It stopped raining today, of which I was awfully glad, for as I mentioned in the previous post, it was necessary for me to present this morning to the office of immigration in Denpasar and I really preferred to walk in rather than wade in or slosh in under the door.
Upon arriving, I was given ticket number 193.
Number 60 had just been called.
Oh good Lord.
What does one do for two hours in the office of immigration? I had brought a book along, but it was extremely hot in the building and extremely crowded and extremely loud, making reading next to impossible. And I did try. I read the first paragraph of a short story by Yu Hua five times without comprehending a word of it. So much for reading.
What then?
Well, I texted with my girlfriend on the phone for a few minutes, but of course she herself had work to do. So, I scrolled through Facebook, I scrolled through Instagram, I checked my e-mail.
So much for the phone.
"Number 62," the loudspeaker barked.
Great! Only 131 left to go.
My mind was so numb by the time I reached the photo and interview room, waving ticket number 193 in the air, that I had a difficult time retrieving basic details of my life, such as my address, the number of years I had been in Bali, and the type of foreign resident permit I was seeking.
"Is this for Kitas or Kitap?" the officer asked.
"Yes ... I mean, it's the one, you know, um, it's--"
"Kitab," the officer said, glancing at the paperwork.
"Yes! That's it!"
"Very good. And what do you do here?"
"Do?"
"Why are you in Bali?"
Gosh. Why indeed? This seemed a loaded question, as much a puzzle to me as to him. A philosophical question, really. An existential question.
"Retirement?" the office offered helpfully.
"Yes!" Whew.
Yeah, so we did the electronic fingerprints as usual, and I signed the black pad with the invisible pen, such that as usual there was no telling what I actually wrote, and I was done. Finished. Free!
Until next time.
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