My 3-day visa run from Indonesia was now turning into 3 weeks as I returned back to Kuala Lumpur to pick up my new passport. Unfortunately, the US Embassy only allows you to pick up your passport on Mondays or Wednesdays from 2-4 pm and I arrived back in the city on a Friday so I still had a couple of days to kill. I messaged my friend Kai to let her know I would be back and she invited me to go paddle boarding with her and her boys.
I got a ride to Kai’s house the next day and met her two boys, aged 10 and 13, we loaded into the car and drove outside the city, about 45 minutes, to a reservoir. Someone was already there setting up the inflatable paddle boards and we spent the morning peacefully paddling around on the calm water while her boys chaotically tried to tip each other. Boys will be boys.
After paddle boarding, we went to lunch at the Kuala Lumpur Golf and Country Club, where Kai is a member, and I could not believe the level of wealth. We showered in the luxurious bathrooms and then sat down to eat as I entertained the boys with questions about what it’s like to live in the United States. They were most concerned with tipping culture, why we just leave cash on the table, what kind of services require tipping, and why servers don’t make a living wage. After trying to explain it to them, I realized how ridiculous it is.
Monday rolled around and I headed to the US Embassy, arriving at 2 pm, to pick up my new passport. The woman at the counter explained that before I went to the airport on a departing flight, I would need to stop at an immigration office for them to transfer my Malaysia entry stamp to the new passport and handed me a poorly copied piece of paper with instructions. Afterward, I sat down for lunch and looked over the paper, realizing the instructions were not very intuitive.
Although there are dozens of immigration offices around Kuala Lumpur, the paper indicated I might only be able to go to this one specific office, an hour south of the city and on the way to the airport. I might need an appointment and I might have to pay, but since government offices don’t accept cash, I can only pay with a Malaysia debit or credit card. Since this was all very confusing, I tried calling the number on the page only to be put on hold or continuously redirected until someone just hung up on me. It seemed nobody knew where I needed to go or if I needed an appointment, and if or how I needed to pay. Panic began to set in as I realized I might, once again, miss my flight to Indonesia.
After spending an hour on the phone, trying to sort out what I needed to do to leave the country, I finally got ahold of someone who pointed me to a government website where I could make an appointment at the immigration office. Despite English being a common second language in Malaysia, the entire website was in Bahasa and I had to use the coffee barista to help me navigate the different drop-down menus. Eventually, I received an e-mail confirmation for some kind of appointment the following day at 11 am.
The next morning, I was so anxious that I could hardly sleep. I decided to just pack up my things and hail a ride to the immigration office, an hour south in a city called Putrajaya. We arrived by 9 am and I was surprised to see such beautiful buildings, wonderful architecture, landscaped lawns, and a glassy lake that makes up this government complex. Just Google “Putrajaya” and you’ll see what I mean.
My driver dropped me off at immigration headquarters and I lugged my backpack and box up the stairs and the security guard pointed me to elevators, indicating the fourth floor. I forgot how crowded government buildings always are and waited in line to receive a number printout, then waited an hour for my number to be called. Once called, I walked up to the counter presented my documents, and explained the situation, emphasizing that I had an international flight departing that afternoon. The officer took my passports and said I could sit back down or go get breakfast or lunch until my number was called again approximately one hour.
I sit down and try to calculate in my head what time I need to depart the immigration office to still check in my box and make my flight. My flight departed at 5 pm so I would need to be there by 3 pm but I was still an hour away from the airport so I decided that if I could leave by 1 pm, that should be plenty of time. At this point, it’s 10 am and one hour goes by, then another, and I see a sign on the counter indicating the staff takes a break from 12 to 1:30. My efforts to expedite the process don’t seem to help much and I commiserated with a middle eastern woman who has been waiting even longer, attributing the delay to racism.
Finally, at 1:30 I was called to pick up the passport and surprised to find I didn’t have to pay anything. I run out of the building, ordered a ride in pouring rain and eagerly jump in. Although there was some traffic, I arrived at the airport with enough time to check my box and eat in the airport lounge before the departure. I thought back to when I was first booking the flight and was debating whether or not to pay extra for an earlier flight but settled on the later, cheaper option. I was thankful that my past self had an intuition about this moment and everything worked out. Next stop: Indonesia!
