpful man at Immigration will say, “that will take another two weeks.” Naturally, it’s not ready for another three weeks.

If I want to buy six stubby holders, there will be four in stock. If I absolutely, positively need my pembantu to work on a particular day, there will be a ceremony on that day. The computer at the office where I pay my electricity will go down only during the time I am there.  My hand-phone’s network works reasonably well for whole days at a time, then inexplicably overloads and fails only when I need to call a cab to the airport.

My obviously unrealistic expectations can’t even be met at restaurants. One of my regular places has good food and friendly staff and, most importantly, an abundance of serviettes for those messy senior moments. But its coffee tastes like crushed scarab beetle wings – and it only comes in small cups. On the other hand, my favourite coffee shop has the best coffee in Bali,  which they serve in big cups. But there are no serviettes.

Now this is a problem for me, because the classy cups at this place have tiny, ungrippable handles designed by someone with no concept of either the anatomy of the human hand or of the physics of levers. So for me, picking up a full cup usually means a spectacular downward rotation of the cup and consequent spillage into its saucer. Or on bad days, into the lap of a nearby patron. Crushing the handle laterally to the point of pulverising the porcelain might produce enough friction, but my hands are too weak for that. So my saucer fills up, and every time I lift the wet cup, coffee pours into my lap. Little as I care what people think of me, even I draw the line at looking as if I forgot my incontinence pads.

Of course, sometimes it’s not Bali at all. Sometimes there is no-one to blame but myself. There I am, full coffee cup by my right hand, sugar added and ready to stir. The obligatory cookie that comes with the coffee is not to my taste, so I generally save it to give to one of the local dogs, which, knowing my schedule, is there waiting for a hand-out when I arrive. Depending on how hungry it is, it sometimes even sings to me while waiting – a peculiar solo of whines, yips and howls which are eerily evocative in their yearning. It sits next to me, staring at me with soulful eyes which telegraph a message of love, faith and commitment. I just know this dog worships me, and would never leave me. Unless I run out of cookies of course, whereupon it is off without a backward glance. I reflect that this behaviour could almost be a metaphor for life amongst the locals, but charitably squash the thought.

So today, the cookie has been eaten, but just to keep my hairy friend around for a few minutes longer, I absently scratch and massage along its spine. Unfortunately, thinking I am a true multi-tasker, I also try to stir my coffee at the same time. You’ve all done that thing where you try to rub your stomach with one hand while patting your head with the other? OK, then you know what happens next. The lomi-lomi-like strokes of my dog-massaging left hand, together with the orbital motions of my coffee-stirring right hand promptly cause a massive failure of my neural system. Only Yogis and drummers can operate different limbs independently, and I am neither. Unfortunately, it is my coffee hand operating system that fails, causing a spasm that just about empties my cup over the table, my book, my phone, and yes, my lap. Damn.

And of course, there are no serviettes. Their presence might not have prevented my bout of neuro-muscular ineptness, but it sure would have helped in the clean-up. As I said, no matter how good things get, they’re never 100% satisfactory. But you know – that’s Bali.

You’ve Got Mail – Well, Two-thirds Of It Anyway

So the postman comes round to the villa and hands me a slip of paper, which tells me that I have to go somewhere to collect a parcel – a gift from my daughter in Australia. It says that I must pay when I collect it, apparently because it could not be delivered to my villa. I look at the postman, whose bike panniers are loaded with parcels.

“Why didn’t you just bring the parcel, instead of a note saying that I have received a parcel?” I ask reasonably. He shuffles a bit, and says, “You not here when I come before.” He can’t seem to meet my eyes. “When did you come before?” I enquire innocently. A long pause ensues; he recognises the trap. “Ah … I not come before” comes the reluctant admission. Naturally, I enquire as to why not. “I think maybe you not be home?” he offers diffidently.

He is clearly uncomfortable, so taking pity on him, I suggest that maybe the parcel was too heavy.  ”No, no – parcel not heavy now”. The “now” should have alerted me that he knew more than he was letting on, but in fairness, it was before mid-day, so I wasn’t the sharpest bule in the gang. I tell him to bring it next time. He is shocked to the core. “No, no, no! Already make paper!” he says, agitatedly pointing to the delivery slip.

I sigh, but recognise defeat. When parked at the confluence of Bali bureaucracy and the passive aggression of its employees, there is no escape. I ask him which post office I should go to. He helpully waves his hand through 270 degrees and tells me “over there’. I suspect that if his back wasn’t so stiff from lugging everyone’s parcels around except mine, the arc of his gesture would have encompassed 360 degrees, if not more.

So the next day, I’m standing at the counter of my local post office branch. The man behind the counter is swamped with piles of letters, parcels, envelopes and several forests worth of tacky postcards. When he claps eyes on my proferred slip of paper, his face breaks out in a huge smile. I am impressed with his customer service attitude until he says, with evident relief, “No, no! Not here! Go to Tuban!” Oh great, I think – here comes a 40 minute trip to the airport area. Fortunately, being of a devilishly cunning bent as well as lazy, I talk my friend’s driver into picking it up for me when he is the area. He comes back empty-handed. Apparently I neglected to sign the back of the slip, an act which evidently would have authorised the bearer to pick up things on my behalf.

I duly sign, and the next day the driver again goes to the post office. He comes back empty-handed again. “Need to show passport”, he informs me.I do what I should have done to start with – jump on the bike and go looking for the post office. I quickly find out my driver buddy has been more than a little cavalier with his directions. The post office is not next to Supernova; it’s not even in the same block.

Twenty minutes later, I find a sign: “Post Office 50m” pointing up a narrow lane. I comb the entire lane and find nothing that even resembles a letter box, much less a  post office. I ask a local, who says “Go back, next to bank”. I find nothing that resembles a bank either. “Where’s the bank?” I ask another local. “Go back – next to Post Office” he says. Right. I forgot about The Great Bali Circular Directions Trap.

A parking guy finally sets me straight, pointing to a semi-demolished structure (or maybe half-built – it’s hard to tell in Bali) displaying no signs of human habitation or activity. He obviously senses my disbelief, saying “No problem – go to back”. I pick my way through builders’ detritus and trash, hurdle deep trenches and climb over plant and equipment to get to a small, crowded room which is a scene of utter chaos. Waving my slip at anyone who looks interested (which turns out to be nobody), I finally buttonhole a chap who wanders off for ten minutes and returns with my parcel.

“Passport”, he demands. I tell him that my passport is at the Immigration Office, and give him my KITAS. “No good.” he says, “Must have passport.” I think fast – unusual for me, but vital today. “Your boss in there says KITAS OK”, I say with false authority. He hesitates. I press on with the bluff: “Go ask him if you like – but he seems, er, a little angry today …”

I’ve said the magic words. He accepts my KITAS, gives me my parcel and I get out of there as fast as I can. Back at the villa, I look at the Customs Declaration that came with the parcel. It says: Cans x 2; Book x 1. But when I open the parcel, it contains one can and one book. Damn. That was good Nestle’s condensed milk in there and now I’m going to have to ration it.

Thanks Bali Post Office, and a pox upon your sweet-toothed, light-fingered employees. But as Meatloaf used to say, I guess two out of three ain’t bad …

The Bali Incendiary Wallet

Sitting close to the street in any of Bali’s open-air restaurants lets you experience the endless variety of the personal retailing brigade at work. Want LED flashing eye-glasses? They will arrive. Want some of that snake-oil liniment to rub over yourself or your loved ones? A customer service representative will be with you momentarily. Need CDs, or DVDs, or hip flasks, or plastic cars, or soft toys that shriek annoyingly in your face? Rest assured – a vendor will materialise to talk you into buying something you don’t need. You will even get regular doses of carefully crafted pathos from tiny children selling pieces of plaited leather (the purpose of which utterly escapes me) and “mothers” begging for alms for their rent-a-baby props. All this during a single course too.

So one night, after numerous encounters with purveyors of fine rubbish, I see this guy come in waving a wallet. He has a shoulder bag with many more. As his target table of diners looks away to discourage him, he flips open his demo wallet, which spews forth a huge ball of fire. “Magic wallet!” he cries to the recoiling throng. “Amaze your friends!” The newly-galvanised customers (mainly the guys) are now intensely interested. I am too, (maybe it’s a boy thing) but I resist going over to find out how this thinly-disguised instrument of warfare actually works. I don’t actually want one – I can quite easily burn through my cash here without benefit of a fire-starter in my wallet.

The fireball it produces is brief, but hot enough to singe nasal hairs, eyelashes and eyebrows completely off the unwary. And it’s big enough to do damage to one’s forelock, if repeated tugging while toadying up to Immigration officials to get your KITAS renewed hasn’t permanently dislodged it. I get to thinking – if the guy is selling ordinary wallets, he has hit on a great promotional gimmick to attract the attention of his customers. Some – those without collateral third degree burns – might even buy one.

But if these things are actually designed as flame-throwing wallets – with gas, or lighter fluid, or even napalm as the fuel, then we have a small problem on our hands. They might be useful as mugger deterrent devices, but I think of small children, bored with mere matches, playing with far more dangerous flaming devices. I think of inebriated bogans lighting the faces of their friends for a lark. “Ooh, sorry mate. Didn’t mean to coagulate your eyeballs.”

But most of all, I think of a ‘harmless’ incendiary wallet which would probably not even attract a second glance from the same airport security people who confiscate our nail clippers. And I think of the subsequent fireballs in the inflammable confines of a crowded plane at 36,000 feet. Or the possibility of accidental ignition while in one’s hip pocket.

OK, I have an over-active imagination. But could someone please reassure me that these are just ordinary wallets being sold by frustrated fire-eating circus performers, and not the real thing?

FISKAL: It’s on, it’s off, it’s on again …

Hey Jakarta! I’m confused. OK, OK – it’s a normal state for this bule pikun, but I’m even more confused than usual about conflicting reports about FISKAL from various news sources.

FISKAL, for those who have never had the pleasure of being ensnared in its tentacles, is a departure tax levied on local residents, and on those expats who have temporary resident status, such as a KITAS. This is completely separate from the Airport Departure Tax of 150,000 rupiah, and must be paid by every resident who leaves the country.

A year and a half ago, FISKAL was 1,000,000 rupiah. Then, in a cunning move designed to get people in to the often-avoided tax system, the FISKAL was raised to 2.5 million rupiah, UNLESS one had registered with the tax authorities and been issued with an NPWP card as proof of membership in the Indonesian Tax Club. Once you have an NPWP card to flash at the boys at the airport, you are exempt from having to pay FISKAL.

I have an NPWP card which exempts me from FISKAL. This is crazy in itself, as I have a Retirement KITAS which prohibits me from working in Indonesia, which means no income, which means no tax. I still have to submit monthly and annual tax returns stating that I am a person of zero income status. But I have my FISKAL exemption, which was the aim of the charade in the first place and this is a Good Thing. At least I thought it was.

A news item in the Jakarta Post on  17 October 2010 [ http://tinyurl.com/29mbsy8 ] announced, with not a little fanfare, that FISKAL is being scrapped for everyone from 1 January 2011. Yippee, I thought. Closer reading however, reveals that it is being scrapped for taxpayers only. In other words, there is no change in the status quo. That’s newsworthy?

One week later, an acquaintance’s agent, someone who is presumably supposed to know the convoluted workings of Indonesian bureaucracy, informed him that new regulations require that everyone, including KITAS holders, pay FISKAL.

Is there ANYONE out there who knows what is really going on?

Peeling Back The Layers Of The Bali Onion

A recent email from a friend who has been following my febrile maunderings, both in the Bali Times and on-line, gave me pause for thought. After saying some nice things (always pleasant to hear even if undeserved) she went on to say about my more recent articles: “I seem to detect a note of angst …”

Hmm, I thought – she is not wrong. My earlier articles did seem to focus on the funny, bizarre and absurdist side of Bali life. It was all new, and in the beginning, as a wide-eyed expat, I wrote more about the comedic travails of a bule in a strange land than about the darker aspects of local politics, regulatory shenanigans and endemic corruption. But lately, my posts have been more about the systematised and creeping hostility faced by some foreigners here, and the difficulties that this creates. Not good, I thought. Has my joie de vivre truly been replaced by the dreaded expat ennui? Is the quality of my life now being measured by whatever angst du jour is being served by Warung Bali?

But her next two questions prompted even more introspection: “Are you a bit sorry you made the move? I am curious as to what you are feeling now about making the big move 15 odd months ago.” Oh dear. Based on the increasingly frequent articles where I whinge a lot, one could be forgiven for thinking that disillusionment and regret had set in. So I had a bit of a think about all this while at one of my regular sunset beach sojourns, and tried to crystallise my usually amorphous thoughts and feelings into something more precise, something that could be written down and analysed.

I failed, of course, because trying to distill the essence of one’s relationship with Bali into a few banal bullet points is like using Power Point slides in place of philosophical discourse. Coming to live in Bali is like peeling an onion. At first you just see the whole onion, and think that because you recognise the shape, colour, smell and texture, you know all about onions. My onion was appealing and quirky and I was delighted to play with it for a long time. Then I decided it was time to peel off the outer skin to explore new properties. I found them, but many were unexpected.

Some delighted me – the relaxed, unstressed and cheap lifestyle, the beaches and the people themselves. Some distressed me – the corruption, the difficulty of getting the police to do anything, the nightmare of bringing personal effects to this country, and the belief of many locals here that foreigners are walking Automatic Teller Machines.

Inevitably, peeling off more layers of the Bali onion revealed complexities unheard of in a more ordinary vegetable. There is a depth and richness in each successive layer which can only be found in cultures other than one’s own. And just as inevitably, some of the gems uncovered by my search for underlying structure, mores, culture and practices were delightful – the vibrant cultures of the Indonesian people who live here, creating an eclectic, chaotic and wonderful mix, the vagaries of the tropical climate and the spectacular scenery in places other than South Bali.

Other revelations were less than inspiring. The increasing antipathy of the central government towards expats and their school-aged children, and the refusal to issue and renew KITAS permits was one. The imposition of an internet filter which slows down an already borderline network infrastructure is another. The use of ‘blasphemy’ legislation to attack and vilify ‘heretics’ in direct contravention of both the principles of Pancasila and the Indonesian Constitution is yet another. Throw in tacit government support of the criminal thugs of the FPI and Bali’s shortsighted over-development and you have a number of factors that tend to take the gloss off paradise for its residents.

So in retrospect, I guess I have been writing more about some of these latter aspects, simply because living here for a while exposes one to the broader socio-political issues that affect expat life, and some of these are not amenable to light-hearted writing styles. But does that mean that I have become a curmudgeonly old fart who is disillusioned with life in Bali? Some have unkindly pointed out that I was already one of those before I came here, so Bali life has not changed me one iota. I must reluctantly agree.

Am I sorry I made the move to Bali? A resounding “no” to that question. Bali is a wonderful place to live, despite the chaos of its infrastructure and governance. The emerging democracy in the region is a crucible of frustration at times, but it promises a bright future if it is not hijacked by radical fringe elements, greed and corruption. Of course the place has flaws. But diamonds have flaws too, and their value and beauty is unparalleled.

However, one outcome of all this unseemly introspection is the realisation that I am getting jaded, critical and cranky in my writing. I want to recapture some of the wide-eyed, dopey innocence I had before. I want to see the funny side of intransigence again, to feel the newness of this place regardless of my own ennui. I need a little time to do that. That’s why this will be my last post. At least for a while.

The Great Bali Airport Bottleneck

My plane from Singapore touches down at Ngurah Rai International Airport and taxis up to the designated arrival gate. Good, I muse – it’s early afternoon and I can see that most of the aero-bridges are yawning forlornly at the tarmac. Ours seems to be the only plane that is about to discharge a horde of Bali-bound bodies, so I’m thinking that it should be an easy milk run getting through Immigration and Customs – particularly as I’ll be using the special section for locals and foreigners with a KITAS.

I mentally prepare myself for a quick sprint through the formalities and an early arrival at my villa. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have done that. At Bali’s only airport, believing that things will be easy makes coping with the subsequent chaos of arrival formalities that much harder.

Naturally, our plane has stopped at the one gate which is furthest (as measured in tired footsteps) from the arrivals hall, necessitating a walk around practically the entire perimeter of the terminal building. That’s a long way on foot, and I feel mildly sorry for those elderly and incapacitated passengers that I am forced to elbow out of my way on the mad dash to immigration.

As our plane-load of  hopefuls decants into the arrivals area, I am shocked to see that a simmering cauldron of humanity is already there. Where did they come from? The hall is packed, the queues horrendous, the non-air-conditioned space steaming with angst, fatigue and resentment. Several tantrums are in progress, with lots of tears and pouty lips, but at least their children seem quite well-behaved. But of course, I get to by-pass all this, leaving the mess of confusing VOA pay counters, VOA receipt counters and the five out of seventeen open immigration desks behind me. I walk confidently past the right-hand side of the incipient riot and enter the Special Zone for the Blessed, set up for those who do not need a Visa on Arrival.

The good news is that most of the desks are open. The bad news is that all queues are already thirty deep. With an alacrity that belies my age, I leap to the end of the shortest line. I should know by now that this guarantees that someone ahead of me will have such amazing irregularities in their paperwork that the overworked immigration officer will disappear to confer endlessly with colleagues, supervisors and, for all I know, the President himself before returning. This of course, happens. Twice.

But during the time that our queue has no visible destination, more people arrive and flow down both sides of our previously single-file queue to its very head. A silent scrabble for power ensues, with the new arrivals viciously elbowing their way into non-existent gaps in the original line. Predominantly men, they refuse to respond, or even make eye-contact when challenged, maintaining unfocused stares into the distance while shoving both men and women aside. The queue etiquette there resembles forty hungry piglets on a twenty-teat sow, except the squealing is a little more muted.

Eventually a security officer arrives and insists that our queue transform itself into a single file. More elbow-flailing and shoulder-wedging achieves that directive, but our line triples in length and I effectively move thirty people backwards. My legendary sang-froid is finally deserting me as I prepare to smite a person behind me who is tapping me on the shoulder. But it is a young Indonesian woman, and she disarms me by saying: “You have incredible patience. Thank you. I would like to apologise for my countrymen. They have no respect and no manners”.

With excruciating slowness, I get to the head of the queue. It is now one hour and fifty five minutes since I de-planed. The immigration chap looks at me, flips through my passport, looks at his computer screen and says: “No good”. Not only my heart, but my liver, stomach and spleen sinks. “Problem”, he says. I think they train them at Immigration School to be laconic. He accompanies me to a hot little office with a big ‘No Smoking’ sign. The duty officer there stubs out his cigarette (oblivious to my longing look at the still-smoking butt) and examines my passport. I have visions of being deported. In excellent English, he informs me that he can see that my passport, KITAS renewal and Multiple Entry stamp are all in order. He continues: “But the trouble is, our computer system doesn’t know that. I think it never will. You will have this problem every time you leave or enter Indonesia”. My entrails sink lower. ”But”, he says with a smile, “next time, don’t stand in the queue. Come straight to the office and we will clear immigration here for you”.

I can’t believe it. My documentation gets fouled up and I benefit? In Bali, that is like winning the lottery. After a two hour wait in the local queue, I am perhaps not as ecstatic as I should be.  I have just been through Singapore  and Frankfurt immigration controls, taking about 10 minutes each time – airports that have 7.5 times more passenger movements than Bali. But my improved mood does mean that I don’t bother snarling at the taxi booth man when he tries to overcharge me. I just hand him the correct fare and tap the banknotes twice with my finger. He gives me that Bali look, then acquiesces with a shrug.

Ah Bali – you’ve got to love it.

How to Make Tourists and Expats Disappear from Bali

It’s always interesting to talk to new visitors to Bali and glean their first impressions. I am somewhat enamoured of the place myself – despite its flaws – so it always comes as a mild shock to speak to someone who has their head screwed on a little tighter than mine, someone perhaps less prone to falling for the ‘paradise’ tag promoted by tourism authorities. In the last six months, I have heard increasing numbers of  grumbles from people who have been disappointed with their Bali experience. The latest such disaffected person is someone who has lived in various locations in South-East Asia. This was his first visit to Bali.

When asked the inevitable question: “What do you think of Bali?”, his response was measured, but honest. He said: “Well, it’s not as beautiful as advertised …” My reaction was to bristle. I felt mildly insulted, and protective towards this island I have come to love. I thought to myself , oh great – here is a recent blow-in who is judging the place after 2 days. How dare he! But of course, a few moments’ reflection showed that he was right. Bali isn’t as beautiful as advertised. No place is. The image portrayed to the outside world is a mash-up – a synthesis of the best bits to be found all over the island. No-one promoting Bali mentions the open drains, the rubbish, the deadly traffic or frustrating inefficiencies of the arrivals hall at the airport. The reality is that there is good and bad to be found in any place, but too much bad puts tourists off.

He went on to say: “It’s more expensive than advertised”.  I was compelled to agree. For a visitor, and certainly for an expat, Bali can be expensive, and it is becoming more so. Just how expensive is a question of personal choices. Do you choose to eat in expensive restaurants targeting tourists and “rich” expats, or in a cheap and cheerful warung? Do you choose to drink imported, exorbitantly-taxed wine and spirits, or limit yourself to Bintang? Do you choose to stay in a luxury villa, or find more humble accommodation? It’s a balancing act here between what the Government and local providers think that ‘pampered’ Westerners want, and what they need. Unfortunately, when tourists don’t get want they want from a destination, they don’t return.

His initial responses to Bali are, in themselves, just valid opinions. What worries me is that more and more tourists are expressing similar opinions, often on-line, and often to a large audience of potential new travellers. With so much competition from other nearby destinations, what will happen to Bali’s attractiveness as a destination if this trend accelerates?

It’s not just short-term visitors who are becoming wary of Tourist Board spin either. Based on emails received recently, long-term expats, many of whom contribute huge amounts of money and expertise to Bali, are starting to leave the island. They are saying that conditions here are “not tolerable anymore”, citing “the high cost of imported food and wine”, the “high cost for internet access” and the increasingly hostile attitude of the government towards expats. One reader even believes that there is a deliberate policy to make life difficult for expats. He asks: “… is this what the politicians in Jakarta, especially the Islamic movement, had planned when these drastic price increases were made? Is it their plan to drive the Westerners out in order to free the Indonesian people from Western influence?”

I can’t answer that. Maybe someone in Jakarta can. But I do know that punitive alcohol and food duties are driving people away. I do know that new rules – or new implementation of existing rules – have made it impossible for arriving expats to bring in their personal effects without hitting ludicrous official snags. A friend had to have all of her effects shipped back to Australia because “the rules have changed” while the goods were in transit. Others can’t pick up their goods because they don’t yet have a KITAS. Still others are being charged exorbitant and arbitrary “duty” far in excess of the official rate.

I do know that a friend’s son, enrolled in a school here, is now being denied a Student KITAS because, according to an official, “we are no longer happy about issuing a Student KITAS to people under 18″. What? Schools here can’t enrol foreign students without a KITAS.  If this is a new policy, it means that hundreds of expat families with student children will have to leave the country, or leave their children unschooled. I also know that a number of foreign teachers have recently had their KITAS extensions refused, which means they can’t work, or even stay in the country. I guess that will solve the emerging problem of too many teachers after the kids have all been kicked out, right?

So what is going on? I am not a conspiracy theorist, but things just aren’t adding up. Why are we being faced with a raft of strange rules and regulations aimed directly at the heart of Bali’s tourism industry and its expat community? Why is the regional Bali government sitting back and saying nothing when the economy of Bali is being threatened in this way? Make no mistake – alienate the tourists, marginalise the expats, and Bali loses the cornerstone of its economy. And Bali can not afford that.

Enlighten me someone. Tell me that this current regimen of crazy duties and intransigent new rules and policies is just a confluence of unrelated official stupidities. Tell me it’s not an orchestrated anti-Western campaign. But if it is, at least be honest about it. I will sadly accept that I am no longer welcome as a guest in your country and go somewhere more hospitable.

The Death of a Thousand Cuts

There is a dark, cheerless room somewhere in Indonesia, lacking windows and completely cut off from the realities of life outside. Within that cloistered space are are special group of legislators and regulators, tightly focused on their endless task of driving nails into the coffin of expatriate life in Bali. If anyone had performed an autopsy on the unfortunate occupant of the casket - The Unknown Bali Expat – they would have discovered that the cause of death was exsanguination from a thousand cuts. But of course, there will never be autopsies on the death of expat dreams because nobody cares.

In Bali, expats are seen as a bottomless well of money for both local traders and the authorities. I have no real issue with the differential in prices for bules and locals – that’s just the way it is here, and it helps keep costs down for locals whose disposable wealth is miniscule. Up to now, even the huge swag of foreigner-targeted special charges and procedures have been onerous, but almost bearable – if you can call imposts like a $1,200 USD payment to Jakarta for each year of a KITAS permit bearable. Or the new $50,000 bride price now payable to Jakarta for foreigners who are the marrying kind. Yes, it is expensive for expats to live here when you factor in all the charges, but many of us have been able to manage, albeit with the odd grumble.

But now things seem to be different. Our Indonesian legislators, no longer content with slamming expats with every conceivable charge, and then some, seem to be changing direction. The aim seems to be to discourage us altogether. They simply don’t want us here. The ludicrous cost of alcohol in Bali is obviously aimed at foreigners – locals are not big consumers of imported wine and spirits. The new fines for motorists are simply out of reach of locals, so will obviously be selectively enforced for foreigners. The new rules – unpublicised - for bringing in personal effects now mean that you can’t easily bring your stuff here from home.

Here’s a frustrating little story about importing a few boxes of clothes, sports equipment for a child and the usual memorabilia that can ease the shock of transitioning to a new country. My friend used an Australian freight agent with many years of experience of bringing goods to Bali via Surabaya. The stuff duly arrived in Surabaya, and she was sent an invoice by the local freight forwarder, demanding a copy of her KITAS and payment of $800 USD for import duty. That’s strange, she thought – the rules say that there is no duty for payable for personal effects for KITAS holders, so why does he want both the duty fees and the KITAS? The local agent immediately changed his story and claimed that he had never sent her an invoice in the first place. Hmmm.

The troubles multiplied rapidly after that. The agent continued to demand a KITAS – not an option, as my friend lives here on a different type of long-term visa. Then came a demand for her to mail her passport to Surabaya. Yeah, right. “I’ll come to Surabaya and bring it myself”, she said. “Ahh, no, not possible …” was the reply. Finally came the news that under new rules, she now needs an import permit. However, once the goods have arrived in Indonesia, it is too late for an import permit, she was told. “We can re-export the goods to Singapore, and bring them back using ‘semi-legal’ methods” was the next suggestion. Wonderful – the quote for this scam was another couple of thousand dollars.

Worn down by the ten weeks it had taken to get to this stage, my friend was ready to just ship the goods out again. This annoyed the agent, who suggested that the goods had been left in Surabaya for too long and would most likely now be destroyed. The pressure intensified, with all suggestions from the agent revolving around huge storage, shipping and duty charges, payable, of course, to the agent.

In desperation, my friend said that she would get the required import permit, no matter what it took. Can you smirk via email? This agent did. His response was: “Ahh, but you need to have a company to get an import permit”. “I have a company”, she replied. “Ahh, but do you have warehousing facilities? All companies importing goods must also have a Government-approved warehouse to store the goods.”  She was speechless. ”And when did all these ‘new rules’ come into effect? “While your ship was on the way to Surabaya”, was the bland response.

So the end result is that, after more than three months of stalling and inconsistent rule-quoting by the authorities, my friend is shipping her goods back to Australia. Her Australian agent confirmed that it was nearly impossible now to send personal effects to Indonesia and will no longer deal with shipments from Australia to Indonesia while these ludicrous impediments exist.

As I said before, I am beginning to believe that the Indonesian Government just doesn’t want us here. Given that many expats spend perhaps upwards of 400 million rupiah for each year here, it just doesn’t make sense economically. If you don’t want us here, be honest – just tell us that we are not really welcome. It will save a lot of angst for all concerned.

Buying a motorbike in Bali

I bought a motorbike today. Well, I’ve taken possession of  it, but I can’t actually ride it yet, because … no wait, let me describe how the sociology of motorbike ownership works here first.

In Bali, the actual purchase itself  is as easy as buying a T-shirt. But the lead up to the transaction is tricky. There is a whole gender/status thing swirling around that colours one’s choice of steed. For the last month I have been riding a rented Mio – one of the smaller automatic scooters in Bali. It’s small, somewhat underpowered and makes me feel like an elephant on a unicycle – but it’s practical, cheap to run and comparatively nimble. No one seems to care what you ride as a rental, but as soon as you mention that you are going to actually buy one, attitudes change.

Me: I’m going to buy a Mio.
Friend: For your pembantu?
Me: No, no – for me.
Friend: (pauses for a beat) Why do you want a girl’s bike?
Me: Er, umm, well it’s, you know, it’s cheap and easy to ride and er, umm …
Friend: Yeah right, it’s a girl’s bike …

So I think for a while, and decide I will not be intimidated by gender-profiling types who are obviously trying to rev me up. My money, right? My choice of bike, right? Off I go to the Yamaha dealer, where I see an array of bikes of varying degrees of coolness. Some of these look hot. A salesman coalesces out of thin air.

Salesman: Yes?
Me: I want to buy a bike.
Salesman: (gravitating towards a manually geared behemoth that surely would need a crane to pick it up if it fell over) This one is very …
Me: No, no, I want an automatic.
Salesman: For your pembantu?
Me: (cringing) Ah, well she might ride it occasionally …
Salesman: You mean it’s for you? Why do you want a girl’s bike … ?

I leave. Time for some introspeksi diri. So what’s another 2 million? I’ll get a real bike – a man’s bike. I need the extra size and power anyway, don’t I? I ride off to a different dealer, but more self-consciously now, because I’m on a rented Mio, which of course, is a girl’s bike …

Me (at the Honda dealer): I want to buy a bike …
Saleswoman: Certainly – now, this Tiger here is on specia …
Me: No, no, I want an automatic …
Saleswoman: Ahh, you want a girl’s bike?
Me: (with some asperity) No, it’s for me. I was going to get a Mio, but …
Saleswoman: For your pembantu?
Me: (mentally reciting a calming mantra) No. I want a bike for me. I want one that’s bigger than a Mio. And I want one that is automatic. Because. I. Can’t. Ride. A. Manual. Bike.

The mantra doesn’t seem to work, because I find myself gritting my teeth.
Saleswoman: (considers me for a moment, and obviously decides I’m gay) Ahh. This Vario would be perfect for you.
Me: ?? Perfect? It’s pink!
Saleswoman: Oh. I thought …
Me: I want that red one.
Saleswoman: But the red ones go faster …
Me: Very funny Kadek, but that’s actually the reason why I want a red one …

With the sociological preliminaries over and my position on the pecking order of bike riders now firmly established (apparently on the second-last rung …) we finally get to the transaction, which takes five minutes:

Me: I’ll take that one.
Saleswoman: You have KITAS?
Me: Yes.
Saleswoman: You pay now?
Me: Yes.

And it’s over. I have a brand-new bike! They delivered it within the hour. But of course I can’t ride it, because the registration plates will take two weeks to be processed, and I can’t go waving red rags at the Patroli by riding around on something with no plates and no registration papers. And the Blue Book or Black Book or whatever it is that proves my ownership takes three to six months to arrive … 

So I go and brag to my friend anyway:
Me: Hey, I just bought a bike.
Friend: What did you get?
Me: A Vario.
Friend: (suspiciously) You didn’t get a pink one, did you?
Me: No, a red one.
Friend: Oh. Pity. You know the red ones always get stolen first? Didn’t the dealer warn you?
Me: (mentally replaying saleswoman’s comment “But the red ones always go faster …”) Ahh, well, sort of … I thought she meant … never mind.
Friend: But you still bought an automatic. Why did you buy a girl’s bike?

So that’s it. Despite the subtle bagging, I’m the proud owner of a new bike, and I don’t care what people say. I make my own choices and will remain completely unmoved by the implication that in two weeks (grrr) I will be riding a twist-and-go girl’s bike that just happens to be of a colour preferred by motorcycle thieves. I am untouched by such petty profiling; I do exactly what I want. Pah! to the naysayers!

But next week, I think I might learn to ride a manual bike. Hmm … maybe I’ll even upgrade to a tough, macho Tiger …

Medical insurance in Bali

One of the conditions required by the authorities for expats to live here is to have medical insurance. This is not only a quasi-legal requirement to obtain a KITAS, it is prudent. I would go so far as to say it is essential.

I’m not talking about your standard expat ailments here like Bali belly, or a hangover where you are afraid that you are not going to die, or your garden-variety sniffles, insect bites or post-village-arak queasiness. I’m talking about appendicitis, dengue fever, avian influenza, motorbike road trauma – stuff that is potentially life-threatening. For such occasions, you need high-level medical help. While this can sometimes be accessed in Bali, it may well be that life-saving treatment may be required in Singapore or Australia. But of course you need to actually get there somehow. Commercial airlines won’t take you, so medical evacuation, provided by private companies at vast expense, may well become a necessity, not an option. Of course, you have put aside a lazy $30,000 – $50,000 USD just for this contingency, right?

Most people I know don’t have a mate with a spare Lear jet, or enough reserve Bintang money lying around in their sock drawer to bail them out of trouble. They get medical insurance.

I looked at perhaps five or six medical insurance plans which covered Bali and included medical evacuation. None were cheap, with annual premiums ranging from about $2,500 – $10,000 USD. The cost didn’t make sense. A cynical person might suggest that the insurance companies looked at their actuarial tables to assess the risk – then increased the required premiums by a whole order of magnitude. Great for companyshareholders; tidak bagus for those who actually need the cover.

Then I saw that there is actually an alternative. Travel insurance covers you not only for inconveniences such as cancellations and lost luggage, but also for medical cover and evacuations. I compared the medical cover component of my chosen travel insurance with straight medical insurance cover and found that there was no effective difference. Bingo!

My plan covers me for travel and medical expenses and medical evacuation anywhere in the world  that I want to travel for 13 months. It is renewable online. It cost me $700 AUD. It is exactly what I need. Security, and peace of mind for emergencies.

As an added bonus, I found out that my Australian Medibank Private cover could be placed in suspension for up to three years while I am travelling overseas, simply by paying one month’s premium and requesting a suspension. No loss of benefits, no waiting periods when you get back. If I’m back in Australia for a visit, I simply reactivate it, then suspend it again when I leave.

It’s good to feel protected while in a different country. If you can do that without paying through the nose, so much the better. Mind you, I’m sure I will manage to whinge about paying $700 AUD if I don’t fall off the motorbike in the next 12 months … !

Yikes! I have to pay to leave the country!

As a brand-new expat, I’m just working out the new (2009) FISCAL rules in Bali.  Anyone who is a resident here – and that includes expats on KITAS (which allows you to work) or Retirement KITAS (which doesn’t) must pay a whopping 2.5 million Rupiah FISCAL exit tax. And this is on top of the 100,000 Rupiah airport departure tax … unless you register for tax and get an NPWP card, in which case you pay no FISCAL tax on departure.

Oh, I understand (and agree with) the intent – if you live in Bali for more than six months, you really should do the right thing and register for tax – just as you need to do in Australia by having a Tax File Number. And I even agree with (and rather admire) the big stick approach of charging a huge fee for those who choose not to register for tax and the juicy carrot of zero FISCAL for those who do …

The new legislation is obviously designed to ‘encourage’ those who legally work in Bali – i.e. those with a KITAS working permit – to do their civic duty.

But what about us Retirement KITAS holders? Legally, we can’t, and don’t work in Bali, so we don’t have an income. But if we register for tax and get our NPWP, surely we would be wasting our time, and the government’s, by having to submit ‘nil tax’ returns each month and at year’s end. It may even be that we would attract unwelcome attention from the authorities, because they may find it difficult to understand why we registered for tax if we actually have ‘no income’. But if we don’t register, each time we need to leave the country to travel, or visit loved ones, we have to pay close to $300 AUD - a punitive sum intended to ensure compliance.

Obviously, penalising Retirement KITAS holders was not what the government intended. Perhaps the regulations will one day be amended to make retirement KITAS holders without an NWPW exempt from FISCAL.

In the meantime, there is a possible solution. An expat here informs me that the simplest way out is to register for tax, get that magic NWPW card, and provide the authorities with a Statutory Declaration that on a Retirement KITAS, the law forbids you to work. Therefore you are requesting an exemption from submitting tax returns because you have no income. Presto – no FISCAL. One word of caution: the law here is that you must have held your NWPW for one month before the zero FISCAL benefit kicks in. I’d better hurry if I want to make this happen before my trip to Singapore in one month and 2 days …

I’m going to test this out in the next day or so, and I’ll keep you posted as to the outcome.

The joys of collecting unaccompanied baggage

A few days before I left Australia, I hauled three suitcases and two boxes off to Qantas Air Cargo. Thought it would be a fairly quick procedure. Hmmmm. Not quite.

First up, the reception counter is your standard corporate unit, quite some way from where you park your car. There are no trolleys!! OK, heave the stuff in, actually sweating in a Melbourne winter – to be told that I must have my passport. OK, I knew enough to bring a departing flight ticket, but there was nothing (that I saw) on their website that mentioned a passport … luckily, I had it in the car. I never have my passport in the car. Obviously the Bali gods were smiling on me. So the stuff gets weighed, then security scans everything, questions several items, gets me to unpack a few things … finally everything is AOK.

I arrive in Bali. Three days later, the bags arrive. So far, so good. Rented a van and went off to collect the stuff at Bali’s airport. First thing was: Sorry sir, we need to see your actual passport, not a photocopy. But guys, my passport is with Immigration – who have told me they will need 2 weeks to process my KITAS – the residency permit. Pause. OK guys, why don’t I come back with my passport in two weeks? Ahh yes, sir, but if you leave your luggage here for more than 3 days we have to charge you for storage. OK guys, I say, how much for storage?

They tell me, and when I regain consciousness, I hopefully suggest that they accept a photocopy of my passport and the arrival documentation instead. But Sir, we need to see the arrival stamp in the passport itself. But guys, here is a photocopy of my visa stamp in the passport, and see this little scribble here? It says I arrived on my scheduled flight as I was supposed to. Yes, but Sir, if we don’t sight the arrival stamp itself, how do we know that you are actually in the country? I am temporarily rendered speechless by the logical flaw in this dialogue. My voice becomes a little plaintive – ahh guys, I’m standing here in front of you, so that means I’m actually in the country, right?

There is a pause for deep reflection and thinking by officialdom. After several conversations amongst themselves, and a phone call to my agent, the problem is resolved. Hmm, yes, I suppose you are right, Sir.  All right, we will process your luggage. Sigh.

One minute later: Sir, I see from the manifest that you have a computer in your luggage. Yes I do. (I also had two more in my hand luggage, but I didn’t see fit to mention that …) Well, Sir, the duty on electronic equipment is very high. Yes guys, I know that, but that is for new computers, not secondhand … Pause while they all go off and confer, make phone calls, read procedural manuals, and finally tell me that the duty payable on my luggage is 1,000,000 Rupiah (about $125AUD). Cash only. Grrrrr.

By this stage, it’s been an hour of talk, argy-bargy and customs inspections of the goods. I caved in. I guess that’s the whole idea – keep politely blathering officialese at people until they get the screaming meemies and give up and pay. Never mind, all the stuff is back at the ranch now.

Let the unpacking commence …