One Person’s Normal Is Another’s Neurosis

Back in our home country, our life-styles can feel comfortable and secure, simply because we know the rules of social intercourse – whether we choose to adhere to them or not. Bali feels exotic to us, not just because of the climate,  the scenery and the look of the people, but because everything is done slightly differently here. There is a delightful ‘openness’ here that seems to characterise human interactions. For some visitors, this is a refreshing change from the suspicious and reserved insularity of some of our larger western-style communities. It is a difference that can be seductive and compelling, and one which encourages many to return time and time again.

Other visitors say it feels invasive – at least at first. The natural tendency of local people to be be friendly and curious about the lives of guests on their island can cause consternation, or even offence. A friend on her first visit here came back to the safety of her hotel, exhausted and perturbed.

“One of the locals stopped me in the street”, she related breathlessly. “He asked me where I was going!” She thought about this amazing encounter for a moment. “Then he wanted to know where I’d been!” She shook her head in wonder. “And then, he asked me if I was married! And when I told him no, he actually said, “Why not? The cheek of it! ”

She was upset about ‘being interrogated’ as she described it. It took quite a while to explain that, by Bali standards, this was perfectly normal – an acceptable social curiosity fuelled by genuine interest. I tentatively suggested that a response of “Not yet” to the question about her marital status might have been met with a sympathetic smile instead of an incredulous query. As a single, successful and independent woman, she didn’t really like that, and told me so emphatically. But, a week later, she said,  “I get it now. They value marriage and family so highly, don’t they?” They do indeed.

The more I stay here, the more I like the little differences in cultural mores. They get me into trouble occasionally, but they do keep me on my toes. At first, I was a little put out at finding someone perched on my bike when I came back to it. I used to think, “Hey! That’s my property!” – without actually saying anything, of course.   Now it’s “Hello, how are you?”, followed by smiles all round and sometimes an interesting conversation before I’m on my way. It’s no big deal. Bali sometimes feels like one big shared space, and I’m told it’s good to share.

The role of religion is different here too – it’s a big part of life in Bali. Most of the predominantly Hindu population is quite devout, yet they have no issues with people having other belief systems. Unlike some of the fundamentalist-influenced communities elsewhere in Indonesia, the spirit of religious tolerance flourishes here in deed, not just in word. However, it is still unwise to declare yourself an atheist or agnostic – that will get you some really strange looks. I did once, and the genuinely concerned response was, “Oh, you poor man – I will pray for you.” Even government forms here require you to choose an established religion. Leaving that section blank is not an option.

On a more secular note, I like the way the girls smile and flirt, make direct eye contact, and touch your arm in the course of normal conversation. Here, it’s a customary social activity that has nothing remotely to do with any sexual come-on. The local girls seem to be slightly shocked if anyone takes it as such, because most are quite shy. I just wish that some visitors to Bali would understand that before taking friendliness as an open invitation to proposition and grope. Things can appear quite distorted in the mirror of one’s own culture.

But the social norm thing works in reverse too. I must confess that for all my worldliness (ha!) I am still somewhat startled when I ask a shy and demure local how they are, and they forthrightly say, “Not good. I have my menstruation today. Too much blood!” Yikes! Actually, too much information! Unfortunately, when that happened with one of my domestic helpers,  I seized on it as a great opportunity to demonstrate that I too was an über-cool person who was unfazed by open discussion of natural bodily functions. So I pointed out the cupboard where I keep an emergency supply of feminine hygiene items for villa guests in case she needed anything. She promptly went bright crimson – an astonishing feat for someone with her complexion. The next ten minutes were spent in shared giggles and whispered conversations with her sister, who happened to be visiting at the time. I guess you can’t win them all.

Then there’s the language. Many locals translate fairly literally when using English, which can lead to misunderstandings. I had some business dealings with an agent whose office was a long way away from my home. An attractive woman, she said that she would happily deliver some crucial documents once they had been stamped by relevant authorities.  A week later, when they were ready, she sent me a text message saying: “Is it OK if I come and play at your villa now?” Ye Gods! Do I say I’m busy? Do I break out the champagne and get fresh pool towels? Luckily, my Bahasa-literate friend laughingly explained that the Indonesian word for ‘play’ and the word for ‘visit’ were one and the same. I think I missed an embarrassing encounter by that much.

As I said, the rules are a little different here. I think I’ve survived by keeping an open mind, putting my preconceptions to one side and just riding the complex currents of this society while learning what works – and what doesn’t. I’ve made lots of mistakes, but hey – isn’t that best way to learn?

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?

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?

Lazy Expat Days in Bali

The great thing about living in Bali on a Retirement Visa is not having to ‘work’. On meeting people who are visiting here, the question that inevitably arises is: “But what do you do here all day?” My usual flippant answer is that I work assiduously at a degenerate life of sloth and gluttony, growing old disgracefully, and avoiding all responsibility. That relatively mendacious answer satisfies those who aspire to a similarly unrealistic scenario and to those who already live it. But there are some who believe life has more opportunities to offer than clichéd hedonism, and they are the ones who call my bluff.

So to those, I say that living here is nothing like visiting as a tourist. When you are only here for a week or three, it is an opportunity to put on a different face; to explore an alter ego that might be repressed at home.  Some visitors tour relentlessly, absorbing exotic new experiences to satisfy a thirst they didn’t even know they had. For others, the Bali fix means being catatonic on a beach, or indulging in an alcohol-fuelled haze of permanent parties.

But living here means that, despite being in the same environment as those who visit, the imperative to squeeze as much as you can into each day here is far less prominent. For me, a non-stop party life of drinking and playing would kill me fairly quickly – although I suppose that’s not a bad way to go. So expat days pass with less urgency. If something needs to be done, like paying a bill, or arranging for tradesmen to fix something, or visiting other parts of the island, the Besok Principle rules: Do it tomorrow. This is Bali; there is always tomorrow. Or in a real emergency, the day after tomorrow.

So what is it I do here? basically, I write for pleasure. In no way is my Bali expat experience typical, but my day might give you an idea of what works for me. In the morning, I check in with my social media contacts, then go out for a long leisurely breakfast. There I read, or watch the endless parade of people. Sometimes I engage in conversation, but because I don’t really do mornings, any talk tends to be desultory. When I am caffeinated enough for my personal start-up sequence to have finally finished, I begin to function. This can take a while, because like an old computer, nowadays I have insufficient Random Access Memory available. And my brain is way overdue for defragmentation. Worse, I think I’ve picked up some malware as well.

During the day,  I ‘work’ but it rarely looks like work. I might physically write, which is visible work, or think about writing – work which is invisible to the casual observer. If someone drops in during the day, they often see a vacant-looking husk, staring into space, ‘doing nothing’. Well, let me tell you, writing involves a lot of head time before hitting a single key. I can spend hours organising ideas, uncovering the structure behind those ideas and divining the flow of what I want to say. When I’m in the ‘doing nothing’ phase of writing, I’m actually painstakingly collecting the bricks I need to build a forthcoming article and formulating  the architecture that will give it form and coherence. My slack face, unfocused eyes, and non-responsiveness means that a concerned observer would think I’m having a stroke.

That’s usually the time that someone drops in, or the phone rings. If that happens before I am actually ‘doing something’, all those evanescent component thoughts scatter like tiny fish fleeing from a pebble dropped in their pond. It can take hours to assemble them again, but never in exactly the same configuration as they were before. And people wonder why I am a tad unsociable when writing.

Of course, it’s not all work. I also read voraciously, get a massage on most days (I love my massages!) and go out for coffees to forestall those nasty caffeine-withdrawal headaches. There are things to fix at the villa, places to explore on the bike, shopping to do and occasionally, even social contacts to maintain. In the evenings, I might catch up with someone for dinner, or if I’m feeling more autistic than usual, have dinner by myself and watch the fascinating procession of tourists wandering by. It’s actually very entertaining, much like a live YouTube, and often gives me writing ideas. I might find a bar and have a drink or two, and sometimes even talk to people so I can fool myself into thinking that I’m a social animal, which I’m not.  In the late evenings, more writing or researching. Occasionally people might come over for a drink or swim. Most of the time, I just enjoy my own space.

There you have it. My typical day here when I’m not doing day trips on the bike, or travelling. You’re probably not trembling with suppressed excitement at my energetic Bali lifestyle, but it suits me fine – I’m actually very comfortable with my own company. And I think that’s the secret of a relaxed, happy life here. If you are thinking of coming here to live, don’t think of it as an extended holiday – it’s not. And it’s not like Australia which has become so over-regulated, that every petty official is busy telling you what to do and how to do it.  You can breathe here without some self-appointed social engineer insisting on interfering with your life. For me, despite all its flaws, Bali represents freedom. But to many, it can be a freedom that is only liberating if they are independent enough to let themselves follow their dreams.

In Bali, one needs to walk one’s own path. I do. If you live here, and you are happy, then I’m sure you are following yours too.

Food – from mild to wild and back

So I’m trying out this new restaurant (new for me anyway) and browsing the menu. And getting this sinking feeling that I’m in the wrong place again. Oh, the decor is pleasant enough, and it has all the Bali attributes of al fresco dining and raucous groups of tourists. The sweet, incessant song of motorbikes provides an interesting counterpoint to the music coming from the just-too-loud speakers and the aromatic tang of open drains combines with tropical plant perfume and the spicy scents wafting from the kitchen. It smells like … Bali. I quite like it, actually.

No, the feeling of borderline disappointment comes from the offerings on the menu itself. It’s ten pages long and has bucket-loads of choice. Except that only half of one page is headed Indonesian. I can see that some visitors, maybe many of them, want comfort food that reminds them of home. But we’re in Bali folks – surely part of the experience is to sample the rich variety of food, not just from here, but from all over the archipelago? My menu is bursting with choice – I can order pizzas, hamburgers, fish and chips, steak, weiner schnitzel, bratwurst – even Cordon Bleu chicken (although my menu says “Chiken Gordon Blue”). There are probably twenty types of pasta too. But the local offerings are a little … sparse.

I look at my choice of local food. There is nasi goreng, mie goreng, cap cay and nasi campur. No Balinese fish in sambal sauce, no Bali-style chilli prawns and no duck (dammit, I love my bebek!). It feels a little tokenistic. Maybe restauranteurs believe that tourist palates are not up to the task of handling local fare, and maybe they are right. But the downside is that maybe the customers themselves begin to assume that Indonesian food only consists of these items? So, in deference to my arteries, I stay away from Western fare and order the nasi goreng, but still feel a vague sense of disappointment.

You ask, why did I stay? Why didn’t I peruse the menu, smile at the staff, say “next time …” and find somewhere else with more choice? Sheer laziness. And the Bintang was already open, and eminently drinkable, and it was late … why am I even telling you this? You already know all of the masterly rationalisations we all use to avoid doing the things we should do. Suffice to say I stayed, and resolved to be more selective next time. And the following night, I was. It nearly killed me.

Let me set the scene for that next memorable day. A light and uncharacteristically early breakfast followed by a full day on the computer. No lunch, no snacks, no exercise. I am a sad nerd. Early evening stroll to get a massage. One drink at a bar, then off to find a restaurant with some real Indo food. No luck – besides it was getting late and even my body (which I rarely listen to) was starting to nag me for sustenance. Then I remembered –  a little warung near my place sells only two things – Bakso and Mie Ayam. That’s it, I thought – authentic local food! Rather foolishly, I bought their entire range – both dishes. It’s basically Indonesian fast food and comes in little plastic bags that you take home. The vendor pointed at the bags and said: “Pedas!” – code for “Be very careful, bule, you haven’t had hot and spicy until you’ve tried this”. I should have listened.

By this stage I was starving. The Mie Ayam – noodles with chicken in a spicy broth was hot alright, but nothing that a quick chomp on a cucumber and a hysterical jump into the pool couldn’t fix. After a few mouthfuls, it was time to try the Bakso. Now Bakso looks pretty harmless – there are a few meatballs of unidentifiable origin floating in a dark broth with little white seeds and green bits. It made the Mie Ayam feel like ice cream by comparison. To say the broth was hot would be the understatement of the century. I suspect they make it from a mixture of napalm, chillies, home-grated wasabe, nitroglycerin and plutonium. The first few mouthful were excruciatingly pedas – the sweating, the uncontrollable hiccups and the burning lips all attested to that.

But then, macho fool that I am, I took another spoonful, this time with as many seeds and green bits that would fit. I mean, one has to test one’s limits. Instantly, my lips practically fell off, my throat snapped shut in the middle of a giant hiccup – and wouldn’t open again for well over 30 seconds. That is a long time without oxygen, particularly just after you have breathed out. It was scary. I’m telling you, this auto-erotic asphyxiation business is a total myth. I have never felt less sexy in my life.

So today I’m sitting in another restaurant that has a limited, watered-down version of Indonesian food. No Bakso. And you know what? I am so relieved.

Fit happens, right?

So I glanced in the mirror this morning (I assure you, it was an accident) and I didn’t like what I saw. I mean, I’ve never been one of those narcissistic types that just melt with adoration at the sight of my reflection – but this was b-a-d. Maybe once I had a body that worked reasonably well. It was no Terminator, but at least it was functional. Now what passes for my muscle definition resembles a blancmange wrapped in clingfilm, my posture is that of a jaded orangutan and my belly has been known to cause unkind people to make jokes about male pregnancy. It’s sad.

I’m not quite sure how it happened. One of the reasons I came to Bali was to start eating properly and to get fit and healthy. Lord knows I have tried. Since learning how to say lari pagi, I go for a morning run every single morning, hefting weights to ensure that I get a good cardio workout. Well, maybe I’m being a tad cavalier with the truth – it’s more of a power-walk than an actual run. OK, would you believe a stroll? Oh alright, just one weight, and that’s actually a paperback book to read during my hearty breakfast … but at least I do carry it home in the other hand. After all, it wouldn’t do to end up with one over-developed bicep.

Running, or even jogging, is hard work. The worst part is, if I run, I jiggle. Bits of me move in ways they were never designed to move. I think I need a bra, or a corset or something. Actually, I did go for a real run of about 50 metres a few months back, followed up with walking since then. I think they call it interval training. It has a lot going for it, as long as the intervals are long enough. I think a few months between runs is perfect. My friends have been exhorting me to get up early (yeah, right) and at least go for a brisk walk on the beach every morning. I tried that, but I get distracted easily, so I end up spending most of the time watching planes landing, or watching others who are equally unenthused about committing exercise, or talking to dogs. I speak fluent dog, and it’s more fun than walking anyway.

On one of my beach walks I discovered the Bali equivalent of Muscle Beach. Under a group of palm-trees, someone had left some rusty pipes with lumps of concrete attached to the ends. I watched a young Balinese man doing repeated sets of 20 curls without even breaking a sweat, then lying on the sand for another 20 bench presses. After he was well out of sight, I nonchalantly ambled over to have a go, but found that he had obviously glued the weights to the beach somehow so they couldn’t be moved by anyone else. I guess you had to be a member or something.

It’s not as if I’m a complete slob though. There is not a day goes by where I don’t swim 4 laps of my pool – sometimes even 8. And my pool is 4.8 metres long, so it’s not as if I’m slacking off or anything. I hear that breaststroke can be quite punishing if one pushes oneself. And I will push myself, just as soon as get a little fitter.

In a temporary spasm of enthusiasm, I even looked for a gym close to me, so I wouldn’t have to walk too far. All I wanted was something with a few machines you could sit in for an hour while reading a book and having a Bintang. No good. They had machines, but they were all attached to heavy things that you had to lift, or push, or bend – all dangerous in my opinion. There were other devices that made you run on the spot while this belt thing whizzed by underneath. If you stopped running, you would be shot backwards all the way to Nusa Dua. Insane. They also offered lots of something I think they called  ‘air row bits’, whatever they are. I don’t even know what they look like. Also ‘kick boxing’, which I presume is football with gloves, and even hippetty-hop dancing! Dancing! You have to be kidding – I want to go home and rest after a workout, not socialise. And to top it off, the photos on their website showed all these guys shaped like inverted pyramids, with muscles on their muscles. If that’s what you end up looking like after gym work, I’m not going anywhere near the place.

No, what I need is a personal trainer to help me get fit and healthy again. One who understands that pushing one’s body to the limits of endurance is not something the gods had in mind for Bali expats. One who is as easily distracted as me, and will happily spend time watching planes or dogs while we are exercising on the beach. One who understands that nicotine is an appetite-suppressant and will happily share a quiet cigarette to support my efforts at dieting. Oh, and I’d like a flat stomach (with the abs on the outside please), and reasonable pecs and biceps and all that other macho stuff.

As long as I can find the right trainer, I’m willing to devote all the time it needs to achieve my goal. I reckon two weeks should just about do it. Any recommendations?

The fauna that lives around my villa …

Life is prolific in Bali. Especially in and around my villa.

There is a dog two doors up – half doberman, half Bali dog, who seems to think that it his divine mission to protect a two square metre patch adjoining the road from all passers-by. He barks fiercely, postures and bristles, but I know he is just kidding. If I have to move towards him to avoid a motorbike, he retreats. I speak fluent dog, so we sort of get along. It’s just that he doesn’t understand English, so it’s basically a conversation based on body language. Not dissimilar to typical tout-bule interactions in Kuta Square, really …

Then there is the pair of dogs across the road. One is a basso profundo, the other a sort of mezzo-soprano, but with the melodic range of an ‘Australia’s Got Talent’ competitor. They bark in counterpoint, with alternating triple and quadruple beats with two beat pauses. It’s both piercing and soporific at the same time. Canine gamelan?

Today I thought I would step out of my comfort zone and wear a brightly coloured shirt. Very daring. Within seconds, as if to prove that it is not advisable to mess with the universe, a huge Bali wasp the size of an attack helicopter fell in love with my choice of apparel. I switched back to dark colours. Do these things sting? I don’t know, but they sure look intimidating. Time to retreat to the pool, but look! – two gigantic bees (either fighting or being deeply erotic) were so engrossed in their activities that they were literally drowning. I fished them out to go about their business, hoping they would not sting me out of some misplaced sense of violation.

The villa has geckoes, ants and squirrels. There is even a large mouse, or perhaps a small rat, black as a charcoal tablet, that scurries in most evenings desperately trying to gain traction on the polished marble floors. Claws don’t help, and the little pads it has have grip worse than the tyres on the motorbike I hired last month. That little rodent does some of the best wheelies I have seen outside of NASCAR racing. It doesn’t do any harm. It even refrains from pooping on the floor, which is really considerate.

The thing is, here, all of this somehow feels right. These denizens are guests in my home. It’s OK. Sing ken ken. Back home, one thinks of sprays, exterminators, poison and all sorts of manifestations of territorial behaviour. Kill, establish dominance, prove that the top of the food chain is not to be trifled with. Here, I wouldn’t dream of squashing an insect, getting aggro about dogs being dogs, or chasing off domestic wildlife. I am beginning to suspect that it is the presence of the temple in my rented house, because I sure wasn’t like that back home.

I am told things will change as the magic of the place wears off and the scales fall from my eyes. I hope not, I really hope not.

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 Bali Visa maze

To live in Bali, you naturally need a Visa. The standard Visa on Arrival (VOA) that Aussies get is only valid for 30 days max, and can’t be renewed. You have to leave the country – even for a few hours – and return and pay for another VOA ($25USD) before the 30 days are up. Some people actually choose to do this “Visa Run” to Singapore, Perth or Darwin each month, but it can get pricey if you don’t get cheap air fares.

An alternative is the Social Visa (Social Budya) which you have to apply for at an Indonesian Consulate. It lets you stay for 2 months in Bali, then has to be renewed for a month at a time at the Immigration Department. After 6 months, you have to leave the country anyway and apply for a new Social Visa. you also need a permanent resident as a ‘sponsor’, and you are not allowed to earn money while in Bali.

The one I went for was a ‘Retirement Visa’. Again, you need to apply through the Consulate, be over 55, promise not to work, get a sponsor, provide evidence of savings in a bank account (equivalent to at least $1500 USD for each month you intend to stay), have a medical insurance policy (see a later post regarding ways to save money on this), have personal liability insurance, life insurance … the list goes on. I found it useful to apply while still in Bali on my penultimate trip before moving here. I could have done the convoluted paperwork myself – except all the forms are in Bahasa Indonesia) and paid all the ‘administration fees’ at each step of the process – but I didn’t. Instead, I used an agent. A good immigration agent will take care of all the administrivia for you and even arrange a legal sponsor. Yes it costs – expect to pay between 4.5 to 8 million rupiah (up to $900 AUD) – but I reckon it is worth it. There have been cases of people trying it themselves – and finally giving up to use an agent.

After you apply in Bali (or Singapore if you prefer) the application goes to Jakarta for approval – a process that takes about 2 weeks. Then you go back to Oz and wait until approval from Jakarta comes through (in my case) to the Consulate in Queens Road, Melbourne. Roll up in the morning only (check opening times) with your passport, completed sponsorship form (which the agent will send you) AND an itinerary showing your departing flight details. The Consulate’s website recommends that you don’t book a flight to Bali until they have processed your application – but that is simply not true. No itinerary, no progress on your application until you supply it. Don’t forget the fees – about $168 AUD. And remember to use the back entrance in Queens Lane – you can’t even stop the car in Queen’s Rd. Once you have managed to apply correctly, you will get a receipt. You will have to bring this with you to collect your Visa the following week.

Then you wait for about 7 days for them to process the paperwork. Go back to the Consulate (in the afternoon this time, and at the specified time) and collect your passport which will now have a beautifully engraved Visa inside. This is called a VITAS, and hopefully will get you into the country. A valid Visa is no guarantee that you will get in – that is up to Immigration at the airport.

Within 7 days of arrival, you must take your passport, with VITAS, to the Immigration Department so that they can issue you with a residency permit – the Retirement KITAS – a card which you carry around with you. If you used an agent, they will do this for you – just give your passport to them and two weeks later, you will have your KITAS. Keep several photocopies of your passport and VITAS page – you are bound to need them.

Caution: If you are sending unaccompanied baggage with household stuff, it will probably arrive several days after you do. The problem is, to pick it up, you need your passport (see later post on sending baggage). Yours truly – fearsomely efficient that I am – handed his passport over to the agent before collecting the luggage. The subsequent negotiations at the Air Cargo terminal were not pretty …

Don’t forget to report to the village head within 24 hours of arrival (you will need a photocopy of your passport and the VITAS page inside).

And finally, when you get your KITAS card after a few weeks, you will have to report to the police for fingerprinting and digital photographs …

There are other Visa types as well – if you want to work here, you will need a KITAS (not a Retirement KITAS, but the full deal), or a Business Visa. Expenses for a KITAS are similar to the Retirement KITAS, but on top of the normal fees you must pay the government an additional $1200 USD (per year!) for the privilege. And you must register for tax, or else pay a “FISCAL’ penalty of about $300 AUD each time you leave the country … more about this in a later post!

Welcome to paradise. A massage and a Bintang are absolutely essential after you have survived this process!

The journey begins …

Redundancy procedures now complete – I’m officially ‘retired’, with a modest payout that will allow for luxuries like food. Bali beckons – as a frequent visitor, I feel ready to make the plunge into the very different waters of expat life.

So – deep breath, pack up the house, sell/store the meagre possessions, one last visit to Bali as a tourist to rent a villa, and arrange the appropriate visa – a Retirement KITAS in my case. Back to Australia to clean up loose ends, book a flight, go to the Indonesian Consulate to reclaim my passport with its brand-new visa stamp and send unaccompanied luggage.

And now I’m here – the journey of discovery has begun.