Macau.  Europe’s first and last colony in China.  The Portuguese founded the island city way back in the 16th century and just handed it back over to China in 1999.  Like Hong Kong, it shares the classification as a “Special Administrative Region,” giving it unique characteristics and freedoms that set it apart from the average Chinese city.  China maintains full control of the island’s foreign affairs and defense, while the local Macau government handles its own police force, customs and immigration and, adding to the confusion of local travelers, yet another unique currency — the pataca.

Casinos have been a part of Macau’s history for a couple decades now, though until 2002, they were monopolized entirely by a man named Stanley Ho (his daughter, the unfortunately named “Pansy Ho” now controls the family’s interests).  When laws were relaxed a bit, investors from Vegas and all around the world began to pour in, turning the island into what some call the “Vegas of the East.”  Several massive entertainment venues have opened up in the past decade, including the Venetian, which was the second largest building in the world in terms of floor space (it’s the fifth largest now).

For such a small island, Macau receives over 30 million tourists per year.  This is unsurprising when one takes into consideration two key facts: 1) China has 1.5 billion people.  2) The Chinese love to gamble.  While betting in any form was so strongly discouraged in Mao’s day that infractions could mean death, the government has grown considerably lax in the intervening years.  Gambling’s still officially illegal, though it’s rare one can walk two blocks anywhere in China without seeing a high-stakes Mah Jonng game, or a street corner game of cards without a giant wad of Yuan in the middle.  Having a haven for officially sanctioned, glamorous, glittery wagers, then, is imminently compelling to the Chinese.

Ferries run regularly from Hong Kong to Macau and back (the “Central” ferry) and cost around 20-25 US dollars depending on time and season, and the trip lasts between 60-75 minutes.  The vistas aren’t as lively as those seen while taking the Star Ferry between Kowloon and Hong Kong Island, but it’s just a long enough trip to get in a quick pre- or post- gambling nap.  The biggest difficulty for those — like us — attempting a day trip is that the last boat departs either station at midnight.  Does midnight seem a bit early to be leaving a place similar to Vegas?  Don’t worry — as we discover, Macau definitely isn’t Vegas.

Looking out at Macau from the sea, it’s immediately distinct from its sister islands across the way.  Fake mountains and bizarre clashing architecture herald the adult playground from afar.  Macau is filled with historic buildings and churches from the Portuguese colonial times, but those must be sought after.  The gaudy and garish are rarely hidden away, and always impossible to miss.

Passports freshly stamped, we realize that we have no idea what exactly there is to do in Macau other than gamble.  I have one mission and one alone: To ride the famous gondolas of Venice.  Having never been to the actual Italian town, here in Macau and the gargantuan Venetian hotel and casino, the entire fourth floor has been modeled around Venice, complete with a gondola ride that circumnavigates the entire floor.  Anything else we do here is  just a pleasant addition.  But it’s early and gambling is very much a nighttime activity, at least for non-professionals.

The ferry shuttle takes us into a spot prominently labeled on our free maps as tourist friendly, and we hop off and take the strange city in.  Already we find ourselves in the shadow of the Grand Lisboa, Stanley Ho’s crowning achievement in Macau casinos and one of the ugliest buildings in the world.  As the tallest skyscraper in the city, the monstrosity looms over everything and is inescapably visible by day; by night, neon pushes its presence to obscene levels that even Vegas would be proud of.  Always on display there is the largest flawless cushion diamond in the world, a 218-carat beast that Stanley (not egotistical at all) christened “The Star of Stanley Ho.”

More immediately across the street from us sits a small, cordoned off festival area, colorfully designed much like a circus.  Upon investigating, we see that it’s a food court, though the options this early are limited.  Mystery sticky rice balls or skewered squid.  We opt for the rice balls.

With no real plan or significant driving interest in checking out the obscure, ersatz monasteries and churches hidden away on remote sections of the island, we wander aimlessly through tourist districts and small back alleys, letting our free schedule allow us to get lost and found at will.  Roasted chestnuts are a popular snack here, though they’re pretty big in Chongqing, as well.  The two snacks that seem to be the signature tourist fare here in town are the powdered almond cookies and the jerky.  Most streets in the tourist section offer each or both, with dozens of different flavors and varieties to choose from.  The best part: free samples with almost no applied guilt from the stores toward actually purchasing anything.  They just give out bite after bite of nearly everything on their shelves with no complaint.

With daylight rapidly dwindling, we formulated a plan for the rest of our time here.  Spend the early evening building up an appetite and exploring Macau Tower.  Then, once sufficiently hungry, we would take our appetites and our selves to the Venetian to chow down on a Vegas style buffet before gracing the gentle gondolas of faux Venice.  It’s the perfect plan.

Mostly.  The Tower, while impressive when taken from far away, doesn’t exactly provide the most value for the dollar.   It’s $20 just to get to the top, and from there visitors must pay additional money to put on large safety straps and do the danger walk on the outside.  Bungee jumping is also an option.  The problem is, should one decide to stay inside and just check out the view, it’s fairly limited by slanted windows and the various contraptions and mechanisms that make all the  outdoor, death-defying rides possible.

The view successfully grasped, we grab a taxi and head across to the massive Venetian.  It’s an impressive structure, but not particularly beautiful or awe-inspiring.

Large computerized maps in many languages are situated everywhere inside the Venetian.  It’s a good thing, as navigation would be nearly impossible without them.  Restaurant options abound, though we find ourselves looking for that perfect blend of “massive buffet” and “cheap.”  We succeed, and it is possibly the greatest buffet experience of my life.  Simply in the name of science and curiosity, I did things to my stomach that it didn’t recover from for days.  I’ve simply never been to a place with this many options.  Downside: immediate post-meal food comas do little to inspire epic, raging evenings.

Once acceptably recovered, we lumber our way out of the restaurant toward little Venice.  It’s time.  Gondolas.  Romance.  Fake blue skies.  Soon it will all by mine.

“Gondolas closed.”

“What, are they broken?”

“No.  After 10 o’clock.  Gondolas closed for the night.”

“It’s 10:10!  And why would gondolas ever close?  This is the Venetian.  Venice can’t close!”

“Sorry.”

“Vegas would never close anything this early!”

“This isn’t Vegas,” he says calmly, walking away.  Indeed.

There’s little else to do here.  We kill time for an hour or so wandering about the massive complex, but the stores are all shutting down and there are so few people here that it has a slightly unsettling “ghost town” feel to it.  Free shuttles leave semi-regularly from the casino, though, so our transportation back to the ferry is secure.  The most expensive part of the night is actually the cab that took us back from Hong Kong Island to Kowloon.  As the subway had already closed, it was the only option.

Melissa’s flight was early the next morning, causing her to wake up and leave by 5 AM.  Her departure was strangely dreamlike to me, though I’m sure it was far more hectic and harrowing for her.  With several hours to kill in Hong Kong, I wandered about bookstores and Internet cafes, killing time doing things that aren’t in any way germane to life in Hong Kong.  It, and Macau, are nice cities.  But they’re still cities, and I’m just not a city boy.

Hong Kong.  Or, as its once-again owners since 1997 succinctly call it, “Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China.”   In the Venn Diagram mapping “China” and “The Rest Of The World,” Hong Kong is that tiny subsection in the middle capturing some of the tastes, smells, and general kooky vibe of China with the cleanliness and exorbitant prices of the West happily tacked on.

A woman stares at me aghast as I spit into one of the  metal grates by the curbside of the well-manicured city street.  The bad habit existed when I lived in the States, but it’s been kicked into over drive by the indirect peer pressure of my fellow Chongqingers.  It’s illegal here in Hong Kong, though, and apparently there’s a substantial fine (though not to the degree of Singapore’s near totalitarian degree of state-inspired Good Behavior) for such a deviant act.

Hong Kong still straddles that weird world between its English past and its Chinese present, and that fuzzy period where it somehow managed  to be both at the same time.  The island city has existed in some form since the dynasty of Qin Shi Huang (remember the Terracotta Warriors?), though most of its current flavor evolved rapidly over the past few centuries upon the arrival of the European colonists.  While the Portuguese were the first to arrive (Coming soon: the Macau entry), back in the 16th century, they were quick to piss off the locals leading to the outright banning of all foreigners from China.

This didn’t last, primarily due to the Chinese enjoyment of opium and the recently arrived British with their even greater enjoyment of money.  Hong Kong was the East India Company’s chief port in China, and the 18th century saw record sales for its pleasant narcotic.  Realizing the enfeebling effect the drug was having throughout the country, its leadership did the responsible thing and banned its importation entirely, which would’ve been a fine idea had the Royal Navy only agreed with the decree.

They didn’t, and the First Opium War began.  Britain, then one of the greatest navies in the world, had a distinct advantage, and by the war’s end, Hong Kong was ceded in perpetuity to the United Kingdom in the Treaty of Nanking.  Astute readers may have noticed the word “First” before “Opium War” above, and likely jumped to the conclusion that there would be a “Second.”  There was, for all the same reasons as before (“Crippling national addiction” versus “Cash is king!”) and had the same outcome, this time granting the UK even more land on China proper.

All of this  was officially ratified in 1898 with the “99 Year Lease,” which would’ve left Hong Kong entirely under Britain’s control until 1997, had it not been for the Japanese.   Yes, the “Nazis of the East” smoked out the Brits with little effort in 1941 while they were doing their best to take over as much of the eastern world as they could, and didn’t let it slip from their grasp until late 1945.  It was a dark time for the island, as its population shrunk from 1.6 million to 600,000 due to wholesale slaughter.

Things improved greatly for Hong Kong immediately following the war.  China had officially gone commie, and its few successful corporations realized that this would likely be bad for business and fled to the small capitalist haven in the southeast.  Mainland China, still needing to involve itself with foreign investment, had no better outlet than its own phantom limb there just south of Shenzhen, and the two profited off of each other successfully for decades.  The only question lay in how to hand Hong Kong back to China without it losing the essence of what made it so successful in the first place.

Locals tell me that in the past ten years, Hong Kong’s gotten “pretty Chinese,” though to one living in the mainland and having never visited pre-1997, these changes are hardly transparent.  Hong Kong maintains its own economy, leadership, currency (the 8th most traded in the world) and constitution — at least until 2047, when everything eventually becomes one with the mainland.  Based on China’s almost ridiculous levels of economic growth in the past ten years, the merging may not be much of an issue by then.

New Arrivals

It’s my second time in Hong Kong International Airport, and my first time without a deathly illness that may or may not be Swine Flu.  Four months of practice at the Chinese language was barely useful in Chongqing; it’s completely useless in Hong Kong.  Locals here speak Cantonese, as opposed to China’s official language of Mandarin.  The alphabets (of which I now recognize about 26 characters, implying once and for all that English is probably the language for me) are identical, though pronunciations are completely different and tones are even a greater problem than before.  While Mandarin requires the use and recognition of four tones on each syllable, Cantonese needs between six and nine.

Luckily, a far greater percentage of the population here speaks English.

Hong Kong International Airport is one of the largest commercial (both passenger and cargo) airports in the world, and has been one of the top-ranked airports for service for much of its existence (it opened in 1998).  Just as the city serves as a connector between China and the rest of the world, most foreigners making their way into the Middle Kingdom find themselves making a stop here first.  Despite all of this, the 24-hour airport is exceedingly efficient and I arrive (with my luggage, no less) just six hours after Melissa.

The time delay is due to purchasing our tickets separately.  Despite procuring departure tickets from Bangkok within an hour of each other, I somehow managed to arrive six hours after her, once again giving the girl a head start on a global travel destination.  Melissa had finally acquiesced on renting a room at a hostel, just in time for us to end up in one of the least hostel-friendly cities in the world.  Early January is apparently a peak season, and the best room available online was for fifty dollars a night at the Lee Garden Guesthouse.  No rats or roaches that we saw, though the room was depressingly small, the view was of a dingy back alley and the bed sheet suffered from a blood stain that was only possibly my own fault.

For $25 USD, one can purchase a two way ticket on the airport’s tram system, which provides a high-speed connection to and from the airport (which is on its own island) and any part of the city.  To facilitate getting around by newcomers, this ticket includes a two-day pass on Hong Kong’s extensive (as well as easy and immaculately clean) subway system.  Directions to the guest house were fairly simple, and despite some minor confusion as to whether or not Melissa had already checked in (or even existed) we were happily reunited with little difficulty in the world’s most vertical city.

Cluelessly, we amble down the clean streets of Kowloon in the Tsimshatsui district where our guest house is located.  Kowloon is the section of land facing Hong Kong Island that also had been ceded to the British since 1897.  Tsimshatsui then, meaning “pointed sandy point” is the popular waterside point of Kowloon, hosting any number of hotels, restaurants, museums and other sorts of tourist magnets.  It also hosts an almost obscene amount of Indian street hawkers.

“Hey!” one yells, approaching me at an angle to hinder my escape.

Melissa is as visibly perturbed as I am confused by his vocally charged violation into my personal space.

“AHHHHHH!!!” I moan loudly, staring madly with wide eyes as I guide our path away from his.

“AHHHHHH!!!” he says, shocked at first, though he covers his confusion by attempting to play along.  He laughs gently before speaking again.  ”Come on, guy, don’t you want to have a look?”

No.  I don’t.  I don’t happen to want a suit made right now.  I’m sure they’re nice and I’m sure they’re cheap.  I believe you when you say that Bill Clinton has his suits made from your guy on the 11th floor of an unmarked apartment building next to the infamous Chungking Mansion.  I’m just not the kind of guy that goes out for a coffee  at 9:17 AM and comes back with four tailor-made suits.  And if I don’t even want to look you in the eyes while rejecting you, why do all seven of your friends on this same city block also feel the need to get in my face about the fact that they, too, know someone that does good tailor work.

It’s not just suits, but of the ten Indian men you have to avoid on the way down almost every city block in the tourist area of Kowloon, about seven focus explicitly on suits.  Two then offer watches and the final wild card can tell you about anything from sunglasses to cameras and other assorted electronics.  And why is this thankless job only staffed by Indians?  Surely there are millions (literally) of entrepreneurial Chinese that are so much closer to Hong Kong that’d love to bother people on the streets.  All of southeast Asia is much closer, too.  Yet these men, almost impossibly polite outside of the initial rudeness of the encounter, all hail unanimously from the world’s most crowded peninsula.

My initial reaction is a polite dismissal.  Later, with the help of alcohol, I banter with some, sometimes even feigning interest.  Still later, my rejections become strange and surreal, moaning back at them or muttering in dark, non-existent languages.  And finally, without the company of Melissa, I take the plunge into the mysterious complex of surreptitious Indian piracy to see what it’s all about.

Heart of Piracy

“Hey buddy, how about a nice Rolex, right?”

“Right.”

“You want Rolex?” he says, kind of surprised.

“Sure sure.  Let’s see what you got, buddy.”

“Ok, buddy.”  He’s less smiley now, but all business.  He turns back into the nearest apartment building and I follow him in with my head down.  ”What are you looking for, my friend?  Rolex?  Tag?  I’ve got Porsche.  Very good.”

“They’re all real, right?”

“Ha ha ha.  You got it, my friend.  Very nice.  Very real.”

In the elevator, he pushes the button for the 16th floor and we slowly make our way up without conversation, with the silent awkwardness usually reserved for men traversing their way through an unfamiliar brothel.  The door opens and a man greets my host immediately.  Words are exchanged and they lead me down the hallway to one of many rooms.  It’s a standard apartment building, though it’s uncertain whether normal borders live here among the makeshift piracy storerooms or if the entire building is one big collection of watches, suits, sunglasses, purses and other assorted contraband.

Stopping at one of the rooms, we knock and are immediately granted entrance.  An American woman is in the process of bargaining for a knockoff purse.

“Oh, of course it’s very fake, but it’s not that bad,” she says, sensually feeling the rubber of a Gucci purse that’s so widely owned — both fake and real — that even I recognize it.

“Very nice,” an older Indian man with a 70′s era mustache tells her.  While she does her best to both admire it and seem casually disinterested, he stares at her thoughtfully, as though he’s got something profoundly important he’s about to add, before reopening his mouth.  ”Very nice,” he appends to his prior statement.  He looks up at me with only partial interest before turning his eyes back to her.

“I really don’t have the money for it, but it’s not a bad purse,” she says, looking at me.  It feels like a question.

“Very nice,” I say.

“Hmmmmm.”

The room is too small for two transactions at once, and I wonder what it was designed for in the first place.  The four of us now share a space the size of a normal walk-in closet.  The wall opposite the door has three built-in shelves that display an assortment of watches and sunglasses.  It’s uncertain where the purse had come from.  A single archway leads into a kitchen, though no rooms visibly head out of the kitchen elsewhere.  My salesman, whom I’d forgotten about in the excitement of taking in this strange new world suddenly speaks up.

“This is a new model.  I think it’s very good for you.”  He’s holding up a large Rolex knock-off, black, with green undertones.  It’s particularly large, and could never fit me without looking clown-like.  I hold it up to my wrist and its large, dark mass makes me feel spindly and malformed, like the victim of a concentration camp.  This is a watch for men carved of iron and stone and chiseled into almost bloated form.  Fully latching it, the watch still dangles sadly on my wiry arm, like an accoutrement for adults carelessly dangled onto an infant.

“Oh yes, it looks very nice.”

“I don’t think we’re looking at the same thing.”

I take the watch off and hand it back to him.  He smacks it against his palm, hard, then presses the still vibrating watching against my hand.  The vibration is clearly meant to be impressive and I raise my eyebrows in appreciation while simultaneously turning my gaze away from the pointless show off unnecessary quivering.

I check out a few more for good measure, though they either look wrong or fit wrong.  Each time I select a model, my salesman opens the door and shows it to someone out in the hallway who presumably runs to another room that is stacked from floor to ceiling with small boxes containing the  contraband.  Deciding I’m wasting everyone’s time, I leave with little hindrance from the shop.

I’m not against buying a fake watch, Rolex or otherwise.  I’d researched it a bit in advance, and apparently these are the best fugazis on the planet, with every effort paid toward perfect reproduction.  I tried fakes of every shape, breed and color.  In the end, it wasn’t an aversion to piracy or a fear of shoddy craftsmanship that scared me away; all the watches simply looked shitty on my thin, spindly wrists.

Dim Sum

Chinese food can be divided into several different cooking styles.  Chongqing showcases Sichuan, whose spicy Sichuan peppers provide the heart and soul of many a dish.  Located so close to Canton, with inhabitants all speaking a language called “Cantonese,” it’s no surprise that the famous Cantonese cooking style would radiate forth out of Hong Kong.  Great Dim Sum can be found anywhere from the Chinatowns of America to my tiny kitchen in Chongqing, but it’s Hong Kong that gave birth to the wide selection of steamed and fried finger foods.

They say that the key to finding a good Dim Sum restaurant is to look for Chinese people.  If the patrons are overwhelmingly Chinese, then you’ve likely discovered a good place.  Unfortunately, this advice only holds true in the States.  In China, even the shittiest, dirtiest, most back-alley establishments will still find the occasional dash of business, and you can bet dollars to dim sum that that business will be of the Asiatic variety.  In cases like this, one is recommended to use the Internet.

Melissa and I failed to do so on our first day in Hong Kong, opting instead to ask the lady at the front desk for Dim Sum advice.  Unfortunately, she was less a “concierge” and more a “lady ready to tell us the quickest, easiest possible answer to get us to go away.”  As such, our first attempt was sub-par at best and sadly did not involve the pushcarts I so immediately associate with Dim Sum.  For a second attempt, we would absolutely require the assistance of the recently re-married Jess and Dave, from multiple prior entries.  Getting from Kowloon to the main island requires the usage of the famous Star Island Ferry; it’s cheap, famously scenic and you’re allowed to bring beer aboard.  Basically, it’s the only way to get around here.

Paying twenty dollars more a night, they were staying on Hong Kong Island and the surprisingly fancy YMCA hotel.  Already in the mirrored and beautifully kept elevator, I can tell this trip will not go well for me, and my choice of lodging for our visit.  My suspicions prove correct — Jess and Dave’s room is large, gorgeous and features a large window overlooking some of the most beautiful features of Hong Kong Island.  Whatever.

Above all other Dim Sum establishments in Hong Kong, Maxim’s City Hall Dim Sum (located, not that shockingly next to City Hall) is the name that filters up to the top of every recommendation list.  The wait for seats, upon our arrival at 1 PM on a weekday, is slightly over one hour.  It’s worth it.  The restaurant is located on the second floor with a gorgeous view of the harbor, and it also sits above an art gallery, which helps to kill time when waiting for seats.

Inside, the tables and placements are meticulously laid out with about as much opulence as you’re ever likely to find when eating Dim Sum.  Traditional pushcarts take the food about the room serving all of the standard fare, yet it’s the non-standard options that take the restaurant to the next level.  Fried Squid Tentacles.  Three times as many rolls, buns and dumplings as I’d ever seen at Dim Sum before.  Whole carts of exotic deserts that I didn’t both trying while waiting for my perennial favorite: the egg tart.  Only downside (other than waiting):  the price is almost completely western, coming in close to $100 for four of us.

Vodka Bars and Old Friends

We leave Jess and Dave and wander back into the island with no immediate place to be.  Just a year ago, I’d taken the cruise to Antarctica and met an interesting assortment of characters on the boat.  Among them was Adam So, then a finance worker in Canada (I believe), though he’d now relocated back to his home city of Hong Kong and had started a new operation of some sort.  He recommended we meet him at The Peak, both for its good restaurant selection and overall tourist value.

Victoria Peak, generally just known as The Peak to locals, is conveniently located on the western side of Hong Kong Island, providing magnificent views of the cityscapes of both the island itself and Kowloon across the harbor.  At night, it’s especially exceptional.  The Peak hosts an assortment of gardens, viewpoints, restaurants and stores, culminating in the Peak Galleria, a massive structure shaped a bit like an upside-down umbrella.

Due to its extreme verticality, it’s quite difficult to reach the peak from below, though there is a steep, windy road cars can take to get there.  It’s original inhabitants — rich, white English people — established themselves here to get away from the natives, and were carried up to the top on sedan chairs by unfortunate locals.  Around 100 years ago, the funicular was added and remains a primary tourist attraction in the city today.  There are apartments and homes up here, and while they’re no longer reserved specifically for the white and British, being wealthy definitely remains a prerequisite.

We walk the Galleria for a bit, window shopping and taking pictures at all the standard photo op locations before meeting up with Adam.  After just a year, he looks much the same as before, though happier, I would say.  He’s started a business of health-food vending machines throughout the city, capitalizing on natives’ newfound desire for proper eating merging with their classic desire to do everything very very fast.  It’s a good idea and seems to be starting off with some degree of success.

Dinner is, as  expected up on the Peak, both exceptional and expensive.  From the start, I know that Adam’s going to attempt to pay for it and, honoring the local customs, I’m going to have to let him.  Knowing how this will play out in advance is nice, but leaves me feeling obliged to limit myself as to what I order so that the subsequent serving of post-dinner guilt won’t be too large.  When the check comes, I agree to pay for the evening’s drinks later and all is settled.

He takes us to one of the finer bars in the city, on the roof of the Marriott.  It’s opulent and overpriced, but at least their drinks are strong, and the lighting and music are both at that perfect level to be calming without being sapping.  But what puts this bar head and shoulders above any other I have ever visited would have to be the bathroom.  Framed on the outside by an all glass wall, urinators may actually look down over the massive urban expanse while relieving themselves, only to later dry their hands with a fine white, linen towel, taken from a large fresh stack.  For once, I’m glad to have an exceptionally weak bladder.

Parting ways, Melissa and I venture back to Kowloon and walk along Nathan Street, the central shopping and dining lane in Tsimshatsui.  We spend far too long seeking out a toilet and after Melissa runs in to use it, I’m approached on the corner.

“You want to have some sex?” the girl asks.

“Sure I do!” I exclaim.

“Ok, come with me, sweetie,” she instructs me.

“Oh, with you?  No.  I thought you just meant, like, in general.”

She cares little for my reindeer games and saunters off.  Within thirty seconds, she’s replaced by a second woman inquiring as to my evening’s plans, this time well into her forties.  I dismiss her without even playing along.

Useful fact:  In the time it takes a normal girl to urinate, male Hong Kong tourists have to fend off 1.75 prostitutes.

Local road names make it very clear who designed this city.  Chatham.  Mody.  Nelson.  Granville.  We seek out the last one after a tip by some locals that it’s a happening night spot with a wide selection of pubs and restaurants.  The drinks are good, but we’re very much paying western prices.  A Tex-Mex establishment proves too tempting for me to pass up, and for the first time in several months, I’m allowed to gorge myself on nachos and fajitas.

Across the path, a Russian bar promises a walk-in, zero-degree vodka room with the largest selection of vodkas in the city.  Inside, a young couple serenade visitors with balalaikas and another older instrument of presumably Russian heritage.  With a soft whoomf a large metal door next to the bar opens and four people wearing dense fur coats and fur ushanka hats step out, warming themselves by rubbing their arms vigorously.  We grab two freshly used pieces off winter-wear and head in for some vodka.  It’s cold, though not the coldest I’ve ever had; drinking like this is more for the unique experience than for any actual benefit to the vodka.  But it’s nice.

It’s a week night and none of the bars around here are full, lively or interesting.  Some recommendations lead us to a semi-happening bar featuring bad Chinese karaoke and high-priced beer.  A hefty Chinese man in his late 20′s hogs the microphone and seems to be droning a single note into it that slowly oscillates up and back down like a neverending broken diphthong.  To distract ourselves, we take to the ubiquitous dice (always five of them, stored in a cup) that can be found in almost any bar in China and are almost always in use at every table.  The Chinese love dice games, despite the relative simplicity and lack of strategy involved in their games.

Liar’s Dice (the western name) is mildly popular.  To begin, the dice are all shaken in their respective cups and kept hidden so that only the players are aware of what numbered dice are in their cups.  Each subsequent player must outdo the claim of the player before him.  For instance, if the previous person stated that there are “two 2′s” on the table, then the next player must claim that there are  two of either 3′s, 4′s, 5′s or 6′s — or three or more of any number.  If four people (each starting with five dice) are playing, then it’s possible that there are twenty 6′s hidden away on the table right now — but it’s extremely unlikely.  When another player doubts someone’s claim, they basically call “bullshit” and all the dice are shown and added up — whomever was wrong loses a die.

The far more popular and less strategically interesting game lacks an English name that I know of.  Near as I can tell, the only perk to the game is that lots of people get to shake dice wildly at once and it requires no communication so it can be played in even the loudest of clubs.  All players shake their dice cups in unison.  1′s are pushed to the center and removed from play.  6′s are passed to the player on your left.  That’s it.  That’s the whole fucking game.  Mock if you want, but statistically speaking, it’s quite likely that a million people are playing this game at any given time.

After a few games, I try my hand at karaoke.  The choices in English are limited and unusual and I pick the lone option by Eminem, “Square Dance.”  Having never received any radio play that I’m aware of, it’s a strange choice but one Melissa and I both seem to know.  Halfway through the song, the fat Chinese man that preceded us pulls out my microphone and walks away.  It’s clear we’re not wanted.

My friend Jessica Lee loves Hong Kong.  Or at least, she visits a lot — it might just be due to free tickets from her family, more than any drive to take in as much as possible of the mad semi-Chinese city.  After three days, we’re about out of options here.  It’s a fun city for shopping, and there are lots of good foods, but it already seems to me like there are better places in Asia where the same can be said for cheaper.  There are also tourist elements we never really made our way to, despite recommendations:

• Lamma Island: One of the smaller islands in the region, with no large buildings or automobiles allowed.  Apparently, lots of scenic beauty here, as well as a thriving artist community.
• Lantau Island: The largest island — even moreso than Hong Kong Island — it hosts a Disneyworld, as well as a famous Buddhist complex featuring one of the largest Buddhas in the area.  The Buddha is one of the most famous tourist attractions and I’m sorry I didn’t get to check it out.

But, we only had one day left — and it was crucial we visit Asia’s Las Vegas: Macau.

An old Indian man reads the fortunes of two young Israeli girls on the beach and I’m sure for some reason Melissa favors my own future being read by the wizened guru.  At least I think she does.  We stumble around the beach impatiently until it is my turn and he looks to the tarot cards to advise me.

“Ahh, according to the cards, you like… to travel…”

“Really?  The cards told you that?”  Amazing.

“You are also… a very religious man.”

“Well, no…”

Something else is said, but it’s lost in a drunken haze, leaving only an echo of a memory behind.  All I know is that Melissa took this moment to punch me forcefully on the arm.

“Ow, that kind of hurt!” I laugh.

The second punch goes to my right eye and she storms off.

I run to catch up with her, doing my best to ascertain why my eye is stinging, though I can hazard at least one guess.

“Because he was terrible,” she exclaims.  ”He had no idea what he was talking about and didn’t know how to read tarot cards at all!”

“But.. but, why’d you punch me?!”

The mystery remains unsolved as the evening descends into chaos and confusion, set on a stage of fire and sand.  Next up: Beach basketball toss.  We pass.  Hula-hooping girls dive out of the way as I rush past, nearly tackling them, for no discernible reason.  A Norwegian tells of his time in a Thai jail for having been caught smoking a joint on the beach.  Inverted paper bags containing candles within lift off into the air, filling the night with artificial, yellow stars.  This place is a madhouse.

Sunday morning comes and we start anew, all crimes, mistakes, indiscretions and poor dining choices washed away with the ocean’s tide.

Island Exploration

“I’ve been standing here for a minute now and nobody is helping me,” the girl says, snidely, reeking of privilege.

The English girl avoids looking at either of us while she complains out, seemingly to no one.  But it’s clear who the target of her ire is.  The English have a word for girls like her — We Americans have it too, though our women hate it too much for us to drop it even casually.  Brits have far less of an issue doing so, and the word in question is imminently applicable here.

The scooter rental man is doing his best to prepare a bike for me, though this new arrival clearly wants one as well and doesn’t quite get the concept of waiting in line.

“I guess if no one wants my money, I’ll have to go somewhere else.  I really hate waiting.”

The Thai man looks at me with nervous vexation.  I’ve ridden these before, so I don’t mind him cutting the tutorial short.  $15 for 24 hours of scooter, plus two helmets — not a bad deal at all.  I put on my helmet and free up the agent to deal with the princess.

“Now understand something,” she explains pedantically as he approaches, carefully enunciating the words as one would do for a child.  ”I’m a backpacker and I don’t have much money, so I can’t be bothered to pay normal price.”

“The bikes are all new, all good.  It’s $15 for the day, just bring back tomorrow.”

“Oh no, that’s simply too high.  You’ll have to do better.  I simply can’t be bothered to pay that much on my budget.”

I drive away in disgust.  Travelers, all of us, are guilty at times of a lack of perspective.  Complaints about food and service not being up to our standards.  Complaints about lack of proper English speakers, regardless of a country’s natural language.  Any complaints based on a region not living up to behavior we specifically traveled to a far-off region to get away from.  But something about the posh Londoner whose travel budget is likely more than the bike renter makes in a year complaining sets me off.

Melissa’s gone when I get back, so I park the bike and run out to sea.  Other resort patrons eat their morning breakfasts on the veranda, but I pass by without making any attempts at conversation and run out into the ocean until my feet no longer can touch ground.  There, under the warm morning sun, I close my eyes, fill my lungs and just lay there, floating in place until the sun dries the moisture from my face.

Some heavy splashing takes place near me and I open my eyes to examine it.  I’ve moved about fifty feet down the beach, though my towel is still visible from here.  A couple appears to be wrestling playfully in the water.  The girl laughs uncontrollably while the man lifts her over his  shoulder, and their affection for each other is visible and strong.  For all the places I’ve been to, things I’ve seen and wonderful people I’ve met, there are still these sad gaps that I’m sometimes reminded of, of just what’s missing.

Back in the bungalow, Melissa and I examine the small map of the island and choose our route.  Much of the eastern section of the island lacks reliable roads, effectively cutting it off  from most tourists — the few hotels located there state that they’re only accessible by boat.  Toward the center of the island is a large national park, with a series of small waterfalls and swimming holes.  It’s the peaceful yin to Haad Rin’s maddening all-night ragefest of a yang, and a desperately needed getaway from our getaway.

Roads near Haad Rin are notoriously bad.  They dip and twist at irrational angles, whiles buses and trucks disquietingly screech past with little concern for their two-wheeled cousins.  Most of the island is flat and easy to navigate, but the tiny stretch of beach in the southeast that’s become a mecca for generally irresponsible young tourists offers some of the least carefree driving on the beach.   Accidents are so common that the after-effects on unfortunate riders are commonly known as “Koh Phangan tattoos.”

A shortage of road options makes getting around on the island incredibly easy once free of the twists and turns of Haad Rin.  A road runs northernly through the center of the island, practically cutting it in two, and we head west from Sarikantang Resort to reach it.  Hunger reaches us first, and we stop at one of the many roadside stands offering fresh Thai cuisine, fried up while you wait.  I order Tom Kha soup with shrimp, a coconut-based broth that’s equal parts spicy and sweet, and perfect with the dank sticky rice served on the side.  One more sign that we’re not at home: A medium-sized black monkey in a pink one-piece comes over to play with us as we wait.

Heading northward now with full stomachs, we ride on surprisingly well-maintained roads toward Phaeng waterfall and a decent viewpoint near the middle of the island.  The park is free, well maintained and offers snacks and drinks for reasonable prices — three things that haven’t been quite so reliable since leaving Asia.  There are other tourists and travelers here, mixed in with locals, but enough stick to the coastline that it feels like we’ve got the small mountain to ourselves.  A girl with purple hair tells us of a long path that heads to the top and around the mountain, and of a less-defined trek involving some rock-hopping that goes directly to the waterfall.

We choose the former, opting to find the latter on our way down.  It’s not a terrible strenuous hike, or technical in any way, but both of us would’ve rather worn hiking shoes than sandals.  The viewpoint allows us a glimpse of the entire western side of the island, the South China Sea just barely visible in the distance.  After a slight break, we maneuver off of the trail down the rocks in search of a shortcut to the waterfall.  The way isn’t marked and often devolves into uncertain bits of rock-hopping, but enough other people have clearly attempted this in the past that we don’t give up.

The waterfall itself is small, ending in a pool that’s just large enough to comfortably swim in.  A group of young Thai teenagers are just drying off as we arrive, and we approach slowly to give them time to finish drying in peace.  In the shade of the mountain, the water has remained cool and refreshing, and I submerge myself instantly, blissfully shedding the thick layer of sweat I’d accumulated while walking.  It’s a perfect way to spend an afternoon, on Koh Phangan or anywhere.

The Long Way Back

Koh Phangan simply isn’t an ideal weekend destination.  Even with an extra day, the trip is heavily weighted down by a series of exhausting ordeals — an obstacle course of planes, boats, bad directions, sketchy food and sleep deprivation.  Any time spent on the island then will obviously fall under the looming spectre of the similar return journey.  That much effort and stress clearly needs to be rewarded with three free days or more.  In fact, for Full Moon parties, most hostels and hotels will only rent in five-day intervals.

We spend the rest of Sunday darting around the island, heading to the north tip of the island from Phaeng waterfall, and then westward around its coast.  A pirate-themed bar (clearly enticing to me after my years spent as a Captain Morgan representative) is apparently hidden away on the western coast, but proves impossible to find.  Signs point to an elephant farm, but the opportunity to commune with the mammoth beasts that once dominated all of southeast Asia (and now are almost completely wiped out) proves distressing and sad.

“You buy banana to feed elephant.”

The Thai boy of about thirteen holds out a basket of bananas and smiles innocently, and his mirth is almost infectious.  Two large elephants stand next to each other by a tree, about 100 feet from us.  Slightly farther is a young elephant cub.  The bananas are overpriced for Thailand, but incredibly cheap from almost any other perspective, and I pick up a small cluster and start heading toward the two adults.

“Oh no, this is horrible,” says Melissa as we walk, catching onto the setup here before I do.

“Happy couple on honeymoon,” our teenage guide informs us while pointing, unaware of how disturbing his attraction would be to most westerners.  The “happy couple” of elephants each have a length of chain around one of their front legs with the remainder of the chain running from the legs to the large tree they both stand beside.  The chains are no longer than ten feet, each.  We’re instructed that the bananas are for the young elephant, who is granted a slightly longer berth, and as we pass the adults bearing fresh fruit, they forget the reality of their situation for a moment and attempt to walk forward before being yanked back into their sad, cramped position.

The baby feeds on my offered bananas gleefully, but any shared joy I might feel from the experience has now been sucked away knowing that I’ve been a willing benefactor of this operation.  Next to me, Melissa is almost in tears with disgust but the steady smile of our host implies that her admonitions clearly don’t register with him.  I hold out all the remaining bananas at once so the pachyderm can gobble down as quickly as possible and we can speed off.  Sadly, the weak engine of our scooter doesn’t allow for the possibility of burning rubber.

Sunday night on the island is more subdued.  Bright, pastel-colored dots are visible across the beach, showing that the buckets are still as popular as the previous night, but we take things easier.  All events involving fire are avoided with extreme prejudice, including a particularly rousing round of limbo.  An arm wrestling competition is worth watching for a few minutes, but both of us are too scrawny to consider actively competing.  If there are prizes to be had for victors in any of these sports,  it’s definitely unclear.

We clean up quickly in the morning.  The boat leaves at 11 AM, but the shuttle across the island takes off at 10, and I still need to return the scooter.  Most restaurants cater to the late night crowd here, so quick breakfast options are severely limited.  Between meat-filled crepes or more pad thai, I go with the latter.  It’s cheap, and I just can’t seem to grow tired of it.

Like a palindrome, we follow the same steps getting back to Bangkok as we did to arrive here in the first place — trucks, boats, buses, planes, taxis — and find ourselves in a different part of the city for our final night in town.  We picked the hotel for its proximity to the airport, and not for the nightlife.  This is a good thing, as there is no nightlife here.  There is a large square of food stands offering the most common Thai meals to a crowd that is, other than us, 100% indigenous.

As it’s our last night and the food is so cheap, we take samplings of anything even remotely appealing.  Soft-shelled crabs.  Skewered meats.  Spicy fruit salads.  Miniature crock-pots of broth, meat and vegetables that continues to cook at the table (and isn’t really that awesome, despite being the most popular thing on other tables).  It’s a fitting and filling end to an all-too-brief introduction to Thailand.  One day, I’ll likely come back.

For now though, Hong Kong looms…