7.20.15 (evening)
By the time I finish writing my last entry it's 3:30, the rain had long since stopped, there's was no word from Darren or Calvin (AKA Kelvin, as I originally misheard his name) about fresh plans to go to Coloane, and I don't feel like hanging around on campus for the rest of the day. The sky is still overcast and the temperature isn't unbearable, so I grab my Olympus OM-10 and get on the bus to Praça Ferreira Amaral, the beating heart of Macau's public transit network. The statue of the one-armed governor- who upon his arrival in Macau banished the traditional Chinese authorities in order to make the place a proper Portuguese colony, and who was soon thereafter murdered for his trouble- has been gone for years, leaving plenty of space for the dozens of buses that disgorge and swallow up passengers from all over the city 18 hours a day.
While nobody deserves to be beheaded and mutilated, Ferreira Amaral strikes me as an embodiment as the worst kind of 19th century colonial chauvinism. Granted, I don't know what orders he had from Lisbon, nor can I posthumously read his mind, but Macau had survived for almost three centuries under Chinese sufferance without too much interference from Portugal. But hey, why let a relatively good thing continue when you can flex your atrophied imperial muscles in the face of growing British competition, and rub the noses of the Chinese in it too?
Anyway, enough about Ferreira Amaral, whose statue now inhabits a meager park in one of Lisbon's eastern suburbs. I set out on a generally southwest course along the Avenida da Praia Grande, wishing I'd been able to see it before the quote-unquote progress of the mid-'90s split the Baia da Praia Grande into the Lagos de Sai Van and Nam Van, with the leftovers being filled in to accomodate Macau's need for more land. Tracey was lucky enough to visit Macau before that happened, and I envy her for it; fortunately, once I get far enough south, the aterros end, and while the barriers and bridges that make up the respective lakes are still visible, along with the fringe of land along their southern curve that houses the Macau Tower and far too much car-infested real estate, the atmosphere is much different than the overwhelming urban bustle a mere five minutes' walk away. The Avenida da República, which conforms to the northern and western edges of Sai Van, is a downright treat to stroll at five-something in the afternoon, even when I nearly lose my camera's lens cap in the water when I sit down on the barragem to change film.
The historic center of Macau is on the UNESCO World Heritage list, and rightfully so, but I find myself more interested these days in the city's less magnificent architecture, specifically mid- to late-20th century residential buildings. There's something about many of Macau's edifícios/大廈 that I find appealing, despite most of them being conventially ugly, or at best utilitarian in appearance. Features like gracefully curved iron bars over semicircular balconies and windows, the latter of which are shielded from rain by arched tile or brick overhangs; the way the color schemes of the buildings have changed with age and increasing pollution; the small square tiles used to cover vast amounts of vertical square footage; the ubiquitous nameplates in gold ink on oxblood marble seen over so many main entrances: I love it all. When I first came to Macau three years ago all I saw was Hong Kong's rattier cousin with some old Portuguese buildings here and there, an assessment that still holds true in many ways (not that HK isn't bursting at the seams with its own brand of shabbiness, which isn't much different than Macau's), but I've come to appreciate the city's appearance in a wholly different way, one that doesn't rely on the UNESCO-approved parts of town for its justification.
It's a really good walk, capped off by getting briefly lost in the labyrinthine streets east of the Porto Interior and south of Avenida Almeida Ribeiro/San Ma Lou/新馬路. I consider going to Caravela or Terra for coffee, but there's no reason to spend the money. Back to the Universidade, and an early bedtime, it is.
7.22.15
Tuesday is plagued by almost continual rain, so I spend my time holed up in the dorm or at the library, reading and writing. I think the extremely hot days I encountered when I first got here were unusual, since the temperature as of late has been more manageable, though it's been no less humid. Maybe it's because they're smart enough to use umbrellas as parasols, but I swear I haven't seen any of the Chinese girls here sweat. Me, I've probably got salt deposits along the seams of all my shirts.
I'm currently reading two novels in Portuguese, the aforementioned library copy of As Portas do Cerco and Era Uma Vez em Goa, by Paulo Varela Gomes. The latter book is one I saw in a Lisbon bookstore earlier this year but didn't buy, and is also the example I used earlier in my discussion of prices in Macau. While it was more expensive than I'd have preferred, I don't regret buying it, because it's a real pleasure to read. My Portuguese has gotten decent enough for me to begin appreciating different writing styles, albeit in a rather superficial way, but even so the difference between these two books is like night and day. When I need a break from the language of Camões (a typically Portuguese way of referring to their language; if English-speakers have an equivalent and call their tongue the "language of Shakespeare" on a regular basis, I'm unaware of it), I re-read Thomas Pynchon's awesome, hilarious Inherent Vice or a collection of Elmore Leonard's Western stories, which are a little too similar to one another but quite well-written.
We have the declamação de poesia this morning after our first two-hour block of classes. Students from every turma participate, and since a collection of Portuguese poetry was handed out last week there's some repetition of what people recite. Overall, however, I'm impressed by everyone's performance, and by the fact that so many people get up to read poems, since that shit ain't easy even if you're reading someone else's work. I barely remember reading mine because it's over so fast; a link to the poem is below if you want to read it. Everyone gets a certificate of participation (the most substantial compensation I'll probably ever receive related to poetry) and the best readings get prizes. Said prizes are volumes of poetry by Yao Feng, the pen name of Yao Jingming, who teaches here at the Universidade and reads us some of his work. I've read some of his poetry before, and his newest book is on sale at the Livraria Portuguesa. When I go back I'll probably pick it up (a phrase I'll be using repeatedly in the coming days, methinks).
In the auditorium where the declamação is held I end up sitting next to Gertrudes, the young lady from Timor-Leste. This is the first time we get to talk at length, and I'm glad I have the chance. I don't think she's left campus very much, so I'd like to invite her and some other folks, including my Macanese suitemate, into doing some sightseeing and/or eating dinner. Her Portuguese is quite good, and while her native language, Tetum, has a lot of Portuguese loanwords, she tells me that speaking Portuguese in Timor, even at university, is seen as strange and possibly hazardous to one's ability to maintain their mother tongue. That's understandable, I suppose, but she also mentions that English is the language folks really want to learn, for all the same boring reasons everyone wants to learn it. I understand those reasons, and I'm inevitably being hardheaded and snobbish when I say that I'd much rather see a world wherein English (or any one language, really) doesn't play such a dominant role. It's the same reason I don't like seeing the encroachment of simplified Chinese writing and spoken Mandarin in Macau and Hong Kong, or the frequent, unnecessary acordos ortográficos da lingua portuguesa: humans are flexible enough to put up with shit like different spellings or pronunciations, and monoculture does nobody except the worst of us any favors. I fear that I'm fighting a rearguard action, however- but instead of throwing up my hands I do something, anything, to maintain the diversity of things as they currently are. That means embarrassing myself by speaking shitty Cantonese instead of embarrassing myself by speaking shitty Mandarin, demanding that os colegas do curso de verão falam português comigo, using patacas instead of Hong Kong dollars, and so on.
Não entendo por que a lusofonia é tão importante para mim, mas é. É possível que no próximo ano estarei fixo numa outra língua, ou talvez preocupado inteiramente com outro assunto. Tais possibilidades não me incomodam; são facetas da vida inquisitiva. Não, o que me importa neste momento é aproveitar esta oportunidade, esta imersão na língua e cultura portuguesas, e isso é precisamente que vou fazer, aqui na margem desta território que até 1999 era a Cidade do Santo Nome de Deus de Macau, Não Há Outra Mais Leal, mas agora tem o nome menos memorável de Região Administrativa Especial de Macau da República Popular da China. Não precisa de Deus para fazer esta cidade um lugar único, mas precisa de pessoas, e enquanto estou aqui, tentarei ser uma daquelas.
"Segredo" de Carlos Drummond de Andrade:
http://www.escritas.org/pt/poema/1783/segredo
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