As mentioned earlier, each of the five ferry crossings became subsequently longer, culminating in an epic 27 hour voyage for the Flores to Timor section. In itself, 27 hours on a ferry is not long. However, the conditions of this voyage made this day particularly colourful.

I knew things were going to become messy when the ferry company tried to charge me for the bike straped to the trailer. Smarter people have failed in demands for payment for more plausible things on this trip. But full marks for trying, sunshine.

Then the ferry arrived. Even though it was pre-dawn, the embarkation jetty was swarming with bodies of all ages and state-of-dress, chickens, battered cardboard boxes and local agri-produce attempting to escape antiquated sacking.

The ferry terminal at Aimere is parallel to the shore, unprotected by any harbour construction. Therefore, the unimpeded waves were excelling at what waves do naturally. Boarding the vessel was akin to playing darts while slalom skiing.

The lack of organisation or control by any of the ship's crew didn't help either: while being directed on the car deck, I was simultaneously being "told" by 4 guys to move in every direction apart from vertically. It was like the mice being told to look after the city zoo for the day.

Once the five vehicles were on board, the foot-propelled locals invaded en masse, pitching camp on any and every horizontal surface of the car deck. Reason? The car deck doubled as "steerage class".

When the boat was deemed overfull, the crew closed the ramp while bodies and boxes were still on it. The official entry now blocked, people started jumping and heaving their bursting sacks in through the boat's oscillating side openings. It was like abandoning a ship, only in reverse.

I just sat in the comfortable cocoon of the cab, in abstract bewilderment, while beyond the glazing, the human beehive buzzed with everybody staking out their patch, rolling out mats and rooting themselves.

Take a long look at this picture, and then tell me what you see. A clue - this picture was taken while sitting on the roof of the truck, at the back.

Spot the trailer? No? Well, look again.

The guy with his hand on the bike's handlebars is standing on it. Then there's the guy sitting next to him and the two guys (one reclined and at home relaxing) on top of the tent. And then the hooded gentleman acting as a tyre warmer in the foreground.

Finally, the trailer's running boards made ideal shelving for the possessions belonging to the rest of the surrounding dwellers.

And caged within the truck I remained for the entire journey. There was nowhere to wander on this floating cattle shed, even if you could manage to pick your footing through the human and non-human cargo adorning the deck.

During the night, despite my earlier protestations, but evidenced in the morning by the debris of cigarette butts, remains of meals and empty bottles of water, the truck's roof became the sleeping quarters to an unquantifiable number of bodies.

After all, aren't fare paying vehicles on board only there for the purpose of providing off-ground sleeping opportunities?