You can tell a lot about a bus by its first ten minutes. The 5 AM from Buendia tells you that everyone on it has somewhere to be, and that the somewhere is a boat.
The conductor works the aisle with a ticket roll and a small flashlight. He knows every regular. A woman in a hospital uniform gets a nod. A man with a guitar case gets a joke. I get asked, in Tagalog, whether I am lost, and I say no, and he looks unconvinced.
Highway
The bus climbs onto the expressway and, for an hour, there is nothing to look at except headlights and the occasional billboard for a condominium. People sleep with their mouths open. A phone plays a drama at low volume. The air conditioning is set to the same medical temperature as every other vehicle in the country.
Somewhere after dawn the country opens up. Coconut palms, a roadside stand, a hill with a cross on top. You can breathe again.
The last stretch
The final twenty minutes are the slowest. The traffic into the port is a single file of buses, vans and trucks, all headed to the same gate. The conductor stands, shouts the stop, and half the bus rises at once.
Take your bag, say thank you and walk the way everyone else is walking. The boat will not be waiting. But there will be one.