For months, I’d been drowning in work—full-time, overtime, and then some. Even my one day off —Wednesday—was a “work day,” dedicated to washing my hair. I was exhausted.
It was time for a holiday. My friend proposed Indonesia. I said yes, and a month later, I was on my first holiday in eight months.
At the time, I was working in Cambodia, and Indonesia was the perfect go-between. It wasn’t so long that I’d question whether I should return, but it wasn’t so short that it didn’t feel like I’d properly “gotten away.”
A quick flight to Ho Chi Minh, accompanied by a layover and an uncomfortable nap on a two-seater gray bench, and I was back on the plane headed for Jakarta. As we soared into the breaking dawn, I could feel my responsibilities melting away. I looked down at the deep blue below as we began our descent. My stomach bubbled with excitement.
I went over my documents: passport, passport copy, visa, visa copy, work permit, work permit copy, invitation letter, and addresses for every location I’d be visiting.
The Ethiopian passport starter pack. By now, I don’t even think twice about it.
I got off the plane and onto the bus, weaving between giant planes. Once the doors opened, I walked off, climbed the stairs, and followed the exit signs down a long hallway. I was the first person at immigration and decided to approach a well-dressed and less rigid-looking officer on the far right.
I smiled at him and handed over my passport.
He began to examine each page until he reached the last one, finally looking up at me with a frown. “Why are you here?” he demanded.
“I came for a holiday,” I responded.
“You come here alone?” he asked, shooting a glance behind me.
“Yes.”
He flipped through my passport again, alternating each page turn with a dissatisfied glance at me. “You come here to buy clothes for business?” he shot at me.
“No, I’m here on holiday,” I retorted.
“You come here alone?” he asked again.
“Yes!”
He sighed, motioned for his colleague, and began fervently whispering in Bahasa while shooting me furtive glances and jabbing at my passport with his fingers. His colleague slowly began flipping through my passport, his suspicious expression deepening with each turn of the page.
The colleague turned to me and recited the same questions.
“Why are you here?”
“I am here on holiday.”
“You come here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me,” he said.
I was baffled. I ran through every scenario in my head. I had a legal visa, a letter of invitation, and a place to stay in Jakarta. Was my visa fake? Did I have the wrong address?
By now, a long line of people had grown behind me. I saw others breezing through immigration and bit my lip. I became hyper-aware of my appearance—my skin color, my passport, everything.
“Follow him,” the immigration officer waved me off.
I immediately thought of Tom Hanks in The Terminal, and I thought, I don’t want to live in the airport!
We turned into a thin, off-white corridor, with my passport firmly clutched in his hand as evidence of my supposed wrongdoing. He suddenly stopped in front of a door, knocked briskly, and went inside. I hesitated, then followed.
Inside were two officers lounging in their chairs, music wafting lazily in the background. The room was sparsely furnished, with tables pushed together and containers of uneaten rice and chicken sitting on top.
My accompanying officer’s demeanor changed suddenly. Smiling, he chatted in Bahasa with the other officers while gesturing at me. When he finished, he placed my passport on the table, cheerfully motioned for me to sit in the vacant chair, and quickly left, shutting the door behind him.
The first officer picked up a spoon and drew his meal close before muttering something to Officer 2 in Bahasa.
“So, why did you come to Indonesia?” Officer 2 asked me in English.
Deep breath.
“I came for a holiday,” I said slowly.
Another murmur in Bahasa to Officer 2.
“Where will you stay in Jakarta?” he translated. I recited the address.
“Who lives there?”
“My friend.”
“Boyfriend?” he retorted.
“No.”
Officer 1 picked up a thick chicken leg and took a large bite.
“Where are you from?” he asked through a mouthful of meat.
“Cambodia.”
“Ah, Angkor Wat!” he exclaimed. “What do you do in Cambodia?”
I explained my job and pulled out the relevant documents from my bag.
He wiped his hands poorly on a napkin and picked up my passport. “So, you travel alone in Indonesia?” Officer 1 asked.
“Yes.”
He slowly flipped through each page, leaving greasy marks on my passport.
“Many tourists go to Bali. Are you going to Bali?” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded with a sigh.
“Where else will you go?”
I listed the places I planned to visit. He glanced at me, leaning back in his chair.
“Why is your hair different from the passport photo?” he asked with a smirk.
“What?” I responded, taken aback.
“Your hair,” he motioned with his fingers, “it’s different now from the photo.”
“I cut my hair,” I replied curtly.
In my passport photo, I had braids, but I wasn’t going to explain protective styles.
“You look pretty in the passport photo,” Officer 1 said.
The fear that had settled in my stomach twisted into anger, bubbling up my neck and face. It wasn’t just the comment—it was the culmination of everything: the endless questions, the greasy fingers on my passport, the implicit suspicion tied to my passport color.
“He thinks you are beautiful,” Officer 2 clarified. I nodded stiffly.
Smiling, Officer 1 picked up his phone, and no sooner had he finished his call than a young officer appeared at the door.
“He’ll take you back to immigration. No wait in line!” Officer 1 announced to the room.
I sighed with relief, collected my documents and oily passport, and was led back to the immigration desk.
The officer hastily stamped my passport and waved me on. I glimpsed my suitcase in the distance, riding the carousel like a forgotten child.
As I tucked my passport away and picked up my bag, I smiled at the customs officer. Finally, I stepped into Indonesia, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. This holiday—finally —was beginning.
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Image: Duckleap Pixabay remixed