running

I can run now. I can run for more than 15 minutes without stopping even when there isn’t a fierce dog chasing me! and I can do this with a big beaming smile on my face and my chest lifted and my stride even. Who knew running could be this enjoyable and more to the point why didn’t someone tell me sooner?

Seriously, all those people in the park, the ones in their running gear, pounding the pavement, those fit people who do stuff like exercise (“I bet they probably lift weights too” I would sneer disdainfully) and with their high ponytails and little fists, those foolish people, why torture yourself? … but, but now , well that’s me and I flipping love it. I’m the one practically begging my man to come running with me today. I want to go more often. He’s coming round to the idea but says I should take it slowly and let my joints and ligaments adjust to the new demands placed upon them, but frankly I can’t wait.

I’ve always known I was the big-hipped variety of human. I knew that having wider hips than the average hippo meant my running style would be extremely inefficient, since the hips have to swing round. To me this meant I would be rubbish at running. It would probably be horrible, be painful, I’d hate it, it’s stupid, let the narrow hipped people do their running. Only now do I think: who cares about efficiency, it’s not like I’m running to get somewhere or win something. If anything, inefficiency is the whole point. If I wanted efficient I could drive around the park in a scooter.

And I lift weights now, too.

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Part 8 – Meeting my husband

for the beginning of this saga, click here

 

 

 

I felt like I had been chasing this visa for ever. I had explained my predicament so many times, it was a rehearsed script. The procedure in each government office was strikingly similar. The waiting was par for the course.

At the Department of Justice, I sat with the security guard, a middle aged man with a paunch and smiling face. He was interested as to what my business was and since it seemed every government official in the city had heard my story, I was happy to tell him. The main difference was that he was the first person in all these government offices who spoke to me as a human being and so he got the full version. He shook his head and sighed. How awful, he said, to be stuck in a foreign country where no one would help. He told me that if I’d been an Indonesian girl, if I were his daughter, the family would have gone round and given my husband the talking to he needed and also would have forced a signature. He wished me luck, told me not to be afraid or let myself be intimidated and winked as I went through the door I had been called to.

This office was much busier than the Central Jakarta Immigration office. Everyone looked efficient and from this I guessed the man in charge was of a different ilk to Pak Robert, and I was right. He ran a tight ship and it showed.

He listened to my case and was entirely unmoved. I was treated as a great inconvenience in his day and brushed away, with the correct procedure explained to me yet again and once more advised to speak to my husband.

During this time, I was in contact with my husband again. We had exchanged text messages and he was eager to speak to me on the phone. He promised that if I would only speak to him, he would do whatever I ask. I was reluctant, but I felt I had little choice. The bureaucratic situation looked hopeless. No one budged; speaking to my husband was the only way to go.

We spoke a few times on the phone. Doing whatever I asked turned out to be a slight exaggeration. He now wanted to see me. I refused but he promised that whatever I needed would be mine, if I would only meet with him. I refused. I was sure there were still some avenues to explore for this exit visa, but after more days at various government offices and against the advice of John and Gillian, I arranged to meet my husband at a shopping mall.

We met in Plaza Senayan. He was wearing a baseball cap, which struck me as odd – I had never seen him in a baseball cap before. He looked confident and surprisingly normal.

To be quite honest, I cannot remember what we talked about. I must have mentioned my need of his signature and I will no doubt have gone into further detail about my plight in respect of an exit visa but the details of our discussion escape me.

I do remember us heading out to the car park. I was looking to catch a taxi and he wanted me to come home with him. He promised all sorts but I refused. He tried to bargain with me “ok. Then come on holiday with me. Just for a week. We can go to Bali. We can talk about this. And then I’ll sign anything you want” This started to ring rather hollow in light of all his previous promises, so it really wasn’t difficult to stand my ground and refuse. We walked more and he wanted to kiss me. I refused and he got upset. He fumbled around in his jacket pocket and pulled out my wedding ring. Some time ago (maybe 8 or 9 months ago) I had put my wedding ring in his briefcase. I had emailed him to say that when he was ready to have a wife again, he could give it back to me. It was a silly thing to do, but I wanted him to see how serious I was being. I wanted him to come home and ask me to put my ring back on. I wanted him to acknowledge that there was a problem and I wanted him to give me a sign that he wanted me in his life.

I never did see that ring again. Until now.He told me to put it on. I refused but he insisted. I took my hand and put it on my finger, saying “I want you to be my wife again”.

It was at this moment, as I realised how unmoved I was by the words I had craved for so long that I knew this was over. I knew this was it. It all had come too late.

Right, now this is the part where I lie through my teeth. I told him I only wanted to go home to clear my head and think. I told him I just wanted to have some downtime and be with my family. He told me he didn’t want to be an ogre. He didn’t want to keep me prisoner. I told him “well that’s just what you’re doing”.

I got home utterly exhausted. I was even more determined to get out now.

I was still having no luck with the Immigration Office or Department of Justice and was considering sneaking out of the country via a smaller airport where immigration officials may be more slack (or more receptive to bribes) and began looking into it and then it happened: The great anti-climax. I came home and Gillian handed me some sheets of paper. “A driver came by and dropped these off”. They were the letterhead of my husband’s company. Five blank sheets except for a signature at the bottom of each one. I couldn’t believe it. He’d caved. He’d given in. I had what I needed (although how did he know where to have them delivered?). I took them to the British Consulate the next day and was allowed entry into the locked door behind locked door security system and sat with the British Consul (an English chap whose name I forget) and we formulated the letter of request which was then typed up on the signed sheets. The Consul said that Pak Yunaidi had been most impressed, particularly with my use of Indonesian. He added that if I were to come back, he’d offer me a job at the Consulate. I thought this was lovely of him to say and so brimming with confidence I made my way to the South Jakarta Immigration office. It was here that I handed over my piece of paper and was told my application was successful. I could collect my passport tomorrow.

I booked myself a ticket home and emailed mum. She was overjoyed. I arranged to fly first to Singapore to meet the friend and ex-boss who had helped me out by contacting his in-laws for me (John and Gillian) and then I was to fly on to UK. Because I couldn’t be sure my husband wouldn’t try to get access to flight lists, we decided I would fly to a smaller airport and then catch a boat to Singapore.

My passport ready for collection I stared at the one silly stamp that I needed. How small but how vital.

At the small port, the passport control looked extremely relaxed, but still my mouth was dry and my heart was pounding as I neared the immigration booth. Without even looking up, the girl stamped my passport, handed it back and I was through.

I couldn’t believe it. I was through! I could get on the boat now. I boarded it and stayed on edge until I arrived at the other side. I went through Singapore immigration, got another stamp and I was really through. Safe now. No longer on Indonesian soil. I was free. Finally.

I spent several weeks in Singapore, decompressing, being shown the sights, being overwhelmed by the culture shock. Singapore was so tidy and clean and organised where Jakarta is so rough and unkempt. My husband had no idea I was in Singapore. He thought I was in UK already and I certainly wasn’t going to tell him otherwise. I spent the next three weeks still eating six square meals a day and giving Gillian regular updates as to my day’s adventures doing the museums and things of Singapore. My friend was working so most of the days I just amused myself in the city state or wandered about the shops, windowshopping. It was fantastic and just what I needed.

I didn’t have enough money to fly to UK, but my friend told me not to be silly. He’d pay and so we booked a flight. It was an emotional farewell at Changi airport. Some people’s kindness can never be repaid. Gillian had come visit me in Singapore too and I found it impossible to tell her how much her help had saved me without losing all composure. I still don’t think I’ve thanked them enough.

One long haul flight later, I got to Heathrow to the usual deal of queues and passports and baggage claim. I needed only to wave my British passport at the officials and they let me through without question. Amazing. How happy I was to be on British soil again and as I walked out into the hallway, looking for mum or my sis who were to meet me, my heart seemed to swell with excitement. I scanned the faces as I moved through this ocean of white people. I carried on walking through the crowd and then, behind me I heard my sister’s voice: ”There she is”

I had walked right past my own family and despite the feeding regime, I was still so thin that own mother hadn’t recognised me. I don’t think there are words that can in way come close to accurately describing how I felt at that moment. It was like and end and a beginning all at the same time. I hate airports and crowds but all that disappeared as I was back with people whom I loved and who I knew loved me too. All that fighting, all that mess, all those dead-ends, all the misery and the fear, it was all behind me. Mum gave me a squeeze and said: “Come on you, let’s get some food inside you”.

Part 7 – A weekend off

for the beginning of this saga, click here

At the weekend, I was invited along to the golf club with John, Gillian and their friends. This was a regular social event and I was apprehensive of being in the company of so many ex-pats. I had lived in Indonesia for many years but never plugged myself into that network. I only ever saw ex-pats from afar and they struck me as a trifle weird, to be honest. They would at time display such arrogant, colonial attitudes and so unselfconsciously that I found myself biting my tongue too much. At one experience (many years ago) I remember being positively snubbed by some ex-pat ladies once they discovered I was married to a native.

These people at the golf course were not as bad as I had feared, and I was not snubbed but I was an object of curiosity. Most amusing was my listening in on the conversations of the caddies. The ex-pats were all of a different social class than I had ever known and said “oh my new place in Portugal is just divine, you simply must go there” and drank gin & tonics, lamented the laziness of their maids, talked about the inability buy a decent bottle of wine etc. They were a strange breed to me but the caddies with their jovial, relaxed banter in regular, informal Indonesian were far more familiar. Not playing golf, I just quietly listened to the caddies talk about their days, their kids, their jokes and wished I could join in but that would have been outrageous and would have shown up Gillian. Standing on the golf course, watching the expats play golf and keeping my mouth shut I had that lonely feeling again. I felt more strange here among these Europeans than I had back with my Indonesian in-laws. It struck me that I would miss them more than I’d realised.

The weekend was a much needed rest and by Monday I was champing at the bit to get the letter from the British Consul to the immigration office. Having use of John’s driver again, I made my way to the British Consulate, was given much friendly encouragement from Pak Yunaidi and felt confident as I took myself to the immigration office. I had my letter, the big boys were involved now; that stamp would soon be mine. The immigration office was still a scary place but I did at least know where I was going this time and when someone followed me (one young man was most persistent) I didn’t feel quite as vulnerable as before.

I was told to leave my file and letter with the immigration office and so I did, arranging to come back tomorrow.

The days flew by. Mornings I was busy at the immigration office. I was still being refused my exit visa and was told the letter from the Consulate held no sway. The British Consul was on the case and most of my time I seemed to be running from South Jakarta Immigration office to the British Consulate, to the Central Jakarta Immigration office. I was working my way up higher and higher up the chain, hoping to get someone in a big enough office to get tired of seeing me and just order my stamp to be issued.

The central Jakarta immigration office was another soulless place but by now I was well accustomed to it. I remember having an appointment with a Pak Yayan or failing that, a Pak Robert. When I got there it was the typical set up: half a dozen people at desks not apparently doing very much. There was a television on and some were watching this. Most of the time there was teasing and banter going on between the people at their desks, this went quiet when it was apparent I spoke more than just basic Indonesian.

One person had his feet up on the desk, smoking. He was the one who spoke to me. I explained I had an appointment but was told “lagi makan” (he’s at lunch) and so I waited. And waited. By late afternoon (some hours later) he was still not there and I was told “lagi solat” (he is praying) and so I waited some more. Eventually I was seen by someone else. (either they had taken pity on my long wait or realised I was not going to go anywhere). The office was spartan but behind his desk were a number of table-tennis trophies. I thanked him for seeing me and mentioned his trophies. Yes, they were his, he was an avid table-tennis player and enjoyed competing. The niceties over, I put forward my situation. He listened, read my letter from the Consulate, explained to me again that only a letter from my sponsor would do. In between all the explanations he kept asking me “suami anda siapa” (who is your husband) and I gave his name but he kept asking, “suami anda siapa?” so I kept repeating “bukan siapa siapa” (he is nobody) and then I realised – they were refusing to budge since they could not be sure I wasn’t married to someone powerful. A British wife is not exactly a run of the mill acquisition.

At the time, there was a big public pressure in regards to corruption. Suharto had been kicked from his 30 year dictatorship, parliament had only just learnt how the voting procedure went, the new government was inexperienced but determined to stamp out corruption, so everyone working in the enormous bureaucratic machine of the Indonesian government was unsure of what was the norm now. Before, the bribe system was well understood. It might not have been entirely honest, but it worked, it was reliable and everyone knew their place. Anti-corruption initiatives were making everything uncertain now. I could hardly expect them to stick their necks out when all around them, heads were rolling.

It looked futile. No one was prepared to bend the rules or explore alternative avenues. The only suggestion I ever got was to talk with my husband and get him to arrange my exit visa. It didn’t matter how many times I explained why I could not. He apologised and suggested I take my case to the department of Justice; I could make an appointment tomorrow.

Part 8 – meeting my husband

Part 6 – The Consulate

for the beginning of this saga, click here

The following day I turned up at the immigration office for my dreaded appointment. The banter about white women in bed continued and I kept a flirty, smiling facade. I really needed them to like me. Being po-faced would get me nowhere; they seemed harmless enough, just a bit fresh.

I remarked that I was worried I might be detained, which lead to much laughter and them slapping their knees with mirth at such a suggestion, No, they just wanted a few questions answered. An ancient typewriter was brought out, a series of questions were asked (how long had I been in the country, what was my husband’s name, occupation etc and why did I want to leave, when would my residency permit expire and things of that ilk) while a low-ranking official tapped the answers into his typewriter. I needed this for some other piece of paperwork, apparently and it needed to go into my pink file, which I would need to collect from the window over there but by now I was accustomed to the ridiculous cue and resubmit at another window game.

Paperclipped inside my pink file was a small card with a residency permit on it. Stuck to this was passport photo of me looking washed out and tired, taken at the shopping mall some days ago. I looked like a corpse in the photo but this was no time for vanity. This was at a time when there had been a number of violent incidents against westerners by a mob of Islamist meatheads in the city. The young man at the photoshop had asked me if I wasn’t afraid to be out in public. I had indeed noticed that there were no westerners out shopping in this mall today, unusual for this area, but I couldn’t very well tell him I had no other choice so I thanked him for his concern and explained that I was not afraid, which oddly I wasn’t. I could easily stand up for myself and was confident that Indonesian people wouldn’t tolerate a lone female being picked on by anyone, the knuckleheads were an unpopular bunch at the best of times.

At the immigration office, I was instructed where to have my permit laminated and after paying yet another fee was told the laminator was broken and I would have to come back tomorrow. I knew well enough that a refund was out of the question so I just nodded and left my pink file at another window for that all-important stamp I had come here for in the first place. Hopefully it would be ready by tomorrow.

The following day I was called to another office, this time downstairs and although I was, by now, well used to having curious pairs of eyes follow me about (and in some cases the whole PERSON follow me about) in this immigration office, the staff (who kept polite eyes down) were clearly interested to know why this bulé (white person) was being escorted to the boss’s office.

I was asked to sit and wait in an empty office. I peered at the two fish in the fish tank and the studio photos of a man (presumably the big cheese whose office this was), his wife and two children on the wall behind the big desk. The fish tank was bare. No gravel, not plants, just two fish who looked like I felt. Lonely.

The Big Cheese walked in and introduced himself. I stood up to shake his hand and was surprised at how confidently I expressed myself. I pointed to his fish and asked whether they had names. I made complimentary remarks on his children in the photographs and kept up this Indonesian habit of small talk until I felt the ice had been broken enough and I had made it clear that I was no westerner who’d thump my fists down and be a loud and demanding ignoramus. No, he could be sure he was dealing with a bulé who had manners.

I explained my case to him articulately and confidently and he explained my case to me regretfully and sympathetically: I was in no position to request an exit visa without some very necessary paperwork. As a foreign national, I will have a sponsor. Typically, this is a company but in my case, it is my husband. Only a sponsor may request visas, visa extensions, exit visas and so on. Everything for my exit visa was in order and all I needed now was a signed letter of request from my sponsor.

My head swam. I explained to him that this was impossible. I had walked out on my sponsor and it would be impossible for me to go back. He urged me to speak to my husband, but I explained I could not. He repeated the point that without such a letter my visa application could not be processed and bade me goodbye.

I hailed a cab and took myself home. Now what? Maybe it was time to get some heavyweights into the ring. Tomorrow, though. The British Consulate would be closed already today.

After giving my tale to Gillian and John (my generous hosts) they agreed the consulate was the place to go. John, who was very well connected made some phone calls and gave me the name of the man I needed to speak to at the Consulate.

After a good night’s sleep, a hot shower and a hearty breakfast, I was given use of John and Gillian’s car and driver for my day’s business. The driver was friendly, if shy. We dropped John off at work, then went to the British Consulate in the Deutsche Bank building and I made my way to seeing who I needed to see.

The British consulate was perhaps not cheery but it didn’t quite give you the ‘pits of hell’ vibe the immigration office did. You did at least feel safe here. I pressed the bell at the window and a Mr Yunaidi greeted me. For a time, I spoke to him in Indonesian and he would always answer me in English. I wanted to be sure he knew I wanted to express myself in Indonesian, in recognition of the fact that this was HIS native country and language but he would always answer me in English. At first I found this refusal to ‘accept’ my Indonesian as rudeness, but I soon came to see that he was just wanting to underline the fact that this was the British Consulate and we could speak in MY native language. We continued like this each time we spoke.

I was told I could be furnished with a formal letter from the British Consul to request an exit visa for a British national. I would need to come back on Monday and I could collect it. I thanked Pak Yunaidi and skipped downstairs, ready to meet Gillian for lunch in town.

Gillian and I went shopping for food and then I tagged along to a soft furnishing’s shop. A british bachelor had recently moved to a Mansion nearby and was painfully aware that he was incapable of decorating it. Gillian had offered her services to design his interior and I was to come along and assist. The style and feel of her own home was eclectic but absolutely worked. That she had a flair for these things was in no doubt.

Unfortunately, his tastes clashed with Gillian’s in almost every respect, but for the sake of her ‘client’ she would forego her bold colours and opt for the hotel blandness he actually preferred. We chose curtain fabric, measured up his house and windows, Gillian elaborately explained her plans for the room and, when he was out of earshot, lamented his awful taste in decor. It broke her heart but he actually liked marble-effect melamine and so his bedroom furniture would follow this style. I soon got to liking Gillian a lot. Her every movement was in large sweeps and everything was bigger and better when Gillian described it but she was not false, the world just WAS bigger and better the way Gillian saw it.

After being invited to a dinner party John and Gillian were hosting, and having spent time with Gillian shopping, I started to speak more about my situation beyond the usual official immigration office updates. I spoke of the life I had left, the reasons for my leaving, I described my husband and his nightlife habits, the things I had found that made me want to leave and also my eating habits. Gillian then confessed that when she had first laid eyes on me, she thought I was about to collapse into a small heap. I was skinny as a rake and pale as a ghost. I clearly was in need of feeding up. She refused to send me home until I had put on some pounds. She told me ‘no mother should see her daughter like that’ and this explained the almost constant supply of food I’d been having put in front of me.

The weekend passed and it was frustrating not to be able to do anything for my situation. All I wanted to do was get that official letter, put it under the noses of the officials and get my exit visa. I was relieved that an institution like the British Consul was there for me. Still, at least at the weekends I was forced to take time out and rest. I was still being fed at every opportunity and I ate as much as I could.

Part 7 – a weekend off

Part 5- at the immigration office

for the beginning of this saga, click here

At the airline’s main desk I got my refund, scanned the crowds for any signs of my husband and quickly went to find somewhere to book a hotel. The hotel representative suggested the Hotel Iblis (adding an L to the name, making it “Satanic Hotel”) and as I smiled at this joke, his colleague jabbed him in the ribs “ngerti dia” (she understood that) I smirked to show I had appreciated the joke and booked myself into that hotel and found a taxi.

At the hotel, I stared at my passport. How could this happen? My plan. It was all so perfectly planned and now everything had unravelled before my eyes. That the passport officials were so nice and helpful made things easier and gave me hope that all I needed was to roll up my sleeves and get the immigration office to stamp my passport.

I had been there once to give my fingerprints, so I knew what kind of place it was. Bustling, busy, unfriendly, old-fashioned bureaucracy with windowed booths for each moustachioed official and his collection of rubber stamps and upstairs, a large female typing pool. Lazy ceiling fans would be sweeping the stale air and the waiting visa agents, who earned their living by navigating through the bureaucracy for their clients, would be fanning themselves with the pink files they carried. One per client, I assumed. It was a horrid, poorly lit, unventilated, dingey place but it was my only option.

I sat in the hotel room and had a good think. Can I turn my mobile on again? I’m not at the airport anymore, so I guess I could risk it. I called my friend in Singapore. He had once been my boss but as was as close a friend as I ever had. I trusted him entirely and when I explained everything, he gave me the number of a visa agent, called Hisham. I arranged to meet Hisham at the hotel. He was a middle-aged, greasy little man who seemed to have big features plastered onto a small head. We had used his services in processing my residency permit some time ago. He wasted no time in running down my husband. I had a deep mistrust of the man, something I couldn’t put my finger on but right now I needed his help. Once I had explained that I would not be able to pay him, he explained to me the he could not offer his visa agent services, but he was willing to explain to me how the procedure was done.

I would have to go to the immigration office and fill out the necessary paperwork, it was all very straightforward. I need not worry. I had my passport? good. I had some money? good. He wished me well and I felt bad, thinking so ill of him. He had been a great help and no doubt he will have enjoyed the juicy gossip of this western wife deserting her husband, a man he didn’t like much to begin with but I wasn’t prepared to go into details with him.

I called my friend back to thank him and meanwhile he had spoken to his in-laws who lived in Jakarta. They now knew of my plight and had made up the spare room for me to stay “for as long as is necessary”. This was no invitation, this was an order.

I had never met these people but as I knew my money was finite, I accepted this offer of help. I dialed the number with nervous, sweaty hands and a woman answered. She gushed about how she had heard about me and my plight and I simply must come over as soon as possible. I arranged to do so tomorrow. Tonight, I just needed to be alone and get my head together.

I slept like a log and next morning felt bright and empowered again. I had a plan. This was just a mere hurdle. A week or so getting my visa and then I can go home.

I ordered a taxi, was cheerful enough to flirt with the desk clerk and instructed the taxi driver to the address I had been given. At the gate I was met by a maid who clearly had been expecting me. I carried my suitcase into the kitchen and was met by a round-faced, smiling woman of about 50. She introduced herself as Gillian, reached forward to take my suitcase and said: “Right, now let’s get some food inside you”

I was very quiet for the first few days. I could not have said very much in any case, since I was too busy eating. I seemed to be eating about six meals a day. Their hospitality was faultless and it felt rude to refuse their generosity. Cereals and toast and fruit, soup and rolls and salads, meat and vegetables and stews and all manner of delicious foods I had no idea I had missed. I ate everything put in front of me.

By midweek I had already been to the immigration office a few times, been to window 3 upstairs to ask where I get the forms, was directed to room 12 where I got a form, completed it, sat and waited to hand it in at window 7, where I was told to get a pink file from down the hall on the ground floor. I went to get my pink file, which was inexpensive and took only about 15 minutes’ wait. With my form and pink file I went back to window 7 but was told I needed to get a stamp first from room 12, which I did and was given another form to complete and kept these in my newly purchased pink file. I also needed a new card for my existing visa, which required visits to more windows, with brief waits in between each. The officials ranged from bored and disinterested to chatty and flirtatious. One in particular called me to his office and, after querying my business at the immigration office, wanted to know what white women are like in bed. I told him I did not know, as I had never slept with a white woman, nor an Indonesian one for that matter. His colleagues laughed and he apologised, offering that he meant no offense. He wondered what a sweet little thing like me was doing in such a horrid place, anyway. It was true that I had seen no other western faces here and it was all agents, who clearly had a rapport with the officials, but I was confident in my Indonesian language skills and was damned if I’d show them how afraid I really was.

After having handed in my bit of paper to be stamped here and then paying my fee at another window and taking my piece of paper together with receipt to another window for a further stamp and being shown to a room three doors into another room where I needed to submit another form and photocopy it and then getting a final stamp and having to leave my precious pink file there until tomorrow, I was ushered back to another office and questioned. Where was my husband, why was I here and (most alarmingly) I needed to come back tomorrow to be interviewed by the high official. I had heard of such kangaroo courts before, I could not be sure it would not result in an arrest of some kind until the relevant ‘fee’ be paid. I suddenly felt very alone. I left the immigration office with a real sense of dread. I hailed a cab outside, and started shaking. If I am detained tomorrow, I’m done for.

Part 6 – the consulate

Part 4 – no valid exit visa

for the beginning of this saga, click here

I bade my goodbyes to the dog and got in the taxi. The journey to the airport meant I pondered all sorts of things. Not whether this was right, not whether I should go back, not even what he would feel when he woke up. I just pondered about what his family would say when they found out. How embarrassing. Even worse than having to admit your western, imported wife was doing the laundry by hand.

I counted my money, checked my ticket, all was set. At the airport I felt a strong sense of empowerment. Here I was, me, I had got myself here, I was in control, this was MY MOMENT.

I checked my baggage in, I wandered about the airport, had something to eat and then headed for passport control.

The officials looked official, the passengers mingled about, squinting at signs and I joined the queue for my passport check. I find airports boring, but they are a necessary evil, I guess. They are so soulless and you get herded about like cattle to various pens. And it’s just waiting and staring at monitor screens.

Soekarno-Hatta Airport had taken the soullessness of an airport and truly run with it. Long corridors of literally nothing to look at. Still, soon I would be seatbelted into a plane and on my way out of here.

Just show my passport and then I’ll be “….exit visa ini tidak berlaku,”

What? What did he mean no valid exit visa?

The rushing in my ears grew loud as he remained absolutely immobile in his assertions that I was not to go through the barrier. What, in all previous experience had always been a mere formality, was suddenly a solid, impenetrable wall.

Two officials came out from a side office. One fat and one thin. I remember thinking they could have been plucked from a comedy sketch.

The fat one lead me into the office where some colleagues were sat reading the paper and listening to the radio. I was asked to sit which I did reluctantly. They began passing my passport around to one another to have a look. I felt very vulnerable and their gawping and passing round my passport made me feel naked and humiliated.

It was explained to me that I had no exit visa. I assured them my visa was absolutely up to date. They gravely explained that yes my visa was fine but I needed permission to exit. The ‘multiple entry’ exit visa stamped in my passport had not been used within three months of its issue, a step necessary to ‘activate’ it.

I tried to negotiate “surely there must be something you can do. I don’t need to come back to Indonesia, I just want to get out.

The stamp was there, all the necessary paperwork had been done, I just hadn’t actually left the country on a jaunt to Singapore within those crucial three months. (In fact, during my years in Indonesia, I only left Indonesia once, to visit my family in UK and that had been on a different exit visa), I was incredulous. I had an exit visa there, “so by not having used it for a trip out, it now means I can’t use it at all?” They were very nice. They said they were sorry, They offered me a cup of tea and suggested I get my ticket refunded at the airlines desk.

They showed me to the airlines desk and the girl there was efficient. The passport officials, chatted nicely to the girls at the desk and offered to help me get my baggage back. They continued to apologise and said I should go the Immigration office and get a new exit visa, then I could go, “no problem”. They suggested I get my husband to arrange this for me, and I thanked them for their help and went off to collect my suitcase and have a think.

I had a friend, well more an ex-colleague, in Singapore. I hate calling on friends but I had no other choice. I switched my phone on to call him, but it suddenly started ringing. My husband was trying to get hold of me. Damn, so much for being on a plane when he reads the note! Now he knows I’m still on terra firma. He may well be headed to the airport right now. I switched my mobile off again.

Part 5 – at the immigration office

Part 3 – cheap, that’s me

for the beginning of this saga, click here

So the dog stared at me now, bemused as I wrote my second note.

In this one, I detailed how to prepare the dog’s dinner.

He would have grated liver or offal mixed with vegetables and rice. Commercial dog food was too expensive and though we treasured our beloved mutt, we cut costs by feeding him cheaply. Of course, sometimes I would run out of liver or fish to feed him and he would get the chicken (intended for human consumption) or minced beef – I think that is how I started to not eat properly – I stopped eating during the day to feed the dog, and realised I didn’t need to eat anyway. It just became another cost-cutting measure to never eat alone. A few times we actually ran out of food in the fridge and my husband was unenthusiastic about going to the supermarket, so I made do on whatever there was (or wasn’t) available. After some days of not eating in the daytime, it seemed greedy and unnecessary to eat alone at any time. “I ’m contributing nothing to the finances, I can save money by not eating. I don’t do anything for that bit of chicken, so I’ll save it for dinner tonight. We can both have it for dinner.”

However, if he didn’t come home for dinner (which was most of the time), I wouldn’t have it then either. I was actually extremely proud how cheap I was to keep. I could go for days without eating, “look at how economical a housewife I am. Me? Eat meat during the day? Such decadence, such gluttony. I’ll have none of that”. The only time I ate a meal was when we went out to the cinema. We would eat out and then watch a film together or when my husband was home before dawn. Sharing a meal was ok, cooking just for me was not.

Strangely, this frugal eating style did not affect my weight. In fact, I stayed the same weight no matter what I ate. I stayed a size 12-14 regardless. I did have a pair of trouser, whose waistband I had to fold over by 4 inches, but these had just stretched, that’s all. I’d get a new pair but…. well I can wear my house dress, anyway.

I didn’t much like my house dresses. They were shapeless and ugly, lurid colours, but they were cheap, cool in the tropical heat and quick to wash and unlike my trousers, they did not stretch.

One day I remember the car pulled up outside the house. My husband was calling me, urgently. I told him I would get changed but he said no, just get in the car, so barefoot, in my blue housedress (which was cut as a giant T-shirt) I climbed into the air conditioned BMW.

I’m not proud, I don’t wear fancy clothes but I was still horrified to find other people in the car, dressed smartly and me, in my housedress, feeling like a drudge, in her drudge’s rags and meeting people in their nice going-out clothes. He had wanted to introduce me to a friend of his but I just felt like the biggest zero around. I wanted to cry and couldn’t wait to get home. I was so embarrassed, I hadn’t even worn anything on my feet! I looked a dog’s dinner.

Oh yes, the dog’s dinner.

I finished the note giving instructions on how to cook the dog’s dinner and sellotaped it to the rice cooker. I hoped my husband would find it. It wasn’t until much later I realised that if he did not know what to give the dog to eat, he’d just make things simple and buy him Pedigree Chum or Alpo, hang the cost.

The final note was the easiest to write.

I don’t remember how long I took over it, I don’t even remember what I wrote. It was probably along the lines of “I wish I could stay but I can’t. By the time you read this I’ll be on a plane, do not try to contact me” or some such melodramatic drivel. All it needed to say was “I’m gone, not just to the shops, not just to someone’s house, not just to the attic. I’m really really gone. I told you I would.”

I checked on my husband, now asleep in the bedroom. I was glad to see him looking extremely ugly as he slept. It’s funny the little things that make the big things easier. I stroked the dog and talked to him softly. I wanted him to be as sentimental and sappy as I was feeling but he was indifferent, disinterested. As soon as he worked out I had no delicious nibbles on me, he was off to find some termites to eat.

My taxi arrived. I grabbed my suitcase, opened the front gate quietly and said my goodbyes to the still disinterested dog. It broke my heart that the silly mutt was so unaware that I would likely never see him again.

Part 4 – the exit visa

Part 2 – the washing machine

for the beginning of this saga, click here

One day a cousin of my husband came to visit. Anis was keen to see the house we had newly rented and we gave him the grand tour. He noticed that there was no washing machine (despite there being plumbing for one) and asked me who did the washing (did I have it laundered elsewhere) and I laughed and explained that I did it myself, every week. His eyes widened as he looked at my husband “my goodness, you wouldn’t get an Indonesian wife to do that!” and my husband looked more than a little embarrassed. I was suddenly very embarrassed too but I put this aside as I knew this might change his mind. My husband would be ribbed about this by his family for some time.

Naturally, it wasn’t long before the new washing machine arrived. I was so excited. It was brand new, could wash with hot water and was front loading. I was ecstatic, the dog was unsure but the cats considered it a wonderful new surface to sleep on. It stood in the backyard, an open area outside that was covered with corrugated plastic instead of a roof. Next to it I kept a large, empty water-cooler bottle, those 19ltr things, which became my piggy bank. Any and all notes or coins I found in his pockets would go straight into my piggy bank. and every once in a while, I would use it treat myself. This money was mine and I knew how much there was. I didn’t need permission to spend it, I could use it as I pleased and when it was gone, no one lost out. He was quite careless with his pocket change so I could sometimes amass quite a fortune. I might occasionally feel guilty for stashing a Rp50,000 note (this used to be the largest value note, worth about £3.50) and leave it on the kitchen table instead, but mostly I felt it only fair; this was Laundry Tax.

In all the time we were married, I don’t recall him ever using the washing machine apart from once when I heard him shout ” Heather, where do I put the powder?” So here I was, about to leave him and still trying to save his dignity with regards to his work shirts.

I stuck the instructions onto the washing machine. I was oddly sad to the be leaving it at home. However, in our new place (for we had since moved into his my mother-in-law’s old house), the plumbing was not completely successful: the tap it connected to would let go of the hose, and water would gush all over the scullery floor. The scullery itself was half outdoors anyway, so it was no great disaster. It was more funny than dangerous. A gushing waterfall, here in my scullery and a dog with his hair standing on end, barking at this sudden wet intrusion. The cats had also lost their place to snooze.

In the end, rather than letting the hose work itself off the tap, I used to fill the machine up manually, sticking the hose into the soap drawer at the right moments (I’d worked it out. 7 minutes pre wash, 14 minutes main wash, 4 rinses and then spin cycle). I would set my watch alarm to go off at the intervals so I could go back to the washing machine, sit on it to reach the tap behind and then, hose in hand, fill the machine up until the ‘clunk’, when the drum would begin to revolve. But I never saw this as a chore. It was fun and quirky. But the trouble with quirky is if a husband doesn’t even know where to put the soap powder, he is not going to understand the precision required to get the water-filling cycle right.

However, it was all on the note now. Even the timings.

Sitting at the table now, waiting for my taxi, I looked over at the dog. Poor Mowgli – he had no idea. He had been such a good companion to me. Always with me since he was a 5 week old pup. I had trained him to perform every conceivable trick and he had been the best companion. He was fun to be with but had also witnessed me on the kitchen floor, crying until my tears ran dry, heard me howling until my lungs ached. I rarely allowed myself such outbursts (in fact, I remember only one). Self-control was the dish of the day with me, but every so often, the cracks would give way and everything would concentrate to this moment, when grief was all there was. Me and my unhappiness, doubled up, on the kitchen floor and the dog pawing me and whining, too. I did cry at others times (for a while, it was daily) but it was quiet, respectable, controlled. The sort of thing you’d see in black and white movies.

At first I cried openly, but my husband wouldn’t quite know what to do, so he’d get annoyed at me. Admonished or belittled, I began to cry only in secret. This actually made things worse. The crying became self-indulgent, and gave me another thing to resent him for.

Part 2 – Cheap, that’s me

Part 1 – Laundry day

For some time now, I’ve wanted to talk about why I left Indonesia and how. It’s probably the single most life-changing event I ever went through – you don’t walk out of a marriage without ending up changed in some way. In my case it was the best thing I ever did, but Hell it was hard

This is part 1

I remember sitting at the table in the main room of our house in Jakarta, Indonesia. It was just past dawn and my husband was still not home. I wasn’t actually concerned for him or his safety, staying out until the wee hours was very much the norm with him and this was not why I was biting my fingernails tonight. There was a time when I worried about him coming home so late every night but not any more. Not after all these little clues I found. I checked the clock again, my taxi would be here in a matter of hours. He must not be around when the taxi arrives.

I paced the kitchen, checked my suitcase was where I had stashed it. About a week ago I had taken the empty suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and packed some items of clothing and some treasured books, taking care not to leave my half of the wardrobe looking too empty. He mustn’t become suspicious. I had then put the full suitcase back on top of the wardrobe as before and checked that everything looked the same again. This was a secret I had been keeping for a week. Now, today I had moved the suitcase to the garage. If the past weeks were a guide to his behaviour my husband would be asleep when I would need to get it and so had thought it better to put it where I could access it silently.

At about 6am he came home. I made him a coffee and behaved normally. I didn’t ask him where he had been, I just stayed quiet, hoping he would go to bed soon.

He talked at me for a bit, yawned, stretched. His mood was actually quite good. He wasn’t always this chatty. Sometimes I wouldn’t get so much as a hello, since he would choose to spend time with the dog, instead. Eventually, he went to bed and I made myself a tea. My taxi would be here soon. Just one more hour.

Now that he was home and tucked up in bed, I took a pen and paper and started to write out instructions for how to use the washing machine. He would not even know where to put the washing powder so I thought it only fair I explain how to get clean shirts.

I loved that washing machine. It sounds so 1950s to be in raptures over white goods, but I felt I had earned this machine.

At the house we rented when we were first married, we had no washing machine. What we had was a large plastic tub, a bit of garden hose and a cold water tap in the bathroom. Wash day meant me tucking my house dress into my knickers, putting the laundry into the tub, adding soap flakes and water, and stamping until the water turned dark. That part was actually rather fun. It made my legs red (God know what chemicals they put in those soap flakes) but it got the job done fairly efficiently. The splashing would be accompanied by loud singing until round two: the rinse. This involved plenty of water, more stamping and later, a fair amount of back ache, tipping the water out, ringing the laundry, adding more water, stamping some more, tipping the water out, ringing again and so on.

With the final rinse, I would wring the items out thoroughly and carry them to the roof area. A small cast iron spiral staircase led to a flat section on the roof, where the sun was so hot it baked the clothes dry within about 40 minutes. One of our cats would often join me up there and I’d talk to it as it stretched itself out in the sun. I would smile to myself, because I knew I was Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, myself, as Tennessee Williams had put it so well.

I didn’t mind the washing but it was back breaking and when there was bedding to do, it became quite arduous. I had no mangle so wringing out was probably the hardest part.

I asked my husband for a washing machine but they don’t come cheap in a country where servants are plentiful. Not having a maid was my choice. I preferred the privacy of having the house to myself and didn’t fancy the responsibility of an employee. I am also a product of my culture and felt a little uncomfortable with the idea of live-in staff. So I had eyed up a relatively inexpensive washing machine in a shop and had suggested it. He asked me to be patient, as we could not afford it. Maybe he was right, but I would occasionally look out to the BMW we had parked outside and would tut and sigh. I never knew, exactly, how rich or poor we were. Such information was always kept from me. I had no access to the bank account (something about foreign nationals not being allowed to have joint accounts – which I never quite believed) and asking after credit card statements would lead to much dismissive hand waving and “Oh my secretary deals with those”. I had once (no, twice) asked his secretary for them but she said she needed to check with my husband first. Of course that was the last I’d hear of it. I felt distinctly like the wife whose head is patted with a “don’t concern yourself with these things, my dear”.

This is why, whenever I needed new clothes or shoes, I would always have my husband with me. He would give the final word as to whether this was affordable or not. I became afraid to spend money we might not have, so his generosity or frugality on these occasions was how I came to measure our financial status.

Part 2 – the washing machine