A bangka does not run on a timetable. It runs when it is full, or when the tide is right, or when the boatman has finished his coffee. In five small ports, I learned that the waiting room is where the trip actually happens.
The waiting room is a bench under a tin roof. Sometimes it is a plank on two drums. Always there is a thermos, a radio and a person who knows exactly how long you will be here and will not say.
Always there is a thermos, a radio and a person who knows exactly how long you will be here.
What you do
You sit. You watch the boats. A boy mends a net. A woman sells peeled mangoes in a plastic cup with salt. Someone tells you about the wedding, the storm, the cousin in Dubai. A dog sleeps through all of it.
Why it is worth it
On the boat itself there is the engine, the spray and the horizon. In the waiting room there are people. They are the reason I write about travel at all.
If you go, bring something to share. A bag of pan de sal opens every conversation you will ever need. Times, as usual, are the boatman’s opinion.