As with most countries, you have to leave on your old visa and re-enter on your new visa. Of the many processes and rules that Timor-Leste hasn’t adopted (e.g. traffic laws), this is not one of them and so the next step in acquiring my working visa is to leave the country. The quickest and cheapest way is to drive to the border with West Timor or Indonesia.
Though our Visa Consultant assured my boss that we didn’t need an Indonesian visa, another teacher had reached the border only to be denied exit onto Indonesian soil without one. (Chalk up another motive for any malevolent acts that might befall “that woman”.) To avoid this angst it’s now Indonesian visas all round.
Fortunately for this process I had access to my very own consultant – Jimi an angel employed to do the school’s administration.
“Give me your passport,” he told me, “and I’ll fill in the paperwork. You just give me two passport photos.”
And by passport photos he meant two 3 x 4 pictures of me wearing a white-collared shirt in front of a red background. These are purchased for $4 from a shop that also sells fridges, washing machines, fans, TVs and stereos. They also supply the white-collared shirt and, if necessary, a jacket and tie as well. I accepted the shirt, declined the tie and jacket and photos were taken, processed and handed over in a little plastic pocket.
It was all going extremely smoothly. I presented Jimi with the photos, he pasted them in position and presented me with the paperwork. “Sign here and here,” he said, pointing to the relevant lines. “Date here.”
Then he donned his motorcycle helmet and personally delivered the paperwork to the Indonesian Embassy. Fifteen minutes later he was back. “You have to take it back,” he said. “Signed in the wrong colour.”
“The wrong colour?” I asked.
“They want black pen.” . . . .and I had signed in blue.
Since I didn’t start teaching for another three hours, I signed the documents, finished my photocopying, donned my own motorcycle helmet and headed off for the Embassy.
Since I am geographically embarrassed on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, I left armed with strict instructions: Go along Beach Road. Turn Right on the main street after the Chinese Embassy, not the little road, the big road. Then second left. And there is the Indonesian Embassy.
For once it was easy. The Chinese Embassy is a monstrosity with a tall brick fence with unwelcoming spikes along the top. It also has a huge Chinese flag flying above it. Yep, even I couldn’t miss it. And so I was soon sitting in the Indonesian Embassy, or more specifically in a waiting area in front of two windows.
The thing that struck me, once I was actually at the window is how it was designed to be demeaning. Usually such windows are long pieces of glass so that you can stand erect and still communicate. Not at the Indonesian Embassy. The “window” was about 20cm high. That was the only daylight between me and the two people processing the paperwork. It meant that I had to bend over. It was a sort of bending down to look up arrangement that left me feeling at a distinct disadvantage. I’m guessing that was the point.
It wasn’t all bad though. The process was smooth: They read the paperwork, flipped through my passport, chuckled about something, exchanged a few words in Indonesian, laughed some more, asked for $45, gave me a receipt and told me to come back on Monday afternoon.
Part III almost complete . . . almost . . . .
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