In Transit, In Between

There are places in the city you pass through without noticing: waiting sheds, platforms, terminals—designed for movement, not pause. You move through them on your way to somewhere else, rarely aware of the small rhythms they hold. 

The ferry along the Pasig River is one of those places, where passengers line up, board, find a seat, and drift toward the next shore. Its purpose is simple: to get from point A to point B. 

But what happens in between—the waiting, the crossing, the quiet moments where no one is quite where they’re supposed to be yet—is often overlooked. And maybe, that’s where the story is.

The Waiting Game

At the PUP Ferry Station, most of the passengers are students. Some are heading home after classes, while others linger, planning to wander a little before leaving campus. A few students laugh quietly with friends, voices low and warm; others sit alone, absorbed in their phones or lost in thought, waiting for the ferry to arrive.

“Matagal na akong sumasakay sa ferry,” Janelle, a second-year student bound for Guadalupe, shared in an interview with The Communicator. “Minsan kasama ko yung friends ko kapag nagkayayaan ng gala after class, pero kadalasan, dito ako sumasakay para pumasok at pauwi mula sa klase.”

Rides on the service remain free of charge for all passengers, and it continues to be promoted as a commuter option amid road congestion and ongoing crisis, a practical choice as jeepney and tricycle fares creep higher with diesel prices. Students measure every peso; here, waiting costs nothing.

The Pasig River Ferry Service is a public water‑bus system operated by the Metropolitan Manila Development Authority (MMDA) that runs along the Pasig River in Metro Manila. Although it’s often called a ferry, its function closely resembles a water public transit service, cruising the river’s length and stopping at multiple stations along the way. 

According to MMDA figures, the service carried 120,632 passengers from January to December 2025 across 13 stations in four Metro Manila cities—Pasig City, Makati City, Mandaluyong City, and Manila. At PUP, riders are overwhelmingly students, while commuters, office workers, and elders make up smaller numbers at other stops. The ferry threads a quiet, watery line through the city’s chaos, connecting neighborhoods at a pace foreign to traffic‑choked streets. 

Boarding Begins

The ferry arrives with a low rumble, breaking the afternoon stillness. There is no scramble, no shouting—only a gentle tightening of focus. Students straighten their backs, glance at the ramp, and move in small clusters.

The ferries that pull up to the dock aren’t huge—most carry anywhere from 36 to 55 passengers at a time, depending on which vessel is in service. Even newer vessels added to the fleet, like the fully electric M/B Dalaray, hold about 40 riders plus crew. Because seats are limited and rides run on a first-come, first-served basis, students often arrive early to secure a spot.

A staff member, cap low against the sun, raises a hand. “Hanggang dito lang po muna,” he calls, guiding those held back into waiting.

“The schedule is fixed. If you miss one, you wait another hour. So dapat inaagahan mo talaga, whether you want to or not, kasi siyempre marami rin ang pumipila kaya unahan talaga” Carlo, a third-year student headed to Escolta, also shared in an interview with The Communicator. 

Between Currents

Once on board, the city changes. Buildings soften along the edges, roads blur, and the pulse of traffic becomes a distant hum. The river carries them forward like a slow-moving clock, marking the passage of the day in gentle increments.

Passengers settle into a shared quiet, aware of the movement but not rushing it. The ride unfolds steadily, uninterrupted, as if time here follows a different pace. A soft breeze slips through open windows, tugging at hair and loose papers. The smell of water, mixed with the faint aroma of street snacks from the riverbank, lingers in the cabin.

“It’s like a break,” Carlo says, watching ripples stretch across the water. “Kahit saglit lang, nakakahinga ako.”

The ferry connects parts of the city otherwise measured by honking horns and stop-and-go traffic. From Pinagbuhatan to Guadalupe, Hulo to Lawton, it stitches together neighborhoods in a pace that allows for observation—the way sunlight glints on corrugated rooftops, the laundry lines swaying between apartment blocks, the slow motion of daily life seen from water.

Approaching the Next Shore

As the ferry nears the next dock, movement resumes. The water’s reflection flinches under the late sun, while city sounds—engines, distant horns, voices—seep back into the cabin.

“Dahan-dahan lang po,” calls a staff member as the boat nudges the pier.

Carlo steps off at Escolta, scanning the bustling streets and vendors. Janelle disembarks at Guadalupe, weaving through jeepneys and pedestrians toward home. Around them, others fan out into errands, appointments, and everyday routines.

The ferry is not the destination.

It is the space between—a bridge of water and anticipation, a pause measured not in minutes saved, but in moments lived. It carries students not just across a river, but through small fragments of their day that might otherwise go unnoticed.

Maybe that’s what makes this ferry unique: it isn’t chosen for comfort, view, or novelty. It’s chosen because it offers something streets rarely do—a moment to breathe, reflect, and simply move without burning money on fuel or speed.

In a city that never seems to stop, that in-between moment becomes its own kind of journey.

Article: Xyra Caryl Zaleta

Illustrations: Kaiser Aaron Caya