Never Overstay Your Welcome

1 October 2023

All of the ridiculous things I have chosen upon which to focus my hyper-vigilance and fear.  All of the stupid details I’ve spent countless wasted hours agonizing over.  All of the disgusting amounts of extra money I’ve spent just to save a few bucks on the surface; opting for a hostel too far away from the places I want to visit to save a little coin and then paying four times the amount I “saved” in transportation costs, not to mention the exhaustion and frustration of navigating my way around an unfamiliar city.  Booking nonrefundable tickets because they’re cheaper and then carrying through with plans that no longer fit well.  The hilarious dance of hyper-preparedness that has me quadruple-checking my day pack before setting out for only an hour, and then adding just one more thing I “might” need in a pinch… seven times.

The one time it came to something worth actually paying close attention to the details, and I simply shrugged and figured, “What’s the harm?  It will be okay.”

My research about getting into Indonesia mentioned no need for a visa when staying in the country 30 days or less.  And it mentioned needing a specialty visa when staying 60 days or more.  There was really nothing said about that 30-to-60-day window.  So in yet another fatally flawed attempt to save a couple of bucks, I booked my plane tickets on days when the flights were slightly cheaper, which would have me in Bali for 32 days.  I knew I fell into this vague over 30 but under 60-day period, but I decided to go with it, figure it out on the ground once I got safely there.  Have I mentioned how many ridiculously needless brain cells I’ve fried stressing over every irrelevant detail for months now?  I’m going to lean on that as my excuse for ignoring the one detail that deserved my full attention.

I quickly discovered that “no visa necessary” is a bit of a misnomer.  In truth, you purchase your 30-day visa on arrival from Immigration for 35 USD.  I admitted to the official processing my visa that my travel would have me in country for 32 days.  He rolled his eyes at me before stamping my visa approval and passport.  He could have told me that my visa was only good for 30 days and I would do well to reassess and rearrange.  He did not.  But really, I accept full responsibility.  If I am going to continue to pursue traveling the world, I would do well to brush up on a few basic rules and check my entitlement at the door, preferably a door somewhere back in the United States.

So here I found myself, 32 days later, blithely presenting my passport to the agent at the airport on my way out of the country.  You know the ones.  The officials in uniforms behind the glass.  The ones who flip through your passport, make you stare into a camera and/or press your fingerprints on a glass panel to verify you’re you, and then, hopefully, stamp your passport and gesture you on your way.  Yeah, they’re not just looking for your pretty picture.  She snagged on the expiry date of my visa and sternly questioned, “Your visa expired two days ago.  You didn’t pay attention when your visa expired?”

Chagrined, my heartbeat picking up a tick, but just one, I shook my head.  “No.  I’m sorry.”

“You must come with me now,” she demanded.

My heartbeat revved another tick or two as she came down from her plexiglass tower, and I followed her through deep recesses of the airport to an office, where she halted me at the door, ordering, “wait here,” before disappearing inside.

Moments later she’s back with her superior officer, and she handed me off to him before jetting back to her post.  While she was justifiably stern with me, that was nothing compared to my next dressing down.

Even more official official criticized, “You didn’t pay attention to your visa expiry date?  Your visa expired two days ago.  Why did you overstay your visa?”

The gravity of the situation started spreading fast roots of fear through my heart.  I miserably eyed my passport in his hands.  “I’m sorry.  What do I do now?”

“Now you must pay a penalty.  One million rupiah per day you overstayed your visa.  You have this?”

Oof.  Okay.  This I can do.  Two million rupiah is roughly equivalent to 135 USD.  A costly slap on the wrist, but I’ll take it if he’ll just give me my passport back.  The snag, of course, is I don’t have very many rupiah left.  I kept just a few for my foreign currency collection, but I have no appreciable amount left in my wallet.  

Heart in my throat, I plaintively requested, “Can you take U.S. dollars?  I only have U.S.”

“No,” he barked.  “Rupiah only.  Two million rupiah.”

My heart climbing a little higher up my throat, I admitted, “I don’t have it.  Is there somewhere I can exchange U.S. currency?”

“You can go to the ATM in the airport.  Bring it back to me.  I will keep your passport.”  He gestured for me to go down a deserted hall, through a door, and turn right.  Then he disappeared back into the office.

My heart was no longer in my throat.  I could taste it on the back of my tongue as it tried to leap right out of my body.  I scampered down the hall, peeked my head through the door, and found myself in a food court area.  This was clearly not a door for passengers.  Readying myself for a different official to demand what I am doing here or maybe take me into custody for my unauthorized entry, I ducked through the door and tried to blend with the “legal” passengers.  My frantic mind began to play out scenarios involving incarceration without my passport.  

Of all the stupid things I have wasted energy and brain power stressing and fretting over, I am here to tell you I have never, ever known real fear until walking through an airport in another country sans passport.  

Directions not being my forte, I asked a bartender (he can’t arrest me, right?!?) where the exchange office was, and he directed me through the food court and just before the gate area.  Hands (entire body) shaking, I stood fourth in line, queued up at an unmanned currency exchange desk.  No one seemed to know if anyone would be coming to man it anytime soon.  My anxiety, already at a 10, climbed a little further off the Richter scale with each passing minute.  Plane departure time looming larger and larger and no exchange agent making an appearance, I reluctantly pulled out my credit card, as all of my debit cards were locked in my checked bag (another questionable decision), and grudgingly took a cash advance from the ATM.

I scooted my way back through the crowded food court, hesitated a moment at the forbidding-looking door opening to the depths of the airport back offices, bracing myself for someone to appear as I opened it to demand where I think I’m going.  But I was through the door and back down the hallway in a blink, nervously poking my head through the immigration office door to ask if I should come in or stay outside.

Enforcement officer waved me in and received my two million rupiah fine.  He completed some paperwork, printed out a receipt, stamped it, and presented it to me.  My heart finally sank back into its proper place in my chest, though still racing three or four times faster than it was designed to beat, as he passed my passport back to me.  Done with me, he turned back to work on his desk.  

Nervously, I asked him where to go and what I needed to do next.  “Do I need to present my receipt to anyone?” 

“No.  Just keep it with your things as a reminder and go to your plane,” he admonished dismissively.  

I scurried out before he could change his mind, raced back through the forbidding door, into the food court, and found my gate just in time to be one of the last passengers boarding.

I do not know why I do the stupid things I do.  Some things are simple ignorance.  This one, I feel like this one was astronomical idiocy.  At least my passport and I are reunited.  And I will not be keeping that receipt “with my things as a reminder.”  That will get framed and put up on a wall, once I have walls somewhere I call home again someday, a wall I will title “The Wall of Dumb Shit I Did and Somehow Lived to Tell the Tale.”