Over the borderline (borderline)

So I am back in Jakarta, albeit this time—at least for the first week—as an international businessman. Though I almost didn’t get in (to Indonesia, that is), nearly sent trudging back to Norita to complete endless quarantine forms (do you have bacon fever?) and wander amongst the towers of tax-free cartons of Marlboros.

I have always been fascinated by the extra-judicial status of the swath of airport behind customs. Where am I? Sparing the existential trope about being without being, I have always been wary of the uncertainty associated with borders. Do I unwittingly carry the US border with me while I fly halfway around the world, like a stowaway square of toilet paper steadily uncoiling roll of my rights, protections, and obligations?

The approaching border certainly asserts itself: funny hats, automatic weapons, scowling uniformed teenagers, and finally the thump-thump of a fist attuned to much humorless stamping; yet just when the chips are down, the border behind steals away with impunity, and leaves you standing—defenseless—without enough visa pages, in the ether before the concertina wire.