I caught a bus from Bukittinggi to Padang and from there a flight to Bali. It was time to go home. I was going to tell you about my 1987 departure from Indonesia. Of how we had flown from Bali to the tiny island of Biak for processing through Indonesian customs. Of how, one hour over the Pacific, the pilot had come on the intercom to announce that we had a leak in the hydraulic system and were going back to Biak. I was going to tell you about how the ground crew had attempted to replace a leaking hose with one they had in inventory but had stripped the metal couplers which they did not have in inventory and so had to place a call to Jakarta for replacement parts. And of how the next plane to land had the couplers but they were the wrong size so the airline finally sent an empty plane to take us home. How a nineteen hour flight turned into a forty-eight hour saga. I was going to tell you all this but I have decided to tell you the story of my 1978 departure from Indonesia instead. October, 1978, and I had made the acquaintance of two lovely American women. They were on their way to Hong Kong and would I mind checking the post office to see if they had received any mail and forward it to them after they had left? Always the gentleman I set off to pick up the mail the next day. I was new to travel back then but had already learned to carry all my valuables in a pouch hung around my neck. Having picked up a rather severe sunburn that pouch was now in my camera bag. I took a bemo (van) to the post office in the next town. Finding no mail for the ladies I decided to take some pictures and reached into my bag for my camera. Something was missing. The pouch with my passport, plane ticket and money was gone. All I had was the money in my pocket. The nearest American consulate was in Surabaya, 150 miles away. Fortunately I had previously shipped some souvenirs home and the shipping company had a copy of my passport on file. I found a police station and proceeded to have a theft report made out. A young officer brought out a table and ancient manual typewriter and set up on the sidewalk where he laboriously typed out the report using the hunt-and-peck method. Of course the report was in Indonesian. I was then informed that I would have to get the report signed by the general in charge of immigration before I could leave the country. Back at my lodging in Kuta Beach I borrowed some money from a very nice lady from Berkeley and spent the rest of the evening worrying. Bright and early I took a bemo to Bali's capital city, Denpasar, and found the Office of Immigration. The building wasn't grand enough to have a lobby so let's just say I entered the out room where I found a corporal sitting behind a counter. Between furtive glances around the room he kept insisting that it would be impossible to help me if I had no money. I was so naive that I didn't realize until much later that he was asking for a bribe. The general would see me when he arrived at the office. I was directed to a wooden bench and sat down next to another westerner dressed in the traditional hippy uniform. Long hair tied in a ponytail, tie dyed shirt, silk pants and sandals. It was nine o'clock and he had already been waiting an hour to renew his visa. After an hour a pretty young blond woman came in to renew her visa. She was wearing a crisp white blouse with the top two buttons opened, a black skirt that ended just above the knee and a small camera which was draped over her left shoulder. The corporal smiled and immediately stood up to welcome her. She presented her passport and, as he completed the paperwork, they laughed and chatted about stereos and cameras. Ten minutes and she was gone. After another two hours had passed the corporal said the general would see me now. The door I entered turned out to be the only door to his office. He had been there the entire time. My potential savior turned out to be an overweight, middle aged man with a pencil thin mustache and heavily greased black hair. He was wearing a uniform one size too small for him and looked for all the world like a Latin American dictator one would find in a 1930s MGM movie. He solemnly pulled out my "dossier" which consisted of a manila folder containing my one page theft report and a copy of my passport. After I recounted the incident that had sent me there he indicated that he would sign the theft report but emphasized several times that if the United States refused to admit me I would not be allowed back into Indonesia. "If America says no, we do not want you back." I assured him that I would be just fine as soon as I set foot on American soil, but his words had their effect and I began to wonder and worry. After four hours I was done. As I left I could see the hippy. He was still waiting. The next day I was packed and ready to go early. The airline had readily agreed to replace the stolen ticket and the owner of the losmen where I was staying had arranged for his brother to take me to the airport in his taxicab at no charge. All that was left was for me to check in for my night flight out of Indonesia. At the airport I was informed that the theft report would also have to be signed by the airport's head of security. He refused saying it was not his responsibility and sent me to the airport office of immigration. There I was told the head of security would have to sign the report. I could see the plane taking off without me. After another trip to security he and the immigration officer got together to decide my fate. Finally, the security officer very reluctantly agreed to sign the report, allowing me to leave the country. Checked in and in my seat I realized I would not be safe until the plane left Indonesian airspace. I imagined armed officials storming onto the plane and carrying me off to an uncertain fate. Finally we had liftoff but the closer the plane came to Los Angeles the more I worried. Would I really be allowed into the country without a passport? At the airport I stood in line with the other passengers. I stepped up to the arrival station and presented my documents. I was directed to the immigration station located at the other end of the terminal. Several times over the intervening years I have had conversations about patriotism. Before this I had never given it a lot of thought. I walked over to immigration station. I was the only one there. With the general's words echoing in my ear I presented my papers to the officer with what I imagine were trembling hands. He looked at the papers, kept the copy of my passport and handed the theft report back to me. Incredulously I asked, "Is that it?" He smiled and said, "Yep, we'll let you know if your passport turns up. Welcome home." And that was the day I became a patriot. So, after all that, would I go again? Absolutely. There are some 13,000 islands in the Indonesian archipelago and I've only visited three of them. I still have 12,997 to go.