Lost on Planet China - J. Maarten Troost [79]
As we received our ferry tickets, I discovered that Jack, inexplicably, had been upgraded to the deluxe deck upstairs.
“How does this always happen to you?” I asked. “Is it because you are a Republican, a defender of privilege, and you are thus accorded deference and upgrades to Deluxe?”
“Maybe they think I’m a high roller and they’re putting me in the whale section. Or they could tell that I was unemployed and they felt sorry for me.”
We roared through the haze of Victoria Harbor, past cargo ships of every variation, past fishing boats rolling in the swell, past the last Chinese junk to remain floating in Hong Kong, then curved around the headlands of Lantau and flew past the Pearl River Delta and across the open waters of the South China Sea. It did not seem possible that one could travel so fast over water. Upon arriving in Macau, we again stood in long lines waiting to go through Passport Control.
“You’re sure we’re still in the same country?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
“Maybe they should let the people here know.”
Outside the ferry terminal, we were greeted by the familiar fellows offering tours, gypsy cabs, or currency exchange services at no cost to you. Absolutely free.
“So where to now?” Jack asked.
“The old town,” I said as we hopped into a taxi.
Once the oldest European colony in China, Macau had been administered by Portugal until 1999 but was in reality ruled by the triads such as 14k and Soi Fung. Like the mafia, triads earned their bread through money laundering, drugs, extortion, and contract murders—in other words, the usual mob fare. Except the triads are known, even among the global gangster community, as being exceptionally violent. Car bombs were a staple of life in Macau during much of the 1990s. Indeed, the violence had escalated to such a degree that the police chief referred to the mobsters as “professional killers who don’t miss their targets.” This was actually meant to entice tourists; mobsters never miss. Trust us. So come to Macau. Have a good time.
In the old town, I felt like I could be anywhere in the colonial world of the tropics. There were stately mansions lining the narrow, curving streets and inviting porticos through which we walked past shops specializing in spices. The city radiates nostalgia. It’s an urban ode to the days when fleets from the Mediterranean ruled the world. Portuguese is still a living language in Macau, and many of its inhabitants are mixed race, something rarely seen elsewhere in China. We headed for the Protestant Cemetery, a serene enclave with chirping parrots. I am not a cemetery man myself. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that I stopped holding my breath whenever I drove past one. But if I had to choose a favorite cemetery it would be the Protestant Cemetery in Macau. This is because the finest writer in the English language is Patrick O’Brian, the author of Master and Commander and the nineteen books that followed chronicling the naval adventures of Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin during the Napoleonic Era. Those books are like crack for me, and whenever I read them—and I have read them thrice—I depart this world for the HMS Surprise and a world of intrigue and adventure. Indeed, I am such a fan that my youngest son’s middle name is Aubrey. It’s a great thing being a parent, to have these little people to mold. They are canvases upon which to bestow your own whims and ambitions. You carry the name of Jack Aubrey, Post-Captain of the HMS Surprise, I tell my one-year-old. Do you think Jack Aubrey refused his peas and scorned his applesauce?
In the spirit of O’Brian, the cemetery held the remains of many sailors who had succumbed to the trials and tribulations of the colonial