Salon Wanderlust | Sex and fate in Macau

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

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R E C E N T L Y
Teaching the cannibals to dance: Part Two
By Craig Nelson
A mock battle culminates in a transcultural two-step -- and an unexpected gift
(01/19/99)
Teaching the cannibals to dance
By Craig Nelson
An adventurer journeys farther than expected into a land of penis gourds and pig sacrifices
(01/17/99)
This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe
(01/15/99)
Beijing's Backingham Palace
By Mary Elizabeth Williams
From back rubs to bowling to B-movies, this Chinese spa has it all
(01/14/99)
New York serenade
By Pico Iyer
An ex-Gothamite returns for five days -- and finds that attitude has its charms
(01/13/99)

Browse the
Wanderlust Feature archives

Wanderlust's Official
Travel Book Partner

SEX AND FATE IN MACAU | PAGE 1, 2
- - - - - - - - - -
Actually, I'm not even sure if the Guia Nightclub cabaret is a sex show. But considering that the promotional poster hanging outside the building features a lineup of male and female performers wearing nothing but grim grins and leather underwear, I can't imagine what else it would be.
When I walked by that poster this morning, I impulsively vowed to myself that I would attend a performance later. I make such pointless vows all the time -- a holdover from the days when, as a third-grader, I would swear not to step on any sidewalk cracks on the way home from school. As with my third-grade days, I usually forget about these promises within a matter of hours.
Unfortunately, my Nike-shod seer has just eliminated that luxury from this situation. As he gives me my money's worth with sundry predictions about my future wife and children, my mind races with possible alternative theatrical uses for leather underwear.
Once he's gone, I realize I don't know where I am. This is not a problem. Being lost in Macau is like being lost in the Louvre or Narita airport or the Mall of America: Eventually, I will turn a corner and not be lost any more. After all, this small peninsula on the western mouth of the Pearl River estuary covers only about 6 square miles, and it's hard to ever find yourself more than a mile or so from the gambling district, the harbor or China.
This is why -- while riding the jet foil over from Hong Kong yesterday -- I circled the major attractions on my Macau tourist map and memorized them, then threw the map away. Trying to seek out highlights from that 45-minute cram session has lent a quirky sense of discovery to my walking tour. At times, trying to decide where I want to go next has been like trying to recall a dream five minutes after waking up.
This contrived disorientation has made my stroll through the old neighborhoods of Macau wonderfully visceral. The cobblestone streets here wind past wooden-shuttered homes that have been painted over in mustard yellows, lime greens, deep reds and pale pinks. Narrow, laundry-draped iron balconies gird the back alleys, and small, fruit-laden Chinese altars perch the storefronts below, hazy with incense smoke. All the little boys here, it seems, own BMX dirt bikes; all the beautiful young women ride straight-backed on mopeds, coifed in plastic-visored safety helmets. All the old Chinese men wear souring T-shirts and sit bare-kneed on wooden chairs, watching TV and fanning themselves; the old Chinese women sell oranges on the street. There is a displaced Mediterranean mood here that I haven't experienced since I visited New Orleans.
Taking my bearings, I head uphill on the cobblestones, sensing that I am nearing the old stone fortress that overlooks the city. From there, I should be able to find my way back to the Guia Nightclub. The sun has already started to go down, so I figure I'd better get started if I want to appropriately prevent my doom.
I am not the only one with danger in my stars these days. On Dec. 20, this tiny colony will be handed over to China after 442 years of Portuguese control. As with Hong Kong two years ago, many seers have predicted a dark fate for the people of Macau when the communist Chinese take over. Lisbon has already expressed concern with the Chinese plan to base troops in the territory shortly after the handover.
Political anxieties aside, however, the hilltop Sao Paulo Monte fortress is a vision of serenity as I climb the stone battlements at sundown. In the grass at the foot of the west wall, an old Chinese man is playing a stringed instrument that resembles a croquet mallet. The music is twangy, but subtle; peaceful. As if in rhythm to the music, another Chinese man is going through the deliberate motions of tai-chi, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a tank top. I took him for a vagrant at first -- before I noticed his business suit neatly folded and sitting on a bench nearby.
In a grassy courtyard on top of the fortress, a family badminton game is in its waning stages. Every missed shot in the fading light yields a chorus of giggles from the participants, who for some reason are all wearing identical yellow ball caps. A stray yellow-capped kid has wandered from the game and is perched on one of the huge cannons that line the fortress wall. Three hundred fifty years ago, these cannons defended Macau's outer harbor from pirates and Dutch invaders. These days, the cannons are loaded with the castoff garbage of picnickers.
Directly within the firing-line of these cannons stands the famous Hotel Lisboa Casino -- a symbol of both prosperity and problems for Macau. My map-less wanderings took me there last night, and I lingered for over an hour in the high-stakes blackjack and baccarat rooms, where sleepy-eyed Hong Kong businessmen impassively placed wagers bigger than my annual income. On street level, the back lobby brimmed with prostitutes -- Chinese and Russian, Filipina and Slavic -- all of them made-up and mini-skirted, pacing with contrived nonchalance, ready to intercept hotel-bound high-rollers.
Despite recent efforts to reform Macau into a family-friendly "Asian Las Vegas" (a marine park and wax museum are in the works), gambling and prostitution remain the top tourist draws. Correspondingly, triad gang violence is Macau's only consistent international news item. Sixteen people were killed here in mob-related activities in 1997, and the violence has intensified as the handover date approaches. According to a small item in this morning's newspaper, a security guard found an undetonated Soviet-made hand grenade near the Hotel Lisboa taxi stand about 14 hours before I showed up.
Following the horizon to the left from the Lisboa, I spot Guia Lighthouse perched atop a granite hill overlooking the casino district. Built in 1865, it is said to be the oldest lighthouse on the Chinese coast. Its image is one of the official symbols of Macau, and appears on the one-pataca coin. Though I doubt the similarly named sex cabaret will ever appear on the local money, it is located a mere stone's throw from the more famous landmark. Orienting myself by the lighthouse, I abandon the fortress and start down the hill.
I am starting to get nervous about the cabaret show. Though in theory I firmly believe there's nothing wrong with a little red-blooded voyeurism, I never manage to fully enjoy myself at go-go bars and strip clubs. Somehow, I can never look at the dancing girls without wondering how strange and absurd male sexuality must seem to them. Without the influence of certain hormones, striptease is nothing but dadaist ballet -- an inconsequential disrobing set to music: theater of the mundane. Even a full-on sex show is -- at its most basic essence -- nothing more than a couple of people doing their job. Thinking about this tends to ruin all sense of fantasy for me, leaving me about as titillated as a spectator at the drive-through window of a Burger King. Thus, I fear that I'm about to spend a lot of money just to feel uncomfortable for an hour or so.
The walk to Guia Nightclub is not as simple as it seemed from the fortress, and I arrive there late in the evening. As I approach the front door, I notice three police cars parked in front. A tuxedo-clad Chinese man who appears to work for the nightclub is talking with several police officers outside. He doesn't seem to be arguing, but his grin is forced -- as if he learned to smile from his own nightclub promotional posters.
Taking a deep breath, I walk into the nightclub, secretly hoping the police have shut the place down for the rest of the week. Past the foyer, I peer into a dimly lit room of tables. It is completely empty. The only soul I see inside the nightclub is the evening-gowned female ticket-taker, who acts a bit startled when I walk up to her window.
"Is the show canceled?" I ask her.
"No," she says. "We still have show."
"But where are all the people?"
She points over to a staircase and I head downstairs. I am secretly convinced that the only other souls who could possibly come here tonight would be a creepy lineup of regulars. However, instead of finding a handful of vacant-eyed lechers, I go downstairs to discover a dozen or so Southeast Asians in their 20s. They are all dressed in sweats and T-shirts, and they chat casually with each other at tables near the front. Grateful for the buffer, I take a seat in the back.
Sitting in my dark nook, I finally begin to relax. Up by the stage, the young Southeast Asians joke and flirt with each other, and I am encouraged by their nonchalant mood. The simple curiosity that struck me when I saw the nightclub poster this morning is starting to come back. I even feel a bit sheepish for ever having felt nervous about coming here.
Perhaps the encounter with the Nike fortuneteller really was fate. Perhaps the "sickness" he was talking about merely referred to anxiety. Perhaps this is a sign for me to embrace impulse and reject my inhibitions.
As I am thinking this to myself, the ticket-window lady comes downstairs and says I owe her $50. Before I even have a chance to bargain with her, she whirls around and starts barking orders at the Southeast Asians. The room empties out in a matter of seconds, and I realize with a sudden start that the carefree kids at the front of the room were the exact same crew I saw grinning out at me from the Guia Nightclub promotional poster. The ticket lady flips a switch, and vents along the wall begin to blast cold air. Techno dance music begins to thump out from the sound system.
I am the only customer here.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Of all the forces that regulate my life, cowardice is certainly the most efficient. I am standing on the Guia Lighthouse hilltop, yet it seems like just an instant ago that I first felt the panicked urge to flee the Guia Nightclub.
As with the nightclub, I am the only person here. The lighthouse viewing deck features a spotting scope, and I am slowly scanning the city for signs of life. All I can find is a smattering of yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars, but I can appreciate the quiet dullness of it all.
Perhaps it is the yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars of moment-by-moment existence that hint toward the only real fate: a mundane sort of un-fate, actually, that buoys our lives as we continually look around for something that we can call destiny.
In a few months, these yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars will become a part of communist China -- but sometimes it's best to ignore the dark warnings and simply hope for the best.
I did, and it has already saved me $50.
SALON | Jan. 20, 1999
Rolf Potts is currently traveling on the Asian road. He has previously written for Salon Wanderlust about Pusan, Las Vegas and Korea.


	T A B L E_T A L K Will you party like it's 1999? Discuss your upcoming New Year's Eve plans in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Check out barnesandnoble.com's fabulous selection of travel book bargains! ___________________ R E C E N T L Y Teaching the cannibals to dance: Part Two By Craig Nelson A mock battle culminates in a transcultural two-step -- and an unexpected gift (01/19/99) Teaching the cannibals to dance By Craig Nelson An adventurer journeys farther than expected into a land of penis gourds and pig sacrifices (01/17/99) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (01/15/99) Beijing's Backingham Palace By Mary Elizabeth Williams From back rubs to bowling to B-movies, this Chinese spa has it all (01/14/99) New York serenade By Pico Iyer An ex-Gothamite returns for five days -- and finds that attitude has its charms (01/13/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		SEX AND FATE IN MACAU \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - Actually, I'm not even sure if the Guia Nightclub cabaret is a sex show. But considering that the promotional poster hanging outside the building features a lineup of male and female performers wearing nothing but grim grins and leather underwear, I can't imagine what else it would be. When I walked by that poster this morning, I impulsively vowed to myself that I would attend a performance later. I make such pointless vows all the time -- a holdover from the days when, as a third-grader, I would swear not to step on any sidewalk cracks on the way home from school. As with my third-grade days, I usually forget about these promises within a matter of hours. Unfortunately, my Nike-shod seer has just eliminated that luxury from this situation. As he gives me my money's worth with sundry predictions about my future wife and children, my mind races with possible alternative theatrical uses for leather underwear. Once he's gone, I realize I don't know where I am. This is not a problem. Being lost in Macau is like being lost in the Louvre or Narita airport or the Mall of America: Eventually, I will turn a corner and not be lost any more. After all, this small peninsula on the western mouth of the Pearl River estuary covers only about 6 square miles, and it's hard to ever find yourself more than a mile or so from the gambling district, the harbor or China. This is why -- while riding the jet foil over from Hong Kong yesterday -- I circled the major attractions on my Macau tourist map and memorized them, then threw the map away. Trying to seek out highlights from that 45-minute cram session has lent a quirky sense of discovery to my walking tour. At times, trying to decide where I want to go next has been like trying to recall a dream five minutes after waking up. This contrived disorientation has made my stroll through the old neighborhoods of Macau wonderfully visceral. The cobblestone streets here wind past wooden-shuttered homes that have been painted over in mustard yellows, lime greens, deep reds and pale pinks. Narrow, laundry-draped iron balconies gird the back alleys, and small, fruit-laden Chinese altars perch the storefronts below, hazy with incense smoke. All the little boys here, it seems, own BMX dirt bikes; all the beautiful young women ride straight-backed on mopeds, coifed in plastic-visored safety helmets. All the old Chinese men wear souring T-shirts and sit bare-kneed on wooden chairs, watching TV and fanning themselves; the old Chinese women sell oranges on the street. There is a displaced Mediterranean mood here that I haven't experienced since I visited New Orleans. Taking my bearings, I head uphill on the cobblestones, sensing that I am nearing the old stone fortress that overlooks the city. From there, I should be able to find my way back to the Guia Nightclub. The sun has already started to go down, so I figure I'd better get started if I want to appropriately prevent my doom. I am not the only one with danger in my stars these days. On Dec. 20, this tiny colony will be handed over to China after 442 years of Portuguese control. As with Hong Kong two years ago, many seers have predicted a dark fate for the people of Macau when the communist Chinese take over. Lisbon has already expressed concern with the Chinese plan to base troops in the territory shortly after the handover. Political anxieties aside, however, the hilltop Sao Paulo Monte fortress is a vision of serenity as I climb the stone battlements at sundown. In the grass at the foot of the west wall, an old Chinese man is playing a stringed instrument that resembles a croquet mallet. The music is twangy, but subtle; peaceful. As if in rhythm to the music, another Chinese man is going through the deliberate motions of tai-chi, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a tank top. I took him for a vagrant at first -- before I noticed his business suit neatly folded and sitting on a bench nearby. In a grassy courtyard on top of the fortress, a family badminton game is in its waning stages. Every missed shot in the fading light yields a chorus of giggles from the participants, who for some reason are all wearing identical yellow ball caps. A stray yellow-capped kid has wandered from the game and is perched on one of the huge cannons that line the fortress wall. Three hundred fifty years ago, these cannons defended Macau's outer harbor from pirates and Dutch invaders. These days, the cannons are loaded with the castoff garbage of picnickers. Directly within the firing-line of these cannons stands the famous Hotel Lisboa Casino -- a symbol of both prosperity and problems for Macau. My map-less wanderings took me there last night, and I lingered for over an hour in the high-stakes blackjack and baccarat rooms, where sleepy-eyed Hong Kong businessmen impassively placed wagers bigger than my annual income. On street level, the back lobby brimmed with prostitutes -- Chinese and Russian, Filipina and Slavic -- all of them made-up and mini-skirted, pacing with contrived nonchalance, ready to intercept hotel-bound high-rollers. Despite recent efforts to reform Macau into a family-friendly "Asian Las Vegas" (a marine park and wax museum are in the works), gambling and prostitution remain the top tourist draws. Correspondingly, triad gang violence is Macau's only consistent international news item. Sixteen people were killed here in mob-related activities in 1997, and the violence has intensified as the handover date approaches. According to a small item in this morning's newspaper, a security guard found an undetonated Soviet-made hand grenade near the Hotel Lisboa taxi stand about 14 hours before I showed up. Following the horizon to the left from the Lisboa, I spot Guia Lighthouse perched atop a granite hill overlooking the casino district. Built in 1865, it is said to be the oldest lighthouse on the Chinese coast. Its image is one of the official symbols of Macau, and appears on the one-pataca coin. Though I doubt the similarly named sex cabaret will ever appear on the local money, it is located a mere stone's throw from the more famous landmark. Orienting myself by the lighthouse, I abandon the fortress and start down the hill. I am starting to get nervous about the cabaret show. Though in theory I firmly believe there's nothing wrong with a little red-blooded voyeurism, I never manage to fully enjoy myself at go-go bars and strip clubs. Somehow, I can never look at the dancing girls without wondering how strange and absurd male sexuality must seem to them. Without the influence of certain hormones, striptease is nothing but dadaist ballet -- an inconsequential disrobing set to music: theater of the mundane. Even a full-on sex show is -- at its most basic essence -- nothing more than a couple of people doing their job. Thinking about this tends to ruin all sense of fantasy for me, leaving me about as titillated as a spectator at the drive-through window of a Burger King. Thus, I fear that I'm about to spend a lot of money just to feel uncomfortable for an hour or so. The walk to Guia Nightclub is not as simple as it seemed from the fortress, and I arrive there late in the evening. As I approach the front door, I notice three police cars parked in front. A tuxedo-clad Chinese man who appears to work for the nightclub is talking with several police officers outside. He doesn't seem to be arguing, but his grin is forced -- as if he learned to smile from his own nightclub promotional posters. Taking a deep breath, I walk into the nightclub, secretly hoping the police have shut the place down for the rest of the week. Past the foyer, I peer into a dimly lit room of tables. It is completely empty. The only soul I see inside the nightclub is the evening-gowned female ticket-taker, who acts a bit startled when I walk up to her window. "Is the show canceled?" I ask her. "No," she says. "We still have show." "But where are all the people?" She points over to a staircase and I head downstairs. I am secretly convinced that the only other souls who could possibly come here tonight would be a creepy lineup of regulars. However, instead of finding a handful of vacant-eyed lechers, I go downstairs to discover a dozen or so Southeast Asians in their 20s. They are all dressed in sweats and T-shirts, and they chat casually with each other at tables near the front. Grateful for the buffer, I take a seat in the back. Sitting in my dark nook, I finally begin to relax. Up by the stage, the young Southeast Asians joke and flirt with each other, and I am encouraged by their nonchalant mood. The simple curiosity that struck me when I saw the nightclub poster this morning is starting to come back. I even feel a bit sheepish for ever having felt nervous about coming here. Perhaps the encounter with the Nike fortuneteller really was fate. Perhaps the "sickness" he was talking about merely referred to anxiety. Perhaps this is a sign for me to embrace impulse and reject my inhibitions. As I am thinking this to myself, the ticket-window lady comes downstairs and says I owe her $50. Before I even have a chance to bargain with her, she whirls around and starts barking orders at the Southeast Asians. The room empties out in a matter of seconds, and I realize with a sudden start that the carefree kids at the front of the room were the exact same crew I saw grinning out at me from the Guia Nightclub promotional poster. The ticket lady flips a switch, and vents along the wall begin to blast cold air. Techno dance music begins to thump out from the sound system. I am the only customer here. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Of all the forces that regulate my life, cowardice is certainly the most efficient. I am standing on the Guia Lighthouse hilltop, yet it seems like just an instant ago that I first felt the panicked urge to flee the Guia Nightclub. As with the nightclub, I am the only person here. The lighthouse viewing deck features a spotting scope, and I am slowly scanning the city for signs of life. All I can find is a smattering of yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars, but I can appreciate the quiet dullness of it all. Perhaps it is the yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars of moment-by-moment existence that hint toward the only real fate: a mundane sort of un-fate, actually, that buoys our lives as we continually look around for something that we can call destiny. In a few months, these yellow-lit rooms and slow-moving cars will become a part of communist China -- but sometimes it's best to ignore the dark warnings and simply hope for the best. I did, and it has already saved me $50. SALON \| Jan. 20, 1999 Rolf Potts is currently traveling on the Asian road. He has previously written for Salon Wanderlust about Pusan, Las Vegas and Korea.