Arriving in Jakarta is a slightly surreal experience. In some ways you feel like a rock star traveling the 2nd world.

I’d been informed a facilitator would be waiting for me when I exited the plane. I was a little bit worried (and nearly went back to double check) when the first person standing in the airbridge didn’t have my name on the piece of paper they were waving randomly around.

I decided to soldier ahead, and ran into a second group. Still no name. Should I go back and double check? BCI, who I work for are just a little paranoid, so perhaps I’d better check to see if they’ve been so devious in hiding my name (and theirs) that I’ve missed it in my slightly dazed state. I decide to go forward, figuring I can always go back. 30 metres past where the airbridge meets the main concourse stand a third group of “facilitators”. One of them holds the most prominent sign with my initials. Well “Mr my initials”. No sign of BCI’s logo. Still he has a letter and id card for me – so it was all good. I can’t figure why he chose to stand 30 metres away from the airbridge – but having been here a few days have concluded it’s probably due to where his “time wasting” mates are. More on that some other day.

Wandering down the concourse we passed the visa purchase place. My visa was already sorted so we march up to the immigration desk. I’ve handed my passport, immigration and customs forms to the “facilitator”. Suddenly he directs me “You walk through there – I’ll meet you at the luggage conveyor, your luggage is on conveyor 3″, roughly pointing down the side of one of the immigration desks where a group of about 5 immigration officers stands. I walk though, not even thinking about the weirdness of not getting a stamp, not queueing, not even stopping to talk to the immigration officers. Just walk.

After stopping at an ATM I retrieve some cash. I then look up to see which carousel luggage is meant to be on. Yes – carousel 2. Moral of the story – never believe a facilitator. I wait, luggage comes out, I wait, more luggage comes out. The facilitator turns up by my side, hands me my freshly stamped passport and directs me to tell him when my bag makes an appearance. I had thought about not telling him – and just letting my luggage go round and round, but decided this wouldn’t be appreciated. Having seen luggage go round at least 5 times, we come to the conclusion mine is missing.

The facilitator suddenly decides he doesn’t want to be involved and herds me towards a lost luggage service office. I’m not really surprised my luggage has gone missing – I know I had to rush between terminals when I changed flights to get to Jakarta – so I figure my luggage didn’t make the flight. It’s happened before so my mind ticks over wondering what I’ll be dressed like going to work. Jacket – tick. White shirt – tick. Flowers on it – Cross. Black, somewhat faded casual stretchy trousers – Cross. Black leather boots – tick. (Thank goodness I decided to wear them in the plane!). Somehow or another I even kept a pair of underpants (from my last trip!) in my travel bag (tick!). Could be worse.

A few questions laters and the women is ready to usher me out. I ask “Excuse me – I’ll need to buy some clothes for work tomorrow”. She looks at me and on the basis of my business class ticket says “The airline will sort you out”. I’ve heard horror stories of “being sorted out” by airlines previously, and my mood drops. Wonder of wonders – “Sorting out” commences – with her suddenly counting out cash into my hot little hands. One Hundred Thousand, Two hundred thousand – all the way up to 1.2 MILLION. WooHoo! Jackpot. I’d taken out 300000 rupiah at the ATM, figuring it was about 350 dollars. 1.2 million would be about 1400 dollars! Suddenly the world is not so grim. I’m in the money, I’m in the money.

Scene – the car on the way to the hotel. I do my sums again, and realise my 8000 times tables aren’t as good as they should be. Yep – I took 35 dollars out from the ATM, and only got 150 for the next few days clothes. Sigh. At least I’m a millionaire.