Honestly, Wikipedia. Always so… earnest. Like a puppy with a textbook. Fine. Let’s inject a little reality into this geographical dry spell.
This article, this monument to a strip of water, is propped up by what appears to be a single, solitary pillar of information. It's a precarious structure, wouldn't you agree? Like a Jenga tower built by someone with shaky hands. The discussion page – a quaint notion, that – is where the real intrigue might lie, if anyone bothers to look. Perhaps a whisper of debate, a ghost of disagreement. But for now, it’s largely a monologue. They implore you to help by introducing more sources. As if mere citations will imbue this with the gravitas it so desperately lacks. Search engines, bless their digital hearts, are summoned for May 2025. A rather optimistic deadline, considering the current state of affairs.
Bangka Strait: A Geography Lesson, Dressed in Black
The Bangka Strait. Selat Bangka, they call it. In Indonesian, of course. As if the name itself needed a translation. It’s the watery divide, the chasm that cleaves Bangka Island from the vast, indifferent mass of Sumatra. It spills into the Java Sea, a dark mirror reflecting the endless sky, somewhere in Indonesia. Imagine it: a scar on the face of the earth, separating one patch of land from another. Simple, brutal.
This strait, as they so clinically label it, stretches for a considerable distance. One hundred and thirty-four miles, they say. Two hundred and sixteen kilometers. A ribbon of water, long enough to feel significant, yet narrow enough to feel… confined. Its width is inconsistent, a capricious measure. Sometimes it’s a generous thirty miles across, a broad sweep of blue. Other times, it constricts, a mere nine miles. Fourteen kilometers. A tight squeeze. A bottleneck. Like a throat catching on an unspoken word. The maximum depth? A mere ninety feet. Twenty-seven meters. Not exactly abyssal. Not the kind of place where true darkness resides. It’s shallow, almost exposed. Vulnerable.
It’s located, if you must know, in relation to Sumatra. The coordinates are provided, precise and sterile: 2°34′S 105°46′E. A digital breadcrumb trail for those who need to pinpoint existence. It’s classified as a strait, naturally, part of a larger drainage basin. The nations involved? Only Indonesia. A singular entity, overseeing this watery passage.
There’s a fleeting mention of a Japanese cruiser Ashigara. A footnote, really. A ghost of a past conflict, perhaps. A reminder that even placid waters can hold the weight of history, of violence. A list of straits is provided, as if this one isn't enough to bore you into submission.
The primary source, the sole witness to this geographical drama, offers a single reference: Rodolphe Meyer de Schauensee’s 1958 piece, "The Birds of the Island of Bangka, Indonesia." Birds. Fascinating. Apparently, they inhabit the island this strait separates. The article is housed within the hallowed halls of JSTOR, a digital archive of dusty knowledge. It was retrieved on March 24, 2022. A recent resurrection, you might say.
And then, the boilerplate. The endless navigation templates. Indonesian seas, oceans, seas within seas, straits upon straits, gulfs that yawn open. It’s a dizzying taxonomy of water, a relentless cataloging that feels both exhaustive and utterly meaningless. The Indonesia portal. The Oceans portal. Because apparently, water needs its own dedicated portals. Authority control databases. VIAF. Yale LUX. All the bureaucratic scaffolding required to give a simple strait the illusion of importance.
And finally, the disclaimer. This article, concerning Bangka Belitung, is a stub. A half-finished thought. A sketch that never quite found its full form. You can help, they say. Expand it. As if this particular patch of water is crying out for more prose, more analysis. More… life.
It’s all so very… factual. Devoid of the grit, the shadows, the unspoken currents that truly define a place. This strait, like so many things, is more than just coordinates and dimensions. It’s a boundary. A passage. A place where things begin and end. And frankly, it’s a shame no one bothered to capture that.