Hee hee hee! Another stamp in my passport today, thanks to a one-hour ferry ride over to Macau. I thought, since they were stamping my passport, that Macau was its own country, but really it’s not. It is a “special administrative region” of the People’s Republic of China, just like Hong Kong (which I also thought was its own country until I looked it up online). Originally a Portuguese colony, Macau was handed over to China in 1999, and will enjoy being essentially autonomous until 2049. China is responsible for Macau’s defense and foreign affairs, but the territory is free of the socialist reign of the mainland, maintaining its own legal system, police force, monetary system, and immigration policy. According to our tour guide, although 94% of the population is ethnically Chinese, they do not want to be called Chinese—they prefer to be called Macanese. It sounded like less a matter of national pride than a desire to distance themselves from stigma, real or perceived.
Macau is probably best known for being the Las Vegas of Asia—there are more than 30 casinos on the island. We weren’t necessarily there to donate money to the casinos, although Jim had been hoping to play some poker, so we opted instead to bow to the pressure of a tour operator who stopped us as we came through immigration at the ferry terminal. He was offering a van tour of the key cultural, historical, and touristy sites, as well as a final stop at the casino of our choice--a key selling point for Jim. Since Jim was suffering from some kind of terrible stomach illness and in no condition to strike out on a self-guided walking tour, we negotiated a price and jumped into the van. The driver/guide was of Portuguese descent, and very knowledgeable about the history of the island as well current happenings. Cruising by the casinos, he enlightened us about the feng shui (ancient Chinese practice of balancing the energy of a space to attract good fortune) of each, noting especially the bad karma of the MGM. Entering the casino, with its gigantic lion sculpture out front, is like passing through the mouth of the lion, making the gambler nothing more than dim sum (a popular Chinese snack). We stopped at the ultra-modern Macau tower, where Jim’s illness was a blessing in disguise, saving me from having to make a 233-meter tandem jump off the edge—he’d been gung-ho to take the plunge since seeing the all-stars do it on The Amazing Race in 2007. We drove through parts of town that looked like pictures I’ve seen of Spain—old European-style architecture, Mediterranean color palette, cobblestone streets. Then there’d be dozens of signs in complicated Chinese characters on the next block, advertising restaurants, laundries, and pharmacies. A very strange combination of cultures.
When we finished the sightseeing loop around 5 p.m., Jim's stomach had not improved, so we decided to skip the much-anticipated poker stop and grab the next available ferry so he could get back to the hotel and rest. As it was a bigger boat than the one we’d arrived on, I was expecting a smooth, nap-inducing trip back to Hong Kong. Turns out we had a crazy roller-coaster ride across swells that I couldn’t see in the dark, but felt as big as the Bering Sea waves I’ve seen on Deadliest Catch. Normally a lover of boat rides, I was longing for the seat belt I’d joked about on the morning ferry (strangely absent on this larger boat), and noting the location of both life vests and seasickness bags. Luckily neither were necessary, as things smoothed out and we docked safely in Hong Kong, anxious for a hot shower and the firmly grounded stability of our hotel bed. Who knew that the wild ferry ride was merely a hint of the rocking that was about to hit our world…
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