The Plot Thickens

Re-entering Malaysia, they had given me a two-week stamp so that I was required to visit the nearest Immigrations office two weeks after my arrival. So, I got my taxi driver to take me to Ipoh on Friday. As I discovered, Friday is probably the worst day to show up at an Immigrations office. It was shockingly crowded and noisy.

So, I enter the room, but where do I start? It only made sense to go to counter number one, so I did. A man was leaning against the counter, sort of to the side, but the man inside the cage was wrapped up in paperwork, so I waited. Five minutes later, a woman comes close and we exchanged comments. I said,

"I don't know if I'm at the right counter. I just need a form to fill in."

The leaning man turned and said, "Counter number two."

Good to know. I line up with the half dozen at counter two. Their conversation in Malaysian is long and goes on and on. One at a time, they are dismissed until one man remains and I'm next. I ask politely,

"Could I have a form to fill out for a three-month visa?"

Angry look. He ignores me.

The remaining man receives a paper and starts to walk away, then changes his mind. He talks and talks.

I ask again, even more sweetly than before and the man looks at my passport.

"This is final," he says. "Cannot stay longer."

"But they told me at the border that I could come and get a three-month visa," I whined.

"They said you can ask?" he replied, "Go to counter ten."

(Right! Now, I remember. Counter ten is where that lady is that took a hard line with me last time. Thank You, God.)

 So, I sit in the seat. Nobody is around. They all seem to be avoiding me. As soon as I show up, everyone disappears. They let me wait for a reasonable amount of time. I notice the name on the counter is Azlin and see a girl with the name tag "Alin" on her jacket (typo, no doubt) but she's talking to the girl in the next booth.

Now, she's in front of me. I tell her my request and she says, "Must get photo stat (she really means photocopy, but they haven't advanced that far yet) downstairs and form number 55."

Downstairs, wait in the que, pay for photo copy, back upstairs, get form and then, guess what! I go back to counter number two. Why? To get a number. They couldn't just put a little number printing box there that you push the button and get a number.

Casually, I mention to someone, "English? . . ." Nope. No response. Muttering to myself, "I just need a number."

A Chinese man in front of another person turns to me and says (in perfect English), "You stand in this line to get your ticket."

"Oh! You do speak English and very nicely, too," I gushed.

"I just got back from Canada," he said.

"I'm from Canada. What part?"

"Toronto," he said and then he was called off, so he said I could have his place in line, which was a good thing because that line was getting longer and longer and slower and slower. By the time I got up to the front (again), there were these same kind of guys hanging out at the window talking in Malaysian (really it's Indonesian Bahasa which is basically the same language) and the guy behind the counter is ignoring me (again).

An Indian mad standing at the side shares eye rolls with me and I tell him, "All this for a number. They should have a machine that spits out numbers. Do you want me to get you one? If I get up there, I can get you one . . ."

Suddenly the man behind the counter can see me and he is a bit surprised that I am back. "So, they are letting you try again?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "There is a God."

"What?"

"There is a God," I said quite loudly, come to think of it, "Do you believe in God?"

For the first time, the man actually smiled. He actually had teeth. He handed me the precious number.

When I finally got to counter 11, it was one o'clock. Three hours later. (And, by the way, in Malaysia, it's not a counter, it's a kaunter and they pronounce it, "kunter".)

"This is final," she said. (It was the forbidden lady. I call her that now. She hates me.)

"But, but, . . ."

"I told you before that you cannot come in again after this. What are you doing here? Are you married to a Malaysian man?"

"No," trying not to have any trace of disdain in my voice. . .

"If you were married to a Malaysian man, you could come back and we would give you a proper visa."

I kept my mouth shut. Right, like I'm going to marry a Malaysian.

She disappeared. Then, "My boss said you can stay for one week. One week only. Sit down."

At this point, I resorted to pleading and cajoling, using my Canadian citizenship to press them with,

"I'm a Canadian. I'm a tourist. Why don't you want me in your country?" It fell on deaf ears.

She smugly retorted that if I married a Malaysian, they would help me to get a "proper" visa. The way you're doing it is not the right way. You should get a "Malaysia My Second Home" visa . . . and on and on. . .

Fifteen minutes later, I pick up my passport with yet another visa page taken up with a photocopy of my photo page. (I hate it when they mess up my passport.)

"You must leave the country in less than seven days," she threatens me, "Good-bye. I hope you enjoyed your stay."

"Yes, it was a beautiful country, while it lasted," I moaned.

My head is spinning. Where do I go? My lovely home is all furnished with trees in the yard, a painted school room, a refrigerator, water filter, hot water heater, wardrobe, . . . Now I have to leave.

"Leave! And never come back!" (voice of Gollum, Lord of the Rings II).