Batam. Back on the road to the port. Among the basaltic rocks small woods are reflected on the waters of lego. I look at this green will not see that 'never again': if I ever return, the air will find its' banks, port warehouses and shopping centers.
The port, however, 'is still the old style, in contrast to the terminal for Singapore. A row of benches crowded with magnet position of parcels. Porters pushing carts engulfed the pier of the goods. I look around, we are the only white people. At the ticket you have withdrawn your ticket and have given us another: the same place, same price, but another time. The first suspicion 'that they have canceled a trip to focus on a single passenger boat. The suspicion is strengthened when I see mass of people waiting in line. An employee cries
targets "Sembulunsebulunembulung", "Bulanbulanbualn. It does not seem to be ours. Came the cry "Bilahabilahabilahan" We, and 'Tembilahan, at least we hope. And it 'where the initial suspicion becomes certainty: the ferry is not' a big boat, no more 'bigger than a bus with 70 seats tight, in which crowd hundred and twenty people. There will be places for little more 'than half' of people. I look up, small shelves that contain life jackets. Nor is it enough for the seats. Behind the window port and the 'already' is a dot. I really hope not to have a swim in the sea. The speedboat
Coore wincing waves, with its load of people compressed. The islands are dotted, one after the other. Clumps of mangrove perched on plots of land. Are the islands to which Conrad and many others have saddled the wild and exotic flavor, with stories of pirates and adventurers from the sad look on a sea of \u200b\u200byellow and stagnant.
Old Malay instead tell stories. Legends of translucent beings that live in trees, rocks and inlets, and weaving the destinies of men in secret plots and unmentionable. Pushed by the progress that is devouring Batam, must have fled to these islands And I seem to feel some sweating out the breath, behind the roar of the engine in bits of breeze carries the scent of the forest. A
sudden jolt me \u200b\u200bback to the boat. No, not 'a start, and' a rap on the side. The boat nails in a persistent blaze of sirens piercing the air. I look around. Voices and cries incomprehensible. Dozens of hands rummaging concitatamene racks above the seats and grab the life jackets. A baby cries.
do not know what happens, I just know that for me the jackets are out of reach. There 'a lot I can do. Rest of them 'to think that I'd sink into despair among many hands that pull me to the bottom. Rest of them to think how useless it is my thinking. The boat rocks on the waves. All around the beams, tanks, bags thrown into the water.
The second run slow, slow, but the boat begins to lean to one side, it 'there are splashes of water from all sides, at least not yet. Then he cries out to the water make me understand what 'success. A small wooden boat lies upside down and gutted. She 's the victim, not my boat. Life jackets flying in the water. Two men dripping in a state of shock and are pulled on board. One is lying on the roof of the boat, does not react. The other shouts something in a voice broken by tears, indicating the wreck almost broken in two. It 'an old man who died, the third passenger on the boat, lost in the luggage floating around on the waves.
see the faces crowded into the small ferry. Old Chinese silent gaze impenetrable, young women who shake babies, others are hiding in those who wear kerchiefs on their heads, young old Malay faces excavated. And overboard, the two men were thrown into the water to try and retrieve the old pleasant part of the luggage. I wonder what they are thinking. And think about how 'difficult to live and die in these islands.
I think about a body floating in a senior dance dead in what could be my place or of each of these people around me.
I think my body, my limbs, my beam have mass impact, projectile planted in a broken life. I wonder how are the faces that are waiting for a man who will return 'more', building swimming beneath me, beneath the tanks scattered in the broken beams. Maybe tens of translucent little creatures are accompanying him to swim to mysterious places.
fishing boats come in, loaded the wounded and the remains of the luggage. The sirens continue to punch the air when the boat starts slowly, guided by a pilot in a state of shock.
The rain comes suddenly, a dark streak in the sky yellow. Warm and generous, takes away sweat, tears and thoughts.
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