I’m one of the few tamu I know who has an Indonesian driving license. Traffic policemen are deeply impressed with this bit of plastic and I’m quite proud of it myself. Of course I have to renew it every year at the same fee that an Indonesian pays for a 5-year license, providing yet another opportunity to support the local economy. And another chance to spend a restful few hours exploring the cultural, bureaucratic and architectural maze that is the inside of an Indonesian police station.
My license expired today, so Nyoman and I set off early. I packed a basket with a picnic and a book, and we drove off to a police station in a town that shall be nameless. I think they’re beginning to recognize me there. As we parked and got out of the car a squadron of friendly young polisi waved and shouted, “Pagi, Ibu!”. We went through the sunny compound to the SIM office, where I made myself comfortable on the bench while Nyoman took my papers to be photocopied. I noticed a colourful flow chart that was new since last year, detailing the many steps involved in procuring this essential document without mentioning the fee. Nyoman returned and passed my papers through the wicket, and soon we were summoned into the Inner Sanctum. Presumably all tamu receive this extra consideration, although in all my visits there I have never seen another foreigner.
The officer, who I recognized from last year, shuffled his files. Mine had quite a lot of paper inside, which he leafed through carefully. Time passed as he perused my blameless file and others, took phone calls and consulted with his colleagues. I read my book. Eventually he told Nyoman to take me to the polyclinic for a new health certificate. This is not exactly an exhaustive process. Upon payment of a small fee, the doctor has a very brief dialogue with Nyoman, and signs the form. The first year I asked him what it was all about and he’d explained, “The doctor asked if you were healthy and I said you were.” Begitu.
We returned to the Inner Sanctum, where my new health certificate was added to the file and was I permitted to witness several more phone calls and consultations. I was making nice progress with my book. After this, we were sent to the Kantor Identifikasi, where the queue was quite long. I took advantage of the lull in proceedings to eat my picnic. Then I strolled around the colourful, well-kept gardens, visiting the two spotless aviaries and lingering at the fish pond. I cruised the maze of offices, noting the new flowcharts on many walls and smiling at startled officers until Nyoman hunted me down when it was my turn to be identified.
It seems I was to be fingerprinted yet again, a procedure I find quite entertaining. At a tiny desk, I sat knee to knee with a young woman who filled in my card with a felt pen. We were in agreement about all my personal details she reached the ‘Kulit’ line, and automatically wrote ‘putih’. I had to stop her then, and demonstrate that my freckled arm wasn’t actually white, it was sort of pink with brown spots. Unnerved, she crossed out ‘putih’ and wrote ‘coklat’, which may have interesting ramifications down the road.
The fingerprinting man was a jolly soul. He quizzed me on my progress in learning Indonesian, then told me I’d have to learn Balinese after that. Nyoman volunteered that my only word in Balinese so far was ‘blog’. I then remembered that I could also say ‘jit gede’, which elicited shouts of laughter, and the waiting crowd craned to see why we were having such a good time. He painted a smooth slab with black ink and carefully pressed each finger in turn into the ink and then onto my card. I was then led tenderly to a magnificent basin in the garden to wash my hands and given a sheaf of documents to take back to the Inner Sanctum.
I waited outside this time. A large man stopped in front of me and roared a greeting . I recognized the musician who sometimes dropped in to help my gamelan group during practice; I hadn’t realized he was in the police. Then I chatted with a nice officer from Dili until Nyoman appeared at my elbow, telling me it was time to pay for the license.
This was always the interesting part. Last year, an officer had attempted to persuade me that my renewed license would in fact cost almost twice what I knew to be the correct rate. I had declined to be persuaded. This year I sent Nyoman to do the negotiation. Later he told me the same officer had confided that he’d have liked to ask me for extra, but was afraid I might complain. Nyoman had assured him that I was a bit of a complainer. I paid the going rate. Times have changed.
We’d cleared all the hurdles now except the final one. Presenting my papers in the hot little office full of impressively high-tech equipment that actually issues the licenses, we went outside to wait a little more. The ladies who operate the equipment are harassed but friendly. One confirmed my details, told me to sign here, sit down, smile, put my thumb on a red sensor and go away and wait some more. I went back to my book, and in only about 10 minutes a young man appeared with my newly minted, laminated license in his hand.
A pleasant morning, altogether. And I’ve almost finished my book.
