ferry

It's not the Mekong River, but it could well be.

But it is a ferry and I am on it, crossing the Hawkesbury River at Wisemans Ferry last week.

The giveaway is — the Hawkesbury waters are greeny grey while the Mekong's waters are muddy brown, the colour of milk tea...

It was 2009 when I crossed the Mekong by ferry to Vinh Long in Vietnam where MD used to live; you can see the bridge in construction in the background. My bet is by now the ferry in the pic below runs no more. How lucky I was to have my durassienne ferry moment before the ferries went to the junk yard or became floating petrol stations or fish farms.

Now, since my daughter and her partner (and soon to be bub) have moved to the St Albans side of the Hawkesbury River, I will be having many more ferry moments.

It's about a one hour drive from the busyness of the inner city before you descend spectacularly into the rocky, bushy river canyon carved out millions of years ago. The river lies below, like a giant sleeping snake, small settlements of river lovers scattered along its edges. I don't turn right into the small town of Wisemans Ferry but veer left to the Webbs Creek ferry ramp and wait dutifully behind the white line for the barge to return from the other side.

This is the first moment of contemplation, when (if not raining) you turn the engine off, open up your car door, stick a leg or two out, breath in the eucalyptus air and let sound waves of thousands of singing cicadas wash over you.

When the ferry arrives from the other side the cars drive off and after the wave of the ferryman, you drive on, taking up a position in one of three rows facing forward. "Remain in your vehicle at all times" the sign says, so sadly I can't get out and lean on the railing, staring out at the mighty river like MD used to do.

I get off the bus. I go over to the rails. I look at the river. My mother sometimes tells me that never in my whole life shall I ever again see rivers as beautiful and as big and wild as these, the Mekong and its tributaries going down to the sea, the great regions of water soon to dissappear into caves of ocean.

But even sitting inside your car you can open the window, look around at the view, feel the fluidity and power of water beneath you as the tug and pull of cables guide us across.

This is the second moment of contemplation where you marvel at how it is in our fast paced, over modernised lives, ferries like this still exist, and how you long for days like this one— when nature reminds you to stop, to step into the view, where nothing really matters but this moment now, not the one just past or the one about to come...

and you feel like you have come home.

                           

Jan Cornall began writing in the 70s. She has written plays, musicals, screenplays, a novel, short stories, and three CDs of songs.  Since 2004 she has led writer's retreats in inspirational international locations including Bali, Laos, Burma, Cambodia, Morocco and Fiji. In August 2014 she is leading an Indochine Writing Journey in Vietnam trip following the footsteps of M.Duras in Vietnam. More info here.