The Ferry To Ilha de Tavira & The Salt Flats

There is a ferry to Ilha de Tavira, said Marianne. A ferry?

The word elicited an immediate response in me—a curiosity, an invitation and a childlike thrill.

Whether a short commute across the Boston Harbor, a night sailing from Marseille to Corsica, or a wind-swept passage to reach the Hebrides from the Scottish Highlands, ferries transport bodies and hearts.

The traveler leaves the firm ground to give themselves into the care of the captain of a vessel and surrender their fate to the water.

We find these stories in mythology, fairytales, literature and modern-day travel blogs – they endure.

Marianne had given me directions to the ferry in Tavira and recommendations on a possible return route along the salt pans, where pink flamingos gather, which I wanted to take.

Estuary landscapes speak to me, as my maternal grandfather came from Arles in the Camargue region of Southern France, where the wide delta of the Rhône River reaches the Mediterranean. Perhaps we are drawn to transition places in the landscape, such as where a river meets the sea. With their changing light, migrating birds, fragile flora and the stories of their people, they hold our attention and invite daydreaming.

As a child, I regularly visited the salt flats and rice fields of Camargue. There, Van Gogh painted starry nights, gypsies sang to the black Madonna, and colorful “guardians” herded black bulls on white horses.

“Salt of the earth” is a biblical reference to the good and best among us. It came from a time when salt was precious, and people worth their weight in salt were held in great esteem. Tavira, a historic fishing village with a now-defunct salt industry and abandoned factories, still produces salt from the Ria Formosa flats. But sadly, microplastics are now altering the quality of its salt.

So, on Wednesday morning, I took the 9:30 ferry from Tavira to the Parque Natural da Ria Formosa, a 20-minute ride sitting next to an animated group of women hiking from Porto to the Spanish border. After a week of rain, they were looking forward to a day of R&R on the beach. Debbie, a fellow writer, was also on board but, unable to walk with an injured foot, left on the returning ferry.

I walked across the sand to the seaside restaurants, the neatly lined umbrellas and sunbeds not quite set up. When I reached the water, I removed my shoes, honored the mighty Atlantic with a silent prayer of thanksgiving, and stayed a while. Then, deciding to keep out of the glaring sun, I returned to town on the 11:15 ferry to inquire about the salt pans at the tourist office, have a meal and call Sue to pick me up in the afternoon as planned.

Well, nothing went as planned. The tourist office had no information on the salt flats, “it’s online, Madame. It’s all online.”

That is when my phone went dead.

I pressed the ON button repeatedly, with increasing insistence, to no avail.

One woman offered to help with a charger and went to a back room to find the right kind, but my phone was unresponsive. Then someone suggested the nearby cyber café where I could send an email.

The café at the corner of a quiet street had three computers lined against a wall, three dark screens in sleep mode. A man behind the counter was on the phone, listening intently to instructions about what seemed to be a technical challenge. The matter was of importance because he ignored me for a long time, and I was getting anxious, silently listing my options to reach Sue.

I couldn’t remember any of my passwords to log in to my inbox or Facebook. I didn’t know Sue’s or Stephen’s email addresses, and I had no way to receive a validation code on my phone, since it still wasn’t responding.

When Santiago finally turned his attention to me, I had several requests. Possibly unreasonable requests. He said yes to all of them.

Signing in to the café’s email account, I entered several made-up addresses for my hosts, but they all bounced as undeliverable. Then I asked to log in to Santiago’s FB account because mine couldn’t be verified.

From there, I sent bottles-out-to-sea-type messages, thinking there was little chance people would open a link from a total stranger with a funny picture on Facebook. But I made sure to announce, “Francoise here. Please read.”

At each step, Santiago was patient and helpful. Finally, my last request was, ” Could you please call me a cab?”

More relaxed now, we waited, chatting about the feral cats he feeds, and he thanked me for my donation to the tip jar, which goes toward cat food.

The taxi arrived – relieved and on my way – I waved, even threw him kisses. Now I wonder how many stranded travelers – grateful for the kindness of a stranger – Santiago has rescued to date.

As for me, I had met the salt of the earth in a small corner of the Algarve.