Where East Meets West; Alex Talcott in Macau

By Alexander Talcott | Wednesday, May 22, 2002

Macau, the oldest European settlement in Asia, was my first overnight weekend jaunt since my arrival in Hong Kong. Macau was returned to China in 1999, two years after Britain's handover of Hong Kong. Both territories are now on Special Administrative Region (SAR) terms with the People's Republic that—ideally—entitle each to semi-autonomous 'one nation, two systems' status for at least 50 years.

A TurboJET jetfoil brought me to the ferry terminal in Macau quickly, taking just over half the advertised travel time of one hour. A complimentary shuttle-van brought me to my hotel, the Sintra, sister of the megaplex Casino/Hotel Lisboa.

I had two goals while in Macau. First, to avoid the 'triads,' the gangs that compete for sovereignty over Macanese organized crime. Second, to visit some Western-looking churches, having not been in a Christian house of worship since Easter Sunday on Lamma Island, an outlying island of Hong Kong where I'm sharing a flat with a Filipino couple. To accomplish goal number two, I left my hotel and headed out on Avenida de Almeida Ribeiro.

I passed a white mansion that houses the Provisional Municipal Council of Macau, and flies both the Portuguese and Chinese flags. Uniformed schoolgirls whizzed by on mopeds as I cautiously pressed on. I soon reached St. Dominic's Church, a beautiful turquoise church evoking thoughts of Bermuda. The adjacent cemetery was filled with white statues of the Portuguese buried there, which served as the only encounter I had with any Portuguese people while in Macau. Even mixed-blood Macanese numbers' are waning; there are less than 20,000 Macanese out of a population of 450,000, with more and more Chinese displacing them in Macau's residences, schools, businesses, and—most readily observable—at its baccarat tables.

I continued on to my primary spiritual destination, the ruins of St. Paul's, a spot so popular some locals call it simply 'The Landmark' (not to be confused with Macau's large department store of the same name). In 1594, St. Paul's became the first Western-style college in the East. It also served as a church until a devastating fire in 1835 left only its fa¡ade and segments of the foundation, now called 'the crypt.' Bone remains of martyrs and of what are believed to be the founder of St. Paul's College, Father Alessandro Valignano, are housed in glass. There is also an impressive statue of St. Augustine and paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary with Chinese, Japanese, and Portuguese symbols. Even with all the camera-wielding tourists and the little that remains physically, St. Paul's is a holy and affecting site.

I grabbed an quick bite to eat on the way back to the hotel to freshen up for a night on the town. I stopped by Casino Lisboa, where I failed to encounter another Westerner in nearly an hour of exploration. Overwhelmed by malodorous low-rollers, I followed some bright lights and escalators to a series of VIP rooms with obnoxious names (e.g. 'Wealthy Room') where better-smelling, higher-rolling patrons—hopefully not mainland officials squandering tax revenues, as has happened in the past—were aided in their savings-relinquishing endeavors. Having not dropped a single Macau pataca, I departed, passively breaking even. Macau's casinos may perhaps become more attractive to me in the future as a) I earn an income, and b) Sociedade de Turismo e Diversoes de Macau, Stanley Ho's longtime gambling monopoly, is challenged by Vegas entrepreneurs.

I was very disappointed by the recommended 'docks' area, a strip of bars on reclaimed land. The nearby, towering statue of Kun Iam, the goddess of mercy, was surpassingly impressive. Impatient with late-starters and refusing to waste my time sitting on the docks of the bay (or harbor), I moved on to the Ambassador Lounge at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. It's a good thing I followed the old adage of never judging a hotel by it's exterior, because otherwise I may have skipped this pleasant spot. After surveying the lovely lounge, complete with humidor and stage area, I saddled up to the bar to catch the end of happy hour (Note: In Hong Kong and Macau, happy 'hour' is generally 8-12 hours a day and often 2-for-1 drinks). I chatted up the Filipino bartender, who approved of my travels in Macau thus far, sighing 'Ah yes' after my every other sentence. He encouraged me to stick around for the night's entertainment, a cover band from Vancouver. Hoping to hear something other than the Michael Jackson and Prince that dominates the Hong Kong bar scene, I agreed, but not before heading over to the Mandarin Oriental's spa restaurant for a light salad Nicoise dinner.

I returned as the band, Crush, was setting up. I could tell just by looking that these guys were—or at least thought they were—bona fide rock stars: bleached-hair drummer, male lead singer/guitarist had a perm to rival Tina Turner's in the '80s, two Spice Girls as backup vocalists, and a bald bassist with a handle-bar mustache and leather pants. They were quick to impress, however, opening with the blues standard 'Stormy Monday,' which I have enjoyed many a time, especially as performed by the Allman Brothers Band. They moved through some acceptable rock and pop numbers, and a bunch of suits staying at the hotel for a convention began to file in. When Crush took a break I raced over to the guitarist, Tony, to see if a couple kind words would tilt the rock-pop balance in the former's favor. I suggested some Allman Brothers, Stevie Ray Vaughn, or Pink Floyd numbers. I returned to my stool and crossed my fingers. Two sets and one Pink Floyd song ('Us and Them') later I retired to my hotel so I could enjoy some more sites and a later night Saturday.

I woke up early Saturday and visited A-Ma Temple, Macau's oldest Chinese temple, dedicated to the goddess of seafarers. The Portuguese actually named the colony A-Ma-Go (Bay of A-Ma) after the temple. I lunched at Fernando's, recommended by my boss and former Review editor-in-chief, Hugo Restall '92. As promised, I enjoyed some salty but satisfying fare, going with the traditional Macanese fried rice with salted fish. Pining for some fine Portuguese reds, I visited Macau's wine museum. I picked a bad day and had to take a self-guided tour. Its highlight, unfortunately, was the eighth-of-a-glass of port I sampled in an abbreviated tasting, after which I returned to my hotel for a quick nap.

Before heading out for the evening, I decided to patronize my hotel's twenty four hour restaurant, Café Sintra. I blatantly took advantage of their all-you-can-eat dinner buffet, devouring more than my share of the sashimi. I returned to the Ambassador lounge where the bartender asked about my day and praised my activities with his typical sigh, 'Ah yes.'

Crush and I were both back for more. I chatted up Tony again. He shared tales of touring Asia with the band and was kind enough to start the second set with Stevie Ray Vaughn's 'Pride and Joy,' even obliging a melancholy request to replace the name of SRV's love, Lana, with that of mine in the song. That night the crowd was quite a bit younger than I've been accustomed to here. In just over a month, I've been disheartened to find the burden of carrying the social scene falling squarely on the shoulders of the thirty-something, non-Chinese crowd. In any case, one youngster, a sixteen year-old girl looking for either trouble or a Western ticket to affluence, told me I could find good times after-hours at DD Disco, conveniently located right across the street from my hotel.

I cabbed it over to DD Disco, paid the typical low taxi fare I've easily gotten used to and walked into the disco, where I thought for a second I was entering Disney World's Space Mountain. I was excited to check out the bass-thumping scene beyond the black walls. I settled into the groove of the place and ran into Crush's drummer shortly thereafter. He was nice enough, and took my comment that his voice reminded me of Ringo Starr's in 'Octopus' Garden' as a compliment. (I'm not sure whether it was.) I then made the mistake of asking him if his female companion was his girlfriend. She said yes just as he said, 'Old friend.' She didn't seem to mind and dragged him off to one of the club's other rooms.

I made the rounds from room to room and when I eventually sat down for one last drink, I was instantaneously joined by two prostitutes. One, wearing a brown wig with ponytails, sat quietly. The other, a Russian, lied in the course of a painful conversation that she was familiar with Matthew Brzezinski, author of 'Casino Moscow' and nephew of former National Security Advisor Zbigniew Brzezinski, when I mentioned him. I met the younger Brzezinski last November in Phoenix at the Collegiate Network's annual editor's conference, where I discovered the skilled raconteur's penchant for vodka and unscripted speeches. Matthew had worked as a foreign correspondent for the Wall Street Journal, which reminded me that I had better call it a night and get some rest before the return trip to Hong Kong and our usual half-day Sunday at the office.

Where East Meets West; Alex Talcott in Macau

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