Gusti Ngurah Rai International Airport, also known as Denpasar International Airport. Or simply THE AIRPORT DESIGNED BY THE DEVIL.
I have landed in Karachi, Bangalore, Lagos (where we were escorted out of the airport past an exploded petrol tanker by a ‘transport’ with a security guy carrying an AK47), Kigali, Maun, Johannesburg and Mumbai. This might be the worst immigration experience ever. “What about Heathrow?”, I hear you say.
Heathrow immigration was designed by a devil’s apprentice. A hell designer in training.
Denpasar is evil perfected.
You arrive in a vast hall (I think they were competing with Beijing Daxing International Airport for the most space under roof). You need binoculars to find any directional signage (I nearly pulled out my pocket Zeiss). But in the absence of such you just follow the crowd (always a bad idea).
The queue moves quite quickly. Progress is the thing. But it’s difficult to be patient when the queue is 10,000 tired grumpy passengers long (I might exaggerate a little here). The queue is organised through one of those barrier line things which copied an abattoir murder tunnel (and feels the same). As you wander through the system you are confronted with a barrier which says something about an “electronic system coming soon”.
So things can only get better right?
Not really.
Because as you come round the corner of this barrier you see a whole row of seemingly empty e-immigration gates. And the only one’s using them are fucking Australians. So you think, can the 10,000 be wrong? Surely the immigration officials will have wanted people to be directed towards these shiny new gates? Or are they in Beta and only need a little bit of savvy Australian testing?
So you stay in the queue.
But you are now doubly irritated. Because “what if?”. “What if” we hadn’t followed everyone else. “What if”our passports would have passed electronic entry muster. “What if” we’d just made a different decision.
Then we wouldn’t be in this nightmare queue!
“What if” we’d just stayed at home and drank quality great value Chenin?
The single queue barrier divides into three or four. So you just go with three. But it seems that this only divides the queue into slow, slower, slowest and crawling. We chose “crawling”. After an hour your irritability is now anger. But, as always, never fuck around with immigration or customs officials (we had watched Midnight Express in the late 70s).
As you shuffle along, you notice that people who were way behind you are now already out. But you, who chose the crawling queue, optimistically still have an hour to go.
Eventually you get through. And arrive to collect your baggage. You find the right carousel and stand around looking confused for awhile. And then, after 10 to 20 minutes, notices that there is a whole line of luggage that has been taken off the carousel. So you think “savvy am I being stupid and may luggage is there?”. Of course, yes it’s there. Proudly standing in a neat line next to the other queuing passengers who still haven’t go through immigration.
And then have another queue: the customs where they check if you have completed an online customs declaration (we had).
(Do all your online eVisa and eCustoms applications before you land, otherwise you’ll be in two additional hour long queues).
Eventually we are out. Tired, irritated wheeling our new overladen Samsonite suit cases.
Only to go through an Ikea hell.
Except its not past the beds, and linen, an light fittings, and office furniture, and sheets, and decorative items, and sofas by which the unescapable pathway forces you to pass. It is kiosks selling SIM cards, money exchange scams, duty free booze and perfume outlets, and Balinese crafts (lord knows why you’d want to buy this twak on entering rather than leaving a country is beyond me).
Where you can’t find a shortcut to the exit. And have to go through bedding, desks, sofas, houseware, appliances, sheets, decorative items, and lighting before you can pay for the replacement Allen key that you had thrown away in disgust when trying to assemble a futon base.
But this Ikea-queing is for SIM cards, money changers, booze, other Balinese crafts (which you should buy on arrival not exit) and tout after tout after tout blocking your way.
So you navigate that. And then are assaulted by taxi driver touts. Who insist on being paid cash. So, with all the others, you queue up at the ATM and leave your wife waving nunchakas at anyone who comes near.
This challenge is finally sorted. And you’re in a taxi with a guy who went from a Thai trained kick boxing meth addict to Mr. Nice in 30 seconds.
Two hours later you’re finally at your hotel.
Ready and needing a drink. Only the wine is shit. It’s called Two Islands. The South African equivalent is Two Oceans. You down a bottle anyway. Only to double down on your heartburn.