Police methods -- a taxing experience

JAKARTA (JP): In some places, renewing your vehicle registration is a straightforward process, achievable at a post office or by mailing a check. Not in Indonesia. Here, like sex, it can't be done by post or by proxy or by standing order. Unlike sex, the procedure takes half a day. It's a good opportunity to experience Indonesian police methods.

Armed with the necessary wad of banknotes and other, less important documents, I mounted the steps to the vehicle registration office at Jakarta Police Headquarters. Close at hand was my local guide, whose role was to obfuscate the renewal process while assisting the flow of funds from my wallet into the pockets of police officers.

It was busy. Indonesia's entire driving population seemed to have chosen that day to pay their dues. Their numbers were swelled by a motley band of enterprising small businessmen. The building is home to an extensive range of support industries, run by characters looking like pantomime pirates -- all broken teeth, stubble and scars. (And the men are even worse.)

The would-be registree who arrives penless will find himself promptly surrounded by swarthy stationers keen to supply the necessary instrument at a suitably inflated price. The hapless applicant who finds himself delayed beyond his usual mealtime will be approached by grubby purveyors of a variety of consumables nestling in unappetizing conditions.

Keen to avoid dysentery and typhoid, and needing to report to the fourth floor, we fought our way to the stairs. As we mounted them, the press of people reduced, until by the time we reached our floor, it was reminiscent merely of a capacity football crowd bursting out of a cramped stadium at the end of the match. We were in a small windowless office where we reported to a sulky policewoman behind whom, completely oblivious of the throng, another officer sat noisily engaged in eating a late breakfast.

Sulky examined my documents, and after making clear her annoyance at the way they'd been cut and grouped, displayed a virtuosity with the stanley knife and straight edge that could only have resulted from long practice. It was followed by an equally impressive performance with the stapler.

Leaving the breakfaster still enthusiastically devouring his plateful, we were dismissed to the third floor. Having passed by it three times already, I'd suspected we wouldn't be spared a visit, and I wasn't disappointed. It turned out to be my favorite floor.

We entered a long space with a full-length counter, against which the inevitable crowd, overwhelmingly male, were pressing. The noise was deafening and a thick fog of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Indonesians are the most enthusiastic smokers -- the masochistic fervor with which they assault their lungs is mind boggling.

The assembled congregation was passing the time by smoking and, between puffs, shouting at each other. In each corner of the room hung high-level speakers and I prayed they wouldn't crackle into life while I was present, though it seemed likely that the system had long ago broken down. The air-conditioning certainly had -- the room was swelteringly hot. Perhaps this was police policy -- an applicant suffering from heatstroke might offer a bonus for a faster exit.

We joined the queue. This did not comply with the orderly platonic ideal of queues, but was an informal affair involving much jostling and yelling and a fairly random order of business. So we waited and jostled. I did less than the average quota of yelling, but did plenty of sweating. Behind the counter, uniformed minions wearing glazed expressions processed documents. One youth did nothing except tear forms along the perforations. His neighbor's task was to stamp them. Here indeed were two ace crime-busters in action.

Time passed. The smoke, the heat and the racket seemed to intensify, and the sweat running down my back was collecting into a broadening damp zone at the waist. I looked around the room. Through grimy windows, I could see a broad sill strewn with several inches of accumulated rubbish. A cadaverous cat was stalking through the debris, its scarred, sullen expression a fitting reflection of its surroundings. I had no sympathy. It was having a miserable time, but not as miserable as I was.

I had just noticed closer at hand, in fact far too close for comfort, a youth who, I swiftly concluded, belonged to that group known as the criminally insane. He wasn't big, but he was very frightening. It was hard to believe he'd been allowed in the building at all, as he should have been arrested for his appearance alone. He was holding an orange. Not wishing him to think I wanted his orange, or worse still to make friends, I avoided eye contact with him and began whistling a sort of unconcerned tune.

Without warning, he took a ferocious bite out of the still unpeeled fruit in a manner that suggested he had just caught it in the act of raping his mother. Finding the taste unsatisfactory, he gave a spine-chilling grimace, spat the offending mouthful on to the floor and kicked it venomously against the baseboard. He called over one of the other waiting miscreants, who very wisely came running, and handed him the remains of the unwanted orange with instructions to replace it. I suddenly felt horribly conspicuous -- as vulnerable as the orange. I had been standing close enough to receive spatters of juice on my shoe. Not that I minded that in the least, as long as he didn't bite me: He was probably rabid.

Deliverance came in the unexpected form of a policeman, who called me up to the counter to present my documentation for counting. My ordeal was almost over and I could stop whistling. A short while later, somewhat poorer, I was released unbitten into the comparative comfort and safety of Jakarta's undesigned roads and their uncontrolled traffic, driven by untrained drivers. Strange to think we'd all been through the same initiation procedure at police headquarters.

Which reminds me -- next month I have to return there to renew my driver's license.

-- Michael Upton