[setting: basking in the ebullience of a truly fantastic few days of break during the Chinese New Year vacation].
After some deliberation the night prior, a barrage of information streams and hearsay, and eventually, the revelation that Chinese people like to gamble so much that they can book every single available hotel room in an island, a large group of us decided that Sunday of Chinese New Year weekend was the day to visit China's other "Special Administrative Region" (or as I like to say, "all the fun of China without the communism"): Macau.
Macau lies a mere hour and a half ferry ride from Victoria Harbor, but requires a passport to enter, a security check, and a line through customs to enter. The former Portuguese colony-turned-gambling destination might as well have been a country of its own, even with its great deal of autonomy.
Little did I know that such a lighthearted plan, like heroes' past, suffered from a long-running fatal flaw: the inability to plan, and the inefficiencies of a large group. I should've seen it coming. In fact, I kind of did. But that doesn't unravel for way, way longer. There's plenty more awake time to get to those events.
It all started at the train station. We were supposed to all be there for 9. I thought it was a good 6-8 person group. Which is fairly difficult to accommodate for most. As in, nobody could ever dream of having room for us. Brooke and I know this, look at each other, and sigh.
With the addition of some of the Irish and other European girls that we've come to know pretty well here, we were 13. Thirteen, as in "there's no chance we'll move quickly today".
A half hour delay for us to even get on the train isn't good news for the rest of the day, but we shrug it off, nervously. It loomed. Foreboding.
We make our way over to TST, where the ferry terminal is. Ferry terminals are basically super ghetto airports, but without any semblance of security, which is kind of scary in a terrorist-cozy world. Arriving at about 11 at the terminal, we hop in line for a noon ticket... Sold out. Everywhere. Chinese people are crazy this weekend with gambling. Only spots available for 13 are on the 1:30 boat.
At first, we all lean for the "let's just go home and rest option" implicitly, including myself, but then a strange campaign by a few with the "we're already here" (counterargument: no we're not?) to just get the ticket, get there by 3, spend 7 or so hours on Macau, and then catch the latest ferry back for a little sleep loss, no harm or foul. Everyone is now huddling around, meaning that despite everyone talking about it, nothing is getting done. After a group appeasement, we buy our tickets, and leave the terminal for lunch in TST somewhere.
The debauchery continues here. Stop in some hole in the wall, and it was really quite ingenious what they did. They must have been frothing at the mouth seeing a group of 13 foreigners stepping into their entrance. The lady notices us wonderbreads, and hands us a special English menu, comprising of more pictures, English translations, and above all... Inflated prices to the Chinese version of the menu. To retaliate, we all order stuff by pointing at pictures on the wall next to low prices for the day. Two can play at their game, and our frugality defeated our actual appetites in this bout.
We rush back to the ferry terminal, and get in the huge line for our ferry. Passports stamped, etc. Ferry ride was a fast hour, pleasant. The advent of the past 5 years in boat jet engine technology has catapulted this industry back to industry, and an easy hour and fifteen later, I'm waiting in customs for my first real travel outside of Hong Kong. According to Ainhi, our resident translator, our rowdiness in getting in line and conversing with one another merited some snickering curse words by the surrounding Chinese people around us, especially after we ran out of the ferry to grab a closer spot in the passport lane.
It was a new world, an almost-understandable world for me. Everything was in Portuguese. I could read the signs! I hadn't had that luxury in so long. This place already made me smile in the perfect island sun.
A quick background about Macau, for those who don't really know its claim to fame. Macau currently holds two perplexing records: its citizens live in the most densely populated place on Earth, yet also enjoy holding the world's highest life expectancy. Didn't see that one coming, did you?
Bathrooms, map collecting, and concession-grabbing (thirteen) later, we walk out to dissect the bus routes and after way too much debilitating, we finagle our way on a shoddy bus for the main cultural square downtown.
Notice the sign: "... of lighting area for crackers." Definitely talking about me. Thanks Macau.
We drive out a bit. And wow.
We drive out a bit. And wow.
Macau is the most beautiful place I've seen to date on this trip. It is amazing. For one, the personality exudes, oozes, and whispers personality in soft, susurrant waves. Each street teems with European flare, yet also hides a culture all its own from the Euro-Asian fusion. The subtle interplay between classical European architecture, coupled with marvelous high-rise apartments and traditional Asian hotspots and utility in designs (outside of the conspicuous consumption-mirroring, glass-and-metal behemoths that were the casinos in town). In my mind,this is what Hong Kong should have been, and kind of what I thought it would be. And the line is almost literal. On one side of town, there are huge, arching, architectural marvels; but on the smaller parts, you have these massive European squares, complete with columns, stucco pastels with personality, cathedrals, and Portuguese influence. In the same breath (literally, you cold hold your breath, walk into the back alley and find this), we saw some worshipping in a Buddhist temple.
What a world, what a life.
Had to capture that. Beam of sunlight giving the gentlest reminder that He was there. He's always there. Perfect.
The temple.
So we meandered through the Asian-narrowed, yet European-cobblestoned streets, where Portuguese restaurants bordered Chinese pharmacies with ancient remedies, people of all backgrounds meshed together, bakeries selling Portuguese egg tarts also sold Chinese almond cookies (ripe with free samples) with Chinese characters on top. Peeling Portuguese marvels leaned against renovated apartments, held up by bamboo scaffolding.
At the end of this alley lay the first of the Portuguese landmarks here: the ruins of St. Paul's. St. Pauls was an old mission-turned-Catholic-school in the area in the 1500s. A fire set the building ablaze, but by some kind of miracle, a single arched wall stood, and to this day, still stands, high on steps above the rest of the city. I saw plenty of arches and grand arcs in Italy with the same grandeur, but I tend to prefer the solemn, yet dignified ruins of this region's dual identity. In all of its subtleties, it still remains amazingly complex, the duality and interplay of the cultures.
The stairs leading up to it, minus the avid bunch of walkers and not sitters, mirrored the Spanish Steps, I tended to think. Overall, though, it was impressive.
Again, the classical European Renaissance attention to detail looms heavy, yet you could read a plaque in Cantonese. The idiosyncrasies here never failed to perplex me in the most heart-warming way. As of now, the whole problem of getting here, the muddled inefficiencies of moving at a snail's pace (thirteen), it all took a backseat to the displays here.
"Oh, I spot a social commentary photo!" You got it, reader. You got it. The view of the Grand Lisboa (see what I mean with the standing!?) from the back of the ruins.
Note the cobblestone. Picturesque, no?
Adjacent to the ruins was the other major Portuguese landmark: the Macau fort, settled high on the neighboring hill. Everything felt peculiarly European as we made the trek up.
I found this particular view, from the back side of the fort looking out into the residential areas of the main peninsula, very endearing. The heavy growths of trees marking the end of the European complexes were apparent, and the dividing line into a population where only 2% of the people can actually speak Portuguese, yet still has it on every street sign. All in the name of tourism, perhaps? I tend to think they're proud of their extremely diverse heritage.
So we made it through the tourist attractions, and the tourist attractions, like the sirens they're supposed to be, were mellifluous as Macau, with its never-ending bustle, piqued my genuine interest. But was it just a facade of the tourist? Or was the real European charm sitting there the entire time?
I point to the latter, now, knowing that people actually live here, and that these people love life enough to stick around longer than anyone else, despite the constant influx of mainland Chinese people who smoke and gamble with their lives. That, combined with the irreproachable charm of the people, the personality emanating from its core, and the vibrant culture had me hooked. An afternoon into the adventure, and I was a Macau junkie. Call it Kashmir.
Macau lulled me into a fantastic complacency, and even after the events to come, these reverberating clips of imagery made it a truly unforgettable burst of vivacity, and a city that never ceased to amaze me with each passing cobblestone.
Stay tuned for more later.
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