Macao
Last time when I was in Macao is in 80s. Then still in my early teens, my mother took me on a short trip to Zhuhai, the border town to Macao.
We boarded a cruiser ship to the open water facing Macao. I remembered hotel Lisboa, looked like a bird cage, the landmark of this oriental Las Vegas. From away, we could see people were wandering at the maritime avenue, glazing at us occasionally, probably just like us to them. That was as close as we could get.
Macao, then was like Hong Kong, a mysterious place. Visa permit for PRC citizen were hard to get if it was possible at all.
We did go to the border, Gongbei, at that occasion though. Not for attempting an illegal trafficking, but not far from it. There were scores of people coming from Macao, if you stalk one, or maybe stalked by one of them, you would be shown some fantastic gizmo gadgets: plastic LCD watchers, pocket radios etc.
Normally these transactions were under the eye lips of the authority, in a nearby shack toilet. You would see some people walking in nice jackets, only coming out in a shirt, other people would come out all in dubious smiles.
Mother and her friends excitingly went to the toilet. I was waiting in the coach. Pressed my forehead to the window, I could see people in and out from the toilet. Later, mother came back with a navy blue bomber jacket. I can still remember the satisfying smile when she unfolded the jacket and showed it to me.
'It is for you,' she said.
I touched the shinny brass zipper, the fur collar. It was a fist too large for my size, but I was very happy. I had the jacket on for the rest of the trip.
Two decades on, a sea changed.
China, particularly this southern part, the Pearl River Delta became the 'world factory'. It manufactures every domestic product this planet needs, from Microwave to clothes, from press stainlessness steel barrier to pushchair for children.
People from China are allowed to Macao and Hong Kong with permit under the 'one country two systems' arrangement. Though there is a caveat: Chinese visitors to Macao only granted one single entry for less than 7 days' stay. Anyone wants to apply a second visit in a month’s time will need special permission, in other word, ‘special attention’. It was suggested this is an attempt to discourage people from gambling activities. Well, 7 days are long enough for suitcase of cash one could handle.
Ryan’s Visa
Ryan was very good for the trip. In-law was coming with us. He was fast sleeping in mother in law's (MIL) arms.
The car drove passed the factories and dormitory his dad used to work for a decade ago. The town was waking up. 7 o’clock in the morning, people were about to go to work.
Step out from the car and greeted by the hot and damp air of south China sea, Ryan woke up with smile and dimples on the face. He took some baby food.
Many organised tours from China proper were reassembled, exchanged to local crossing border shuttle buses and ready to leave.
Long queue for exiting China.
Long queue for entering Macao.
Ryan was chewing his passport in the crowd, only became a little bit impatient when someone trying stalking him from behind.
We didn't find China Travel Services ltd (CTS) counter at the Macao side of the border, as our friend suggested. CTS is a state-owned, semi consular authority operated in Macao and Hong Kong.
Later I found out the only CTS office is in town, near Hotel Lisboa.
There were a lot of free mini bus services waiting nearby: to the Venetian, to the Pharaohs Palace, to Lisboa, to new millennium, to Rio...
I checked carefully on the passengers, most of them looked boredom and emotionlessness. I certainly didn't see anyone got off the bus with leather suitcase or alike. The only sign indicates there is something happening was some graffiti written at the back of a seat, a vulgar cruising hotel Lisboa, one of those classic profanity involving sex act and one another’s mother.
The mini bus drove along the maritime avenue, passing the waterfront I used to stare from. It arrived Hotel Lisboa a short while later.
Passengers flooded into the hotel. We greeted by a porter in bright red shirt, white pants and shinny black shoes, and a white hat. Unfold pushchair, hung Ryan’s stuff back on the pushchair. I wonder what sort of gambles he would made of us, a man in olive green shirt, fast dry pant and sandals with socks on, a young man chewing his fingers, occasionally mumbled to whoever attempting a conversation with him and a well dress senior woman looked preserved very well. Before he tried to start a conversation, I asked the direction instead.
Carried Ryan cross the foot bridge.
Carried the pushchair cross the foot bridge. And here we are, CTS.
Handed in Ryan's application, explained the situation to an agent. Immediately we were told it was impossible to get a multiple entry visa. Coincide to the rumour I heard, as Beijing Olympics approaching, only single entry 7 days visa would be granted in most cases.
The woman sited next to the agent heard the conversation and raise her eyebrow, ‘what travel documents you are using? We need to make a copy of it.’
'Travel permit to Hong Kong & Macao', answered I.
'Oh that's fine, we don't need that.'
In a bid to get a longer stay for Ryan, I wrote down the reason for applying visa on the back of the application, so to make an appeal to the visa officer.
The woman stared at the lines I added, paused a brief moment. And I wouldn't blame her for that.
'Cancer' in Chinese is such a sinister character, left side of it means illness, right side of it is composed of three repeat characters of 'mouth', all stacked up: something to eat you alive, not once, not twice but three times, a pictograph to its prime.
Wait there. I imagined a courier rushed down to a Vesper, having Ryan’s passport in hand and drove to PRC Special Administrative Office to wait for case workers there to finish picking their tooth, waking up from lunch nap and finally have a hand with stamp on the passport.
Back in the waiting area, Ryan wasn’t worrying about his passport and visa. A lot of juice drink, aptamilk later. He look contented on pulling artificial flowers from the decoration, testing his tenor when everyone else is not paying attention and poking a security’s shirt when he sited loosely next to us. Ryan seemed not having too bad a time. Four and half hours waiting later, the Visa and passport was back.
‘Only 90 days!’ I can’t hide my frustration and exclaim. ‘I told you, in fact I wrote down his mother need at least 4 months time to cure her illness before we can leave’.
The woman tried to pacify me. ‘90 days is a very long term, and this is a special case already.’ She suggested I should check with a group of Nigerian travelers stood next to me. ‘They only get 7 days each’.
Wasting more time with her isn’t going to help, she was just a messenger. And I can’t really blame her.
But the thing is that we will probably run a few days short before Danni completing her first months check up after radiotherapy.
And guess what was in my mind at that time and guess whose voice is it?
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