Customs Forms and Motorcycles

First impressions are colorful. They are often vivid like dreams. They can imprint themselves on your memory with so little personal effort. In the future, whenever I think about Indonesia, I will remember Customs forms and motorcycles. I will also think of the shacks and the little shops selling all sorts of wares and the mosques and the smiles of the beautiful people who call this part of their world their home. But first, I will think about Customs forms and motorcycles. 

Indonesia was never on my list of places I must see. I don’t profess to know very much about the country or the culture. But about two months ago, opportunity presented itself in the form of a great airline seat sale from Brisbane to Singapore. The time frame for the sale included the Easter term break school holidays, and this cinched the deal. We booked our vacation for two weeks of “easy Asian” holiday time. I refer to it as “easy Asian” because that’s how people who have spent time in Singapore described it to us. As long as you aren’t chewing gum or smuggling drugs, Singapore is clean, safe, and full of interesting things to see and do.

However, two weeks is a lot of time to spend in one place with two kids under 10 years. Anticipating the need to broaden our horizons (and our options for activities), I turned to one of my favorite travel resources, TripAdvisor. I was originally looking for the closest Club Med resort, hoping to book a few days of R & R so that Stacey and I could re-charge while the kids played with new friends in the Kids Club. There is a Club Med on Bintan Island (60 minute ferry ride from Singapore). But the ratings were so-so, and the price was high. Many of the travelers were recommending a different resort called Nikoi Island. I read the reviews, looked at the website, and booked us in for 5 nights of environmentally-conscious, low-stress bliss.

I suppose it’s normal to be apprehensive about experiences which are unfamiliar. One thing we have not yet experienced is tourism opportunities in predominantly non-Christian countries. Other than Mexico, we have spent limited tourist dollars in non-first world spots. And, we have not taken our children to places where travel vaccinations and mosquito nets are recommended to provide some health protection from diseases such as typhoid, hepatitis, and Dengue fever. To top it off, I was a little worried about our safety from a legal perspective (the geeky lawyer in me is not that easy to quash). Blame it on the media, but I had visions of being interrogated (and punished!) by Singaporean customs officials for traveling with items we did not even know were contraband.

However, these are solvable concerns. I spoke to doctors and pharmacists and figured out what vaccinations we would need, and what medications we could bring. I consulted the Singapore and Indonesian Immigration websites and noted advice for travelers. I consulted Lonely Planet and Eyewitness DK and did some reading about the culture. By the time we got onto our flight for Singapore, I was ready to embrace this experience as the adventure that I know it will be. We flew 8 hours, from Brisbane to Singapore. We took a ferry from Singapore to Bintan Island. We drove across Bintan Island (population: 700 000; travel distance: 1 hour) to another boat launch, and took another 25 minute boat ride to Nikoi. And, upon disembarking the boat and gazing at the island paradise for 10 seconds, we knew we had made the right choice for the “re-charge” portion of our holiday. Nikoi Island is both rustic and luxurious; organized and care-free; friendly and private;   . . . . perhaps all indicative of the Indonesian culture that I don’t know much about, but am already keen to learn more.

There have already been some fantastic giggle moments. As it turns out, the Indonesian customs officials were not as I had imagined. They were not the slightest bit concerned 

with our family of four and our “100% compliant with the law” luggage. Unlike Singapore’s Custom/Immigration counter (which was far more intimidating but also, a non-event), our entry into Indonesia was surreal. It started out in a similar fashion. I wish I had taken a photo of the sign that greeted us at the ferry terminal (it pictured a stick figure being shot by another stick figure holding a gun, with the warning, “do not enter this area”), The Customs Declaration form was unequivocal: “Drug trafficking will result in death”. Gulp. We disembarked from the ferry and were immediately greeted by a Nikoi Island representative, who took our passports, and went somewhere (?) with them. Yes, I know . . . I can’t believe I handed our passports to a stranger and watched him walk away with them. We did what we were told to do, and proceeded to collect our suitcases while our paperwork was being “processed”. Then, we exited the baggage collection area, into Indonesian Customs. Interestingly, our suitcases were permitted to bypass the security clearance area without scanning or inspection. Just our family and our carry-on luggage had to go through the scanners. During this screening, the kind (smiling!) Indonesian customs officer asked me for our Customs Declaration form. I told her it was in my passport, and sheepishly added that I didn’t actually know where my passport was. She smiled and waved us through. Seriously. No passport, no Customs declaration. Instead, we were invited to relax in the “Emerald Lounge” with a bottle of water and a pre-purchased package of peanuts, while our paperwork was “processed”. In time, our paperwork was “processed” and came back to us, with shiny Indonesian visas inside, and we were on our way. With the Customs Declaration form still tucked in my passport. And with no one actually comparing our likeness with the photo in our passports or asking us a single question about our stay. Apparently, they were really not concerned with our family of four and our “100% compliant with the law” luggage. They could probably tell by looking at me that I had worried enough about this for everyone, so they could direct their attention to someone else.

The Nikoi Island resort employs polite and knowledgable SUV drivers to take guests from the ferry terminal, across the island, to the boat launch. Within minutes, our family, our luggage, and our Customs form, all piled into a black Toyota SUV with leather seats and AC. We were on our way. The “local” driver did his best to provide us with some information/history during the one-hour drive. Ten minutes into our journey, we drove through another ‘armed’ check point, and found ourselves in the “real part of Bintan Island” (our driver’s word choice, not mine). This is where we learned that there were about 700 000  Indonesians living on Bintan, and that the primary commercial enterprises were tourism and manufacturing (electronics and clothing). The kids asked some good questions about crops and growing seasons and languages, but mostly, they sat silently as we drove through small settlements of people, characterized by wooden, poorly-constructed shacks (described as home and shops by our driver). We heard that 60% of the population is Islamic, 20% Chinese Buddhist, and 20% Christian. We saw the primary and secondary schools and the government-built mosques (by far and away, the most luxurious-looking buildings on Bintan). 

All of which was interesting, but secondary (in my mind), to the motorcycles. These motorized two-wheelers are the most common vehicle for transport. Everyone rides them. Even children. Many without helmets. The youngest driver we saw was a boy no older than Julia’s age. At one point, Stacey non-chalantly asked our driver, “What is the minimum legal age to drive a motorcycle here?” “Sixteen”, he replied but, “the police aren’t bothered”. As we cruised across the island, our driver would pull up behind these motorcycles and beep his horn a few times. Then, our SUV would pull out and pass the bikes, cutting things pretty close IMHO. On one such occasion, we passed a motorcycle with three people on it: a young man (probably late teens) with two little girls on the back. The girl sandwiched in the middle was no older than 4 or 5 years of age. Beautiful eyes and long black hair, dressed in a pink sundress. With no helmut. We locked eyes for a moment and her face is now etched in my memory. The mum in me was desperate to pull her off this bike and into Ben’s car seat (the one that we treked all the way from Australia so Ben could travel safely across the island). 

The irony is so incredibly poignant.  When we travel, we get to see “normal” through the eyes of others. I realize (once again!) how limited and insular we can become without these opportunities to see (with our own eyes) that the majority of our planet lives so differently from safeguards and protections that we blindly take for granted. Twenty - four hours later, I am still thinking about that little girl. I am wondering who she was riding with and where she was going. And hoping that she got there safely. However, (like the Customs form experience), I know that it is more than likely that she is safe, loved, and happy. What this says about ‘danger’ and protecting our kids and my own experiences of ‘letting go’ so my kids can ‘grow’ . . . well, I have more to say about that in my next blog post.