It is that time of year once again when Indonesian law compels me to renew my Kitas (visa). This vital, credit card sized document is actually the only thing that secures my, I have to say, rather idyllic lifestyle on the island of Bali. Without it I would be frog marched to the nearest airport, put on a plane and sent back to wherever it was that I came from.

I suppose it is a small price to pay to remain as a guest in this wonderful country, but God, the process of getting one’s hands on that document could be compared to running a marathon barefoot over a bed of hot coals.

The world has been  wondering  why the equatorial forests are disappearing at such a rapid rate of knots for years; well, it's my belief that those ancient trees are being systematically pulped and turned into forms feeding a government gorging on a diet of bureaucracy!

Now, I am no stranger to bureaucracy having spent many years in Australia, but I have to acknowledge that Indonesia has turned it into an art form. If it were an Olympic sport no other nation would dare to challenge them for the gold medal.

Here we have a system of government in which most of the important decisions are made by state officials rather than by elected officials meaning a paper trail that would stretch to the moon and back.

It’s like a fungus  contaminating everything it comes in contact with but, I am assured that it defends the status quo even though, on the surface it appears that the quo has lost its status said one Laurence J. Peters.  Every country suffers from it and these days it seems as if bureaucracy has become a modern form of despotism. 

When you think about it, bureaucracy simply gave birth to itself and, once it reached adulthood it is now expecting maternity benefits!  I think it was Dale Daeton who said of it,  “ perhaps the only thing that will save us from bureaucracy is its inefficiency, for it is a giant machine operated by pygmies.”

Renewing a Kitas, and I stress 'renewing,' entails filling out eight pages of forms (in triplicate), which are the same forms as I filled out last year! Supplying eight, yes eight, passport sized photographs with a red background (last year it was a rather pleasant shade of blue), a police, ‘good citizen’ form to show that I had not committed some heinous crime in the last year, a declaration from my bank confirming that I am not a financial delinquent and, finally trip to the immigration department to have my fingerprints taken …again!

Four weeks will pass before I receive a letter (duplicate) asking me to present myself at immigration to collect the precious document. The letter kindly requests that, as I will be in a government office the following attire should be worn; a shirt with collar  (not too colourful), casual slacks, black or beige preferred and shoes or sandals with socks.

I duly present myself at the correct counter, salivating like a Pavlovian dog resembling someone who could easily be taken for a British filing clerk, and duly sign several forms in triplicate to secure my passport and the small, albeit colourful laminated form that allows me to reside in the country for another year.

Clutching it to my breast I scurry outside, lest some bureaucrat has a sudden change of heart and, once at a safe distance I gaze lovingly at the gift bestowed upon me.  The photograph on the card is so badly scanned and distorted that I resemble someone who has been the unfortunate victim of a science experiment gone horribly wrong. The thumbprint in the top right hand corner (at least I think it is a thumbprint) looks like a black blob of ink that that has dripped from a leaky pen and my middle name has been spelt incorrectly.

No matter, if I dared to change it I fear the paperwork involved would wipe out the few remaining trees on the island of Sumatra so, while I am domicile here I am quite content to have Vincent spelt with a double C