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By Mihar Dias (C) Copyright September 2024
For the first time in my life, departing from Sabah felt like an obstacle course designed by a particularly sadistic bureaucrat.
All because of a tiny piece of paper—the immigration departure chit. You know the one, handed to you with a friendly reminder, "Don't lose that!" Well, guess what? I lost it.
Let’s start from the beginning. The friendly immigration officer handed me this tiny slip on my arrival, his name tag so worn that it probably served as a relic from the ‘90s. I cheekily suggested he get a new one to match the shiny image of our nation’s polished gatekeepers. He laughed, I laughed—it was all fun and games. Little did I know, three days later, I’d be cursing the very existence of this miniscule chit.
Fast forward to my departure. I approached the immigration counter, confident as ever, only to realise that I had misplaced this elusive paper. Panic set in as the officer coolly informed me that without it, my only hope was to file a police report.
A police report! For a tiny slip of paper! The nearest police station, as it turned out, was strategically hidden at the farthest, most remote corner of the airport. I limped, literally and figuratively, towards the station, my knee reminding me with every step that osteoarthritis waits for no man.
Upon arrival, the policeman—polite, efficient, and utterly bored—took one look at me and sighed, "Lost your immigration chit, huh?" Turns out this happens all the time. The station's biggest source of reports? Not crime, not misplaced luggage—but lost immigration chits. Clearly, I wasn’t special.
Five minutes later, with my police report in hand (an A4 sheet with just my name and IC number—because that’s the kind of thrilling bureaucracy we all love), I retraced my steps through security. Belt off, watch off, wallet in the tray, praying my trousers wouldn’t fall to my ankles mid-sprint to immigration.
When I finally made it back to the counter, the immigration officer barely glanced at me. He took my IC, grabbed the police report, and waved me through as if we hadn’t just engaged in a ritualistic dance of lost paperwork and sore knees. Not a word. The police report was gospel, and all was forgiven. I couldn’t help but wonder: was this whole saga necessary?
Here’s a radical thought: what if we, oh I don’t know, upgraded the system? In a world where satellites can track your phone to within inches, why is my entry and exit from the state recorded on a tiny slip of paper easily lost in the depths of wallets? Surely, immigration has records of my arrival. Couldn’t they use the same system to track my departure? Does it really all boil down to a chit the size of a sticky note?
I humbly propose that Sabah immigration go paperless. Save the trees, save the knees of people like me, and spare future travellers from hobbling through airports, fretting over a lost piece of paper that, in the grand scheme of things, surely doesn’t warrant a police report. Let’s upgrade our systems, improve the experience, and spare us all the emotional (and physical) distress of losing that infernal immigration chit.
Because the next time I hobble through an airport, it better be because of duty-free shopping—not bureaucratic nonsense.
(Act governing visit permits refer to https://www.imi.gov.my/index.php/perkhidmatan-utama/pas/endosmen-pengecualian-seksyen-66/)
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