Uniforms have the ability to exude many things; charm and sophistication where there is ordinarily none, an illusion of handsomeness where ugliness is oftentimes a more realistic sight; here in Indonesia uniforms give power to the small man. The fascination with perfectly pressed uniforms is matched only with the obsession for papers, stamps and all things official. It is not easy to garner the means of obtaining the uniform, however small the job may be, only those who have contacts money or both can apply in this society that is quite overwhelmingly impoverished. Our check in process to Indonesia was met with a day and a half of dealing with such officials and trying to decipher the logic, if any, of the procedures that we fear even they don't understand. (to skip the gory details scroll down for the happy ending). As we pulled into the rather slovenly Harbor of Lembar in Lombok, we were greeted with a flurry of activity as ferry boats zoomed in and out, they honked at us as we stumbled in their wake while trying to find a safe spot within which to anchor in the muddy bottom. It took a few efforts and the help of 2 guys in a little canoe who came to our aid, one of whom spoke almost perfect English. Our efforts to hail the Harbour Master on the radio as we suspected was met with zero response but the guide in the canoe kindly led us to his office. It being Sunday, we were advised to return after completing the visit to Quarantine, Customs and Immigration at Mataram, the city almost 22km away. They asked us if we had an agent to which we replied "no". Now, let me digress a little. Entering Indonesian by boat since last year saw the emergence of a new level of corruption, whereby the boats from the yearly rally from Australia were suddenly intercepted by customs demanding ridiculous sums of money in the form of a bond that had no legal merit and no information on who to pay or even more importantly how to reclaim the bond upon departure. Some strings were pulled and everything was ok in the end. While it only occurred at one particular port, other ports have seemed to follow suit in varying degrees, but there seems to be neither consistency nor logic in the occurrence of such demands. Some boats entered without difficulty, others faced obstacles. The alternative was to join the rally, and have them complete all the paperwork and thus be unburdened from the bond trepidation. We did not want to participate in the rally, its just not our thing. So, we applied for our permit and visas just like we did 10 years ago and assured by the Indonesian consulate that was all that was required. At the quarantine office in Lembar, we were told that we should have remained on the boat and waited for them come and check our boat for other people and cleanliness, although it was unclear how we were supposed to contact them since the usual procedures for International port entry are not adhered to in Indonesia. But if you pay some money, then its all ok, and now we don't need to come to your boat. Ist payoff occurred. At immigration, pretty much the same thing. After much fumbling around with the many copies of documents and demands for more of the same, we were told that we should have gone with an agent. Again, if you pay some money its ok and no, don't be silly, we will not issue a receipt. At customs, again same story transpired from the friendly officials. We were led into a back office with 5 well groomed officials, and we felt so bad that they had to clear away the chess board as they probably did too. Here we discovered we were in big trouble for not obeying Indonesian law, in force since 1995, (even though it was not the case when we entered in 1999) for not giving pre notification of entry, and we must now give you a seal for the boat . Yeah, yeah, yeah, and you didn't use the agent, BUT, we will help you, please pay this amount, and no silly, no receipt issued, are you crazy, off you go. Kara who was so patient throughout the day, had enough. Last stop was back to the king of the harbor. And here, with about 20 well groomed uniformed officials hovering around, busy performing all sorts of tasks, such as drawing lines on a piece of paper, walking inside and outside the office, it was just too overwhelming to have to type up a clearance report and stamp it and let us be on our merry way. Lord no, are you crazy, come back tomorrow, we'll just take another copy of the same documents we already took twice now and stow them in some place that we can't remember and ask you for the very same documents again the next day. Next morning, we returned with our nice guide who had the task of translating everything to us. Again, all 20 or so officials were so busy drawing lines but allowed us to wait patiently while they talked with the chief, and told us they needed to come and check the boat. But first, you must stroll over to another office and pay them for the lights of the harbour and then come back. Eventually the typist typed up the clearance in record time of about 45 minutes. "Here you go, and lets think of a number, yep, here it is, pay this amount for strategic harbor purposes or something crazy and here are your papers, thank you very much, oh no, we don't need to come to boat- goodbye". Last payoff occurred, we departed. We later discovered we were the only boat to enter this harbor this year and will probably be the last.

The joy and essence of traveling are poignant for the many memories accumulated and reminisced upon. They are not always smooth or enjoyable, uncomplicated or easily understood, nonetheless, they are pleasurable because they add to the exposure to different cultures that would otherwise not exist without travel. Amidst all the crazy stuff is the insight into a culture that is foreign to us living in a westernized society. As we drove to the inland city of Mataram, through lush jungle, interspersed with rice fields, corn fields, streams and rivers piled with trash, people bathing, washing, fishing,we saw how living amongst this is normal and understood for those living here. As Junaedt, our guide explained, when he invited us to join him for dinner and an evening with his wife and 3 children- "life is hard in Lombok". Although his house was only about 1km from the harbor, he organized for 2 mopeds to transport us. As Kara and Uwe rode together on the back of one ridden by his friend, I clutched on to Junaedt and wondered if I was foolish in placing my trust on a man I barely knew, riding out through the stiffling jungle to God knows where; I listened to the constant friendly greetings by the locals as we sped by "hello missus, how are you" while a penetrating shrill peeled from the mosque, yet it all felt somehow ok. We shared a lovely dinner, squatted in his very modest house, all the neighbors gathered around to just watch us, Kara sat and tried to play with his daughter who was a bit wary of us, as night drew close we were in darkness but for a few candles, we talked about Ramadan prayer and fasting; while we relayed the Catholic equivalent of lent, (from what I could remember of it), in the end, we are all so different and yet so not.