The Ferry

We arrive at the Dili port at 4 pm. We get out of the car and enter the throng, our arms loaded up with luggage. We set off to line up, but realise there is no line; there is just a mob, crowded around a large gate. Young street vendors approach us with sticks of bamboo balanced over their shoulders in the hope that we will buy something to lighten the heavy weights of travelling food - mandarins, peanuts, bananas - that hang below each end, like large scales. I’ve already done the shopping, so we disappoint them by saying no. I’ve bought some gourmet treats for the journey – nuts and beer for appetisers, sushi rolls for main course and Portuguese tarts for dessert, followed by ginger nuts and iced coffee. What can I say? I like a good meal.

We wait, in the baking sun, surrounded by our fellow ferry-goers. Occasionally the gate slides open, followed by a hum of excitement from the crowd as people begin gathering up their luggage. This soon turns to confusion and vague irritation as a car drives through, parting the sea of the already crowded area, forcing people to move away, but only far enough to protect one’s toes. The gate closes again, and we wait some more.

This happens several more times, our hopes rising in anticipation each time, until finally the gate opens and a man begins checking tickets. A few people standing at the back near us start to push their way through the otherwise stagnant crowd (we have learnt since that many people just come here for the spectacle). We begin to make our way to the gate, and amongst the sea of bodies that surrounds me, I feel a tug on my handbag and I instantly think I’m being pick-pocketed. But when I turn around I see a young girl has grabbed hold of my bag strap to lift it over another bag that it’s become tangled up in. I give her a thankful smile and she smiles back – an intimate, friendly gesture amongst the struggling crowd. As more people push through the gate, large boxes are passed over people’s heads, over the fence to the passengers on the other side.

With one final surge, we eventually make our way to the front and get through the gate. We are directed to walk along a very narrow path, wedged between a seemingly endless line of sea containers – standing three high – and the fence that separates the port from the road. We walk along this passage for a few metres, following the other passengers. Then, without warning, our procession takes a left turn, squeezing between two rows of sea containers towering high above our heads. We emerge from the metal sandwich, into the sunlight once again, where the ferry awaits.

We board the boat. I take a deep breath before stepping onto the very precarious ramp which rises and falls with the ocean swell, taking the fewest steps possible in order to get my feet firmly on board.

We make our way upstairs and find ourselves being escorted into a small internal room, the door labelled “VIP”. It appears that the mere fact that you possess white skin automatically implies that you are “very important” and would therefore prefer an enclosed, air-conditioned cubicle as opposed to a plastic chair on the deck. No questions asked.

The first thing that strikes me upon entering the VIP room is the TV, which is playing Indonesian karaoke. On either side of the TV, running the length of the room are two platforms, one at ground level and one about a metre off the ground. Each platform is fitted with little individual vinyl “pillows”, about two inches high, separated by dividers that go from head to waist. It is a bit like a library study desk, except for the lying down part. At this point I remember: I’ve heard people talking about this room – they call it the “chicken coop”. A few locals are lounging around, already having claimed their nest. We choose a spot on the upper deck and mark our territory with our sushi, a couple of jumpers and an ipod.

As I get settled, I start to observe my surroundings, enjoying the friendly chatter amongst the other passengers. My attention then turns to my peripheral vision, which has been heightened at the site of some small but disturbing details crawling around the corners of our cubicles, and exactly where my head is to lie. Cockroaches. They are emerging out of everywhere. I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

As more people start coming into the VIP area I begin to wonder whether we’ve crashed some sort of party. Everyone who entered has been greeted with such gusto and familiarity. After a little while, a young couple walk in with a newborn baby, trying to find the best spot to claim. Everyone in the room has an opinion in trying to work it out for them. Eventually, the guard suggests that he bring in a swag for them to lie on on the floor. Everyone agrees that this would be the best option for them. And so it was.

And as I settle in for my first ferry ride, I lay back on the hard platform, my head on the cockroach-infested, unyielding vinyl pillow, and I come to realise that these people don’t know each other at all; they are simply strangers being kind to each other. I marvel at the gentleness of the Timorese as I slowly close my eyes.