Who pays the Ferryman?

In this complex world in which we are compelled at least to try to keep up with technology, music, language, films, one sometimes comes upon an occupation that is simplicity itself. That simplicity is both beguiling and fascinating.

Picture the scene. I find myself in the Spanish city of San Sebastian, a seaside playground composed of canyons of apartment blocks, imported sand on beaches fronting the Bay of Biscay speckled with leather-skinned sun worshippers with no inhibitions about their irregular forms.

Perhaps its greatest claim to fame is its film festival, which sees me end up in the Julia Roberts room of my movie-themed hotel. Al Pacino is next door.This is not my scene.

Take two.

A food sage has recommended a restaurant, the Txulotxo, which is about 20 minutes out of town, in a village whose name I cannot be certain of, but the address is Pasajes de San Juan.

I write the address in my notebook and show it to the taxi driver.

“It is a pueblo,” he says.

Being a Charles Bronson man I know exactly what he is talking about.

“Si, pueblo,” I confirm.

I am expecting a fare of about 18 euros.

As we start the journey the driver looks at me in his rear vision mirror.

“You take the boat, it is much cheaper. He crosses backwards and forwards all the time.”

I assume he is talking about an alternative return trip from the pueblo to the city.

“Gracias,” I say in my best lisp.

We drive along the industrial waterfront of San Sebastian’s port area. The taxi stops, but there is only 10.20 euros showing on the meter.

He points across the water to a village whose old houses cascade down a hill on the other side. I see the name Txulotxo running along the bottom of a building on the bank.

“Now you take the boat,” he says.

Lo and behold, at the bottom of some steps leading down to the water is an honest green open ferry boat with a compact dog box for the ferryman. Two backpackers and an old local are already on board.

To this day I still don’t know the actual fare. The local says “euro”, which I take to be the price but the ferryman, middle-aged, unshaven and offering no ticket, offers me change.

“That’s OK,” I say.

We take off immediately, putt-putting anti-clockwise towards our destination.

As we approach the landing near the restaurant, the ferryman applies some reverse thrust, emerges from the cabin, passes a rope through a ring on the landing and secures the boat alongside.

Passengers grasp a standing post near the gunwale and step ashore.

The whole voyage takes about two minutes and he has made himself about four euros. No paperwork.

From the vantage point of my seat by the window in the restaurant, I watch for the next two hours as he plies back and forth, each time completing a circle. He would have made 30 round trips, possibly more, in the time, sometimes not even having to tie up. When there is a quiet moment, he takes himself into the dog box to reflect. When a passenger appears on either landing, off he sets, always having a chat to anyone who steps aboard.

How much a day does he make? Work it out for yourself.

How much does he declare? What would you declare?

Isn’t this the model of a perfect market, of supply and demand in sync?

Could I do this job and eat fish soup, monkfish with clams and prawns in the Txulotxo each night?

Txulotxo
Pasajes de San Juan
San Sebastian
Spain
943 52 39 52
www.restaurantetxulotxo.com

First run in the Nov 5 Weekend Aus Travel section