In this part of the world, ferries often turn out to be more than just a way of getting from A to B — sometimes they become an attraction in their own right, complete with memories you won’t easily forget.
Broadly speaking, ferries here fall into three types:
- speedboats, designed purely for carrying passengers, at speed;
- small ferries, likewise built for passengers only;
- large ferries, which carry both passengers and vehicles — motorbikes, cars, even small buses and lorries.
The key difference between them comes down to how they actually behave on the water.
A speedboat is a large or medium-sized vessel built for speed, and the price you pay for that speed is heavy rocking and considerable noise. In the relatively calm Gulf of Thailand, particularly during the dry season, this is tolerable enough — but out on the open ocean, most passengers become intimately acquainted with seasickness, in every detail. The most vivid accounts of this tend to come from tourists in Bali, taking on the 70-kilometre crossing to neighbouring Lombok or the Gili Islands. Even the relatively gentle Indian Ocean can be genuinely rough on an unprepared stomach — never mind the days or weeks when a distant storm sends waves as high as 4 metres crashing onto Bali’s shores.
Ferries, by contrast, are a quiet, unhurried affair, where the main discomfort is simple boredom. They move slowly, but the waves barely trouble them at all. In a genuine storm, no doubt they’d be uncomfortable too, though I suspect they simply don’t sail in weather that bad.
In Thailand, ferries run to a strict timetable, down to the minute, and traffic can be so heavy that boats follow one another in quick succession. Even so, this being Asia, things rarely go entirely without a hitch. Crossing to Koh Chang once, for instance, a minivan failed to drive fully onto the ferry, and when the loading ramp — I’ve no idea what the technical term is for the part that lowers down for vehicles — was raised, the van started rising with it, its rear wheels still resting on the ramp itself. The loading crew’s reaction amounted to little more than a collective “oops,” followed by lowering the ramp slightly and simply hoping for the best, on the assumption the van probably wouldn’t actually fall off. A couple of years later, I found myself in a near-identical situation, when my own car was squeezed onto a ferry with its rear wheels sitting a mere 10 centimetres from the edge. A few rocks were wedged under the tyres, a rope was tied loosely round the back of the car, and by that point I’d absorbed quite enough of the local philosophy of sabai-sabai to simply shrug and say: fine.
In Bali, things get even more entertaining — ferries there are practically free spirits. Trying to get to the neighbouring island of Nusa Penida, I spent ages just trying to work out which port the large ferries even left from — I found the huge cargo port first, then the speedboat port, and only eventually the right one. Then came the search for a timetable and prices, which every forum I found simply told me to sort out in person, on arrival. The port itself was an hour and a half’s drive away, but there wasn’t much choice in the matter. And once there, the following exchange took place:
“What time does the ferry to Nusa Penida leave, the day after tomorrow?”
“Probably around ten in the morning.”
“Is there anywhere I could find the exact time?”
“Definitely no later than eleven. But come at eight.”
Right, then.
Just in case, I turned up early, since there was only one ferry a day to Nusa Penida. At the ticket office, they pointed me towards a boat: “That’s your ferry.” I could see it sitting there, so I assumed it would be departing soon. I walked over, and one of the loading crew said, “That one’s going to Lombok. Wait.” One boat sailed off, another docked, and again: “That one’s going to Lombok too. Wait.” By this point it was already midday. In the end, I finally set off sometime around two in the afternoon. I assumed the chaos had something to do with MotoGP, which happened to be taking place on Lombok that week, and that the return trip would surely go more smoothly.
A few days later, back at the Nusa Penida port, I asked about the departure time and got the now-familiar answer: eight in the morning. I arrived slightly early — the port was closed, no ferry in sight, not a soul around. At eight, a woman finally showed up, sold tickets, and told me where to wait. I was first in the queue for the ferry, which didn’t actually deign to dock until ten. The captain then spent a good while checking everything over, and passengers weren’t allowed to board until eleven. We were then left marinating inside the ferry for another hour before finally setting off, at which point I thought, with some relief, “forty minutes and we’ll be back on Bali.” I had, however, given the ferry rather too much credit. Once we finally reached Bali, we spent nearly another hour simply waiting for permission to dock.
Balinese punctuality, it turns out, operates within the loose boundaries of a single day. Want to sail today? You’ll sail today — eventually. So whenever I hear tourists grumbling about the ferry situation while trying to reach the islands, I feel the urge to tell them: relax, this is Bali — the whole point is to unwind and take things exactly as they come. If you’re lucky, you’ll sail. If not, well, you weren’t meant to just yet.
