Returning to Macau

… continued from previous post.


First things first, ugh I’m really hot. I got here via the Special Economic Zone of Zhuhai (boring), and have now departed China-proper and am in the former Portuguese settlement of Macau (Aòmén 澳门, or門 as they like it here). It’s the first time in a while that I’m up a gum tree with communication; on the bus you hear Cantonese, Portuguese, Mandarin, and English, but when push comes to shove, the only one which matters is the first, in which I can say “hello”, “thanks”, “fantastic” and “aeroplane” (which I thankfully learned on the fantastic aeroplane trip last week). Signs are written in Portuguese as well though, which makes me glad for my limited exposure to Spanish. A police guard failed to understand my Mandarin (mainland-speak) when I asked for the nearest ATM. The only place that I’ve got by in English was in Dairy Queen, which I patronised mainly for its temperature.

I saw the obligatory cultural sights: the Ruins of St Paul’s (that famous lone-standing façade), the Church of St Dominic, and another chapel round the corner, as well as lots of street-wandering. Similar to my recent Taiwanese experience on Jìnmén 金门 just off Xiamen, Macau is more like the China from movies – narrow cobbled streets, vertical signs and characters squigglier than those I’m used to (traditional, unlike the mainland’s simplified variety). You also get more aromas and miscellaneous whiffs that remind me of London’s Chinatown. I have lots of experience of street ambience in Macau, since I spent about two/three hours alone searching for some Burmese restaurant recommended in the Lonely Planet book which turned out not to exist (my trusted companion has turned against me). In the end, I gave up and went to some generic noodle joint.

It’s worth repeating how ridiculously warm it is here; as hotels are also ridiculously pricey (over £60 for anything apart from this, and I’m on a shoe-string) I’m feeling the heat in the San Va Hospedaria, which lacks air conditioning and loves to keep the front door open. There’s an army of ceiling fans making a valiant yet futile attempt at making the air temperature tolerable. For the first time ever, I’m not frustrated at the lack of hot water in the showers, for the icy plunge this evening was the most welcome feeling of relief I’ve felt all day, maybe bar Dairy Queen. For all this guesthouse lacks in luxury and comfort, it more than makes up for it in character and charm. Plus, it’s comparatively reasonable at £17 per night. Let’s just see if I can sleep though…