Our last week in Florida was very busy. We had a garage sale, sold our car, packed, downsized, packed again, signed our wills, arranged for the sale of our house, finished up everything at work, got yet another set of shots, cleaned house, moved the swing set to the neighbors, visited family and friends, and, as you may guess, didn't get much sleep. Finally on Sunday afternoon we ran out of time and energy and declared that everything was ready. We sat in the living room of an empty house with the 14 bags that made up our entire remaining worldly possessions and triple-checked for our tickets, passports, visa papers, money, and addresses. Catherine and Jose arrived, along with Joyce and her van, to help us get our bags to the airport. We locked the door -- not our normal habit -- packed the bags into the van and headed off to Denny's for a joyful last supper with about 25 friends. Soon it was time for hugs and off to the airport. At the departure drop-off area, I handed over the keys of our trusty old Mazda to Catherine. It was no trouble checking the 8 larger bags, and we loaded the remainder onto two of those folding portable carriers that Anne had insisted on bringing along. The plane left just before sunset and we flew directly over our old house on our way to Atlanta, then Los Angeles.
We arrived at LAX with about two hours to collect our bags and check in with Korean Air. Two hours were not enough. Fortunately, as we found out later, there was a good tailwind and the plane to Seoul did not need to leave on time. It took three large carts to get our bags to the right airport bus, then hurry onto the bus, then off the bus, find more carts, and make it up the elevator to Korean Air. This was followed by that exquisite feeling of anticipation while the bags were weighed (a 70-pound limit on Pacific flights). Fortunately, they said nothing and we were allowed on with our 8 heavy checked bags and 6 carry-ons. We left L.A. and the USA in the dark. We felt empty but happy -- car- less, house-less, debt-less, key-less, and (some might add) clue-less. It was an exhilarating, free (and tired) feeling as we headed out over the black Pacific.
Korean Air gave very nice service. The flight attendants were very courteous, the food was good, and we soon lost that queasiness we had gained from those old stories about KAL flight 007 being shot down by the Russians on its way to China. After 12 hours of darkness over the Pacific, we arrived at Seoul around sunrise (and a day later, across the dateline), cashed a few dollars into Korean won (about 1200 to the dollar), and boarded another Korean Air flight for Hong Kong. Our view of Korea from the air was lovely -- hills and agriculture and very green.
We arrived in Hong Kong around noon on Tuesday and retrieved our bags from baggage claim. The plan sounded simple: take the ferry to Macau, then a taxi to the gathering where we would be staying with some Baha'i friends. Well, we found that there was no shuttle to the ferry, 40 minutes away. We realized that, while we had done well to condense our worldly goods to 14 bags, it was still hopelessly inconvenient to haul them around in strange cities with two children. We asked about a public bus, and were told it was impossible with all of our bags. We asked about a taxi, but they were too small. Out of options, we rented a long limo, the only vehicle we could find that would hold ourselves and the bags. It dropped us at the ferry to Macau, a large multi-story building with lots of shops. I left Anne and Tariqa with the pile of bags, like Robinson Crusoe, and Taalan and I went off in search of ferry tickets and some way to get the bags onto the ferry. We found the ferry tickets, changed some money at a bank next door, bought tickets, and spent about 30 minutes trying to arrange for someone to carry the bags for us. After 30 hours on planes and already worn to a frazzle from the previous week's preparations, we felt too exhausted to drag everything up two long flights to the ferry entrance. So, we got the bags to the ferry entrance and we had to check most of them at 45 HK$/bag. Hong Kong dollars, Macau dollars, and Chinese yuan are roughly equivalent, all about eight to one US dollar. We passed through a quick immigration check and then stepped onto the ferry, a large turbojet boat designed for high speeds. It was quite a smooth ride and the scenery was interesting, but none of us could stay awake as we crossed the 50-or-so miles of open water to Macau.
We got off the ferry in Macau, collected the %#@#_*-%$@ bags, passed through immigration, and found ourselves outside by the taxis. We had one copy of the address, written in Chinese characters, to show to the taxi driver. The other people waiting for taxis were not cooperative. They pushed past us into the line of taxis, making it hard for us to talk (right!) to the Chinese taxi drivers or get our luggage inside. Fitting everything into one taxi was out of the question. We tried to arrange for two consecutive taxis, with a "Follow that taxi!" thrown in for style. No luck. I managed to get Anne, half the bags, and the address in one taxi. With "Wait for me..." on my lips, we parted. I tried to get the next taxi, then the next, and the next. Finally I just opened a door and started piling in bags. The driver was not happy, but he helped me stuff the trunk full (actually hanging out the back, with the lid held down by a strap). I waved to the crowd, closed the car door with a flourish, and we took off, with no directions other than a finger pointing forward, expecting to see Anne's taxi pulled off on the side, patiently waiting. No luck. We reached the end, where cars had to choose a direction and merge with the city traffic. Nope, no Anne, no clue which direction she had gone, and our driver shrugging hugely as if to say, "Where now, stupid?" I motioned him to pull over by a quiet sidewalk. We unloaded, I paid him, and he drove off.
Here we were, in a strange city, with a pile of bags and two small children, not speaking the language, with no idea where to go, and my former feelings of exhaustion now exposed as feeble fancies. My strategy was simple, stoical, positive, and easy to implement -- God has put me here, and He will surely send someone to find me. We sat; Taalan immediately fell into a deep sleep; Tariqa and I sang together. I thought that anyone coming to look for me would pass by and see us. It was a quiet and non- threatening location, so I left the children and walked up the 200-or-so yards to the station. I checked in with the information clerk, who spoke some English. We looked for Baha'i in the phone book; no luck. I explained our situation, told him where we were camped, and then walked back. I befriended the charity ladies on the way, so they would remember me. We sang some more songs; I recited all the prayers I knew; it started to get dark. I started moving our bags back up to the station. It took three stages, posting a child at each end, within line of sight, and moving bags in between. Taalan was still 90% asleep, but he could walk Zombie-like if I guided him. The new plan was to wait for another hour at the station, then call a hotel to pick us up for the night. Finally, we reached the station. I left Tariqa inside under the stairs and went back to get more bags. When I came back, Tariqa was talking with a woman. She introduced herself as Kim, the Baha'i lady we were going to meet. We were saved! We all piled into a taxi and went to her office, where Anne was waiting, wondering if she would ever see us again. We dragged the bags into the elevator, dropped them in the office, and walked down the block to an Indian restaurant. We had arrived in Asia. Macau will revert to China on December 20, 1999, but for now China was still a world apart.
At the restaurant, Anne explained that she couldn't get her taxi driver to stop until a mile or so down the road. He had waited, and had even called on the radio and given the address so that our driver could follow along. The reply was that our driver had gotten the message and was on his way. Oh well... Anne had been insistent that we were still at the station. When Kim found us it was her second trip to the ferry station, and she was about to give up for the night. Anyway, here we were and the food was good and spicy. The restaurant was steamy and when we asked for a glass of water it burned my fingers when I grabbed the glass. They serve their water hot or not at all, or you can buy bottled water. No one here recommends drinking water from the tap. Ice is a foreign concept. We went back to the office, loaded a few bags into a taxi and, with Kim giving directions, off we went to the gathering in Coloane.
Coloane is an island of its own. All Macau is divided into three parts (I always wanted to say that in a travelogue, just as Julius Caesar wrote about Gaul). The northern part is the main city and is connected to mainland China. The island of Taipa is in the center. It is relatively small, largely residential (modern apartment buildings), and pleasant. To the south is Coloane, which is relatively quaint and retains a distinctive colonial Portuguese flavor. Buses are cheap and frequent, making travel easy if you aren't carrying luggage. Our gathering was in a building next to the old Coloane Church, a well-known landmark. In the morning, ladies practice their tai chi in the small square, first with swords and then with fans. In the evening the restaurants and mahjongg parlors are open. Across a small strait is China; there is some construction going on there and they work at night. We met several other couples who are moving to China, with their children, to teach English. They were good people and it was a reassurance and confirmation to us that we are not alone and not as crazy as some people might think.
On about our third day in Macau we noticed a posting in a lobby. The only word in English was "typhoon." We asked someone and were told that, yes, there was a typhoon named Sam but that it was expected to pass to the east of Hong Kong and into the open sea. We didn't worry. Saturday it rained and blew, Sunday it rained and blew. Monday morning as we were leaving, a group of us in a train of yellow taxis, it rained and blew. Sam had made a rather direct approach on Hong Kong/Macau, but the winds were not excessive and there was no damage. Their typhoon ratings follow a numbering system, with 1 as a warning and 12 as maximum. When they announce typhoon 8, you have an hour to get home before they close the bridges and stop the buses.
We packed a bunch of our luggage into eight boxes and carted them off to the post office in Taipa to ship to China. I had to repack several boxes at the post office to stay within the 20-kg limit per box. It was expensive to ship but we didn't want any more hassle with getting our bags across the border and to the airport. We had made arrangements during the week to fly on Wednesday from Zhuhai to Changsha. Zhuhai is in China and shares the border with Macau. Changsha is the capital of the province of Hunan and is about an hour's ride from Xiangtan, where we would be living. We stayed in Taipa on Monday night, and got a taxi to the border. Melody, a friend from Zhuhai, had mercifully offered to help us carry our bags across, and we had arranged to meet her at the border at 3:00. However, "border" is an ambiguous term at Zhuhai. One leaves the taxi, is accosted by Chinese with little carts offering to carry your bags for a small fee, goes into a building where you stand in lines and get your passport stamped "departed Macau," leave the building, walk a ways, pass some people going the other way, enter into some covered passageways and walk about 1 km to the Chinese entry building on the Zhuhai side. Anyway, we were early, got carried away, and were well into the neutral zone before we stopped to wait for Melody.
I thought (usually a sign of big trouble) that surely we would see her as she passed by from the Zhuhai side, so we waited under some trees and watched. Three o'clock came, but not Melody; we waited a few minutes more. I thought that maybe she was already waiting for us on the Macau side, and I decided to cross back to Macau and look for her by the taxis. We had single-entry visas for China, but those had not yet been stamped, so there should be no problem, please. I walked back into the building and stood in the lines where people got their visas stamped "entered Macau." The lady at the counter wanted to see a declaration form. I didn't have one, so I went over to the "help/trouble" windows, got one, filled it out, and got back in her line. I tried to explain that I hadn't yet crossed into China and simply wanted to go back for a few minutes to look for a friend. She motioned for an attendant to escort me over to the "trouble" window. I showed my papers to several clerks who understood a little English. They wanted to know why I hadn't gone into China. After about 10 minutes of waiting, a clerk came out, handed me my passport, said that I could go back to Macau, but that I MUST enter China today. OK, I said, and thank you very much... On the Macau side by the taxis, there was Melody, looking slightly worried. As we departed Macau she showed me her passport. It was full of stamps from making day trips into Macau. We walked back to Anne, who was wondering yet another time if she would ever see me again, dragged our bags to the Chinese side, passed through immigration, pointed ourselves to the "nothing to declare" lane at customs and walked into a gray day in Zhuhai, China.
Melody helped us get into two (gulp) taxis and 20 minutes later we both arrived at a friend's apartment, where we had dinner and spent the night. He called a taxi early the next morning and we left for the airport. We drove and drove; it rained; it flooded; we drove some more. Finally we arrived at the airport, with 30 minutes to spare before the flight. Someone met us at the curb and attended us all the way through check-in, airport tax, security check, etc. They weighed our bags; we held our breath; they waved us through. We were on the plane! China Southern airline was quite professional and made all of its announcements in both Chinese and English. We landed on time in Changsha, collected our bags, and were greeted by an angel in a white dress named Ruihong, our waiban. In China the person who takes care of and manages foreign workers is called a waiban. She is our benefactor and our handler. She had flowers; she also had her son, a driver and her daughter, and a friend and her son. We got into a large van/bus from the university, drove into Changsha, had lunchin a fancy restaurant, and drove to Xiangtan and then a few more kilometers into the "countryside" to the university, our new home.
Driving in China is an art, best experienced by the Chinese. As we first noticed in Macau, there are few if any traffic lights and fewer regulations that are enforced. There is no concept of right-of-way, and double-yellow lines are strictly optional. Pedestrians are at risk. The whole system is based on how big your vehicle is, who gets there first, and who is more determined. People drive aggressively, but not dangerously. There are few accidents. I haven't seen a seatbelt used yet. Horns are used often as a warning to whoever is in your way. The system works surprisingly well, considering... Within China, the experience is enhanced greatly by the large number and bewildering variety of vehicles and pedestrians. Bicycles are commonly used for hauling unbelievably large loads. Carts, scooters, motorcycles, people with loads balanced on a pole across their shoulders, and trucks beyond description abound. Of course, everyone is headed in every possible direction at once, but it is remarkable how everyone manages to get out of the way, just barely in time. Come to think of it, I haven't seen people angry about the traffic. I haven't noticed any rude gestures, yelling, or road rage. Dealing with traffic here is natural, a part of life. In a world that doesn't have a traffic law for every possible occasion, maybe you simply keep moving, do your best, keep your eyes open, and hope to get home by evening.
Notes about this web page