The Ferry Crossing

The motto for our ferry crossing is hurry up and wait.  Our early arrival at the terminal saved us from the most chaotic seen imaginable—a weekly ferry being loaded with goods destined for Sudan.

 

A man is crouched in the entranceway, sweeping sugar from a burst bag.  He is blocking main entrance into the ship.  While waiting, I observe another man, also waiting. He has a few tomato seeds on his shoulder and a light stain of pink juice.  A bag containing tomatoes must have colored him as it was hoisted on his shoulder. 

 

As I make a climb to the top deck, we walk the through third class cabins.  There are rows of orange benches, all double backed.  The floor is painted white. Between foot traffic and dragging of boxes, the floor has been scratched to bare metal and dirtied with mud.  Turbaned men and scarved women lay with their children and are watching me walk through the mess.  They lay lazily, awaiting the ships departure. 

 

The ferry’s cabins and orange benches are numbered in Arabic.  Assuming our number characters are based on Arabic numerals, one would imagine it would be easy to figure out the cabin number.  If the cabin is labled 19, and you guess the number means 19, you would be correct.  However, assuming that cabin 10 is in fact cabin ten, you would be mistaken, as the “0” signifies a “5”.  You are looking at cabin 15. 

 

Foot space in the third class cabin is much a ground for argument.  One could comfortably have their feet occupy the space or sacrifice comfort for storage.  I witnessed several squabbles over this highly prized area, with one argument almost coming to fists.  Their argument halts traffic, as they block the aisle.  Passengers still try to bump through the argument, adding more rage to the quarrel.  The seated passengers retain their silent, lazy composure and watch the quarrel with a disinterested gaze.  A few gentlemen raise their jet black mustaches, exposing the white teeth, which seem to shine even brighter beneath the mustache.  They smile.  Perhaps they are reflecting on a time, in their younger days, where they were in such a predicament.  Or maybe thankful they are safely away from the action.  Any regular passenger has seen this hundreds of times.

 

Three hours past our scheduled departure time, goods are still being loaded onto the ferry at a feverish pace.  Unmarked cardboard boxes and their carriers barrel through the narrow aisles; unlooking they step on everything and people going the opposite direction against the wall.  Their frantic grunts of Arabic echo off the cabin walls as a staff member tries his best to slam the door shut.  Once the door is closed, loaders scream from outside and angry fists pound the steel door.  This dissuades the doorman to keep the door closed and a fresh flood of boxes and their carriers infiltrate the ferry and the frenzy resumes.

 

The artery of the ship begins at the entrance and then connects with a series of corridors, sending traffic throughout the ferry.  The main entrance smells of curdling cheese and some squatters have decided to make the hall their beds for the overnight journey.  It is hot with bodies, making the smell suffocating. 

 

On the top deck, life is cramped but much fresher.  The clouds from last nights sprinkling catch up to the dock and all of us are nervous about another cloudburst. This would soak us and all the goods sitting along side us.  The cool breezes from mainland smell damp and every sign points to rain—except for average rainfall statistics.  The ominous clouds loom until dusk, but are reluctant to deliver a reprise.  They do, however, block a blinding full moon that would have surely kept us awake.

 

Perpendicular, overfilled trucks defy the slope of the loading ramp.  Five men dangle their bodies from the higher side, using their negligible weight to counter the top heavy load.  An Egyptian frees ropes, causing an avalanche of cargo.  Sofa sized grain bags topple to either side as well as onto the anticipated place, a barge, now connecting our ferry to the dock.  White robed men scramble amongst the trucks, lifting the fallen grain bags and load the barge at a terrific pace.  Trucks leave empty, with a coil of rope in their bed. 

 

The assortment of good aboard ship is mystifying.  Half of the boat is laden with deteriorating cardboard boxes, exposing their wares the curious: rugs, pots, televisions, copy machines, printers, produce, cement mix, shoes, while the other half is filled with Twinkies.  Yes, Hostess Twinkies.  Our mouths dropped at the sight of trucks piled boxes of Twinkies.  The red and blue logo of Hostess and then the enlarged, underscored denotation of Twinkie.  We know that if the unthinkable happens, there are enough Twinkies to live off of or enough for each of us to have a box to float to shore.  To top off the strange assortment of cargo: 73 foreigners and 73 bicycles, hugging the rails watching the bedlam unfold.

 

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