Macau… From what I gathered, it was seemingly the Las Vegas of Asia, a place that was synonymous with casinos, gambling and other family attractions like strip bars, saunas, table top dancers and live shows… and that was pretty much it, really. I’m not one to lay judgements before the actual experience itself, so on I headed to Macau with the best set of mind frame any first-time traveller should possess – an open one. Along with what anyone travelling to Macau should bring along – shit loads of cash. It IS sin city, trust me.
If you don't get laid in Macau, drown yourself hereI called up a cab and made the necessary arrangements. The flight according to the Macau Government Tourism Office (MGTO) representative was at 1.30 p.m, so I left my house at around 11.15 or so. Unless I was travelling the Flintstone way or using my pet cow Jerky as a mode of transport, I knew there was ample time for me to reach, grab a coffee or something, check-in and board the plane. I was wrong. The cab came on time, sure. I reached the airport at 12, and I called the MGTO rep and was told to proceed to counter R35. There I was melting in my jacket, carrying a laptop and hand luggage while pulling a heavy bag behind me, looking for a non-existent check-in counter. I passed row A, B… all the way to J and that’s where it ended. Suddenly a dreadful wave of realisation hit me… I shakily searched for the sheet of paper containing my flight info and to my horror discovered I just had a _________ (insert Bimbo name. E.g. Paris Hilton) moment.
I named my pet Zebra, 'spot'I was in the wrong fuckin’ airport. I was supposed to be in LCCT… I rushed three floors down, paid over 40 bucks for a cab and rushed over there. I reached at about 12.20 and as I reached the REAL counter… it was closed. Or there was a midget working behind there. The latter proved fictional. It really was closed. Finally someone saw me and came over.
Dude: “Where do you want to go sir?”
Me: “I’m here for the Macau flight at 1.30…”
Dude: “1.30? Uh… there is no flight at 1.30 sir. The flight is at 1 p.m.”
Me: (looks at the itinerary followed by shrinking of testicles)
Me: “Can I check in?”
Dude: (looks at watch)
Dude: “I’m sorry sir. You’ll have to go to the service counter at the end of this row.”
Me: (runs to the service counter in an almost Hindi-movie like scene)
There, I see this half-assed looking dude behind the counter, taking his sweet time, being the stereotypical local while there I stood, hungry, sweaty, and with my bladder being an ass of all times. Luckily there was this lady standing in front of me and I used my Moose charm on her, so she happily allowed me to go before her. In return for the favour, she gave me her number and address. No, I kid. She was old. But nice. No! Not nice physically, I mean… Moving on.
I reached the counter, and I was given a cock stare…
“You baru sampai?”
“Uh no. I was actually here at 10 a.m., but I thought I’d wait till the utmost last minute before checking in cause cheap thrills like those make my day,” was what I would’ve said if I had time… or if he’d actually understand that. So, instead I gave him a blatant “yea…” and I was told that I could no longer check in my huge ass of a bag.
He gave me the boarding pass and I ran like a… thing that runs fast… to Gate 11. I was panting, sweating and it was fuckin’ 12.43! That hoe that specialises in making the lives of latecomers like me was already announcing that passengers had to board the plane. Or else… She didn’t exactly add that part, but I was paranoid. To make matters worse, for the luggage check-in, I had a bunch of Indonesians in front of me. Yipee… That meant EXTRA thorough bag invading by the security officers, which meant more time wasted. They had bottles filled with weird pills, tubes and all that. I was panicking cause I too had lubes… I mean, some after-shave in tubes and whatnot in my bag. But heyyy, whaddya know? I wasn’t stopped! I continued my running to Gate 11, where that hoe was still with the “last call” crap. But you know what? I was there! I had effin’ made it!
*bag snaps* Okay… I was ALMOST there. Why of all times, must my feckin’ heavy, prehistoric luggage give way now?! Oh, cause it’s prehistoric that’s why. Thanks a lot for the bag, mum.
I eventually make my way on the plane, sweating, smelling and hungry as fuck! For three hours I had to endure my own bodily stench and the dude beside me either:
a.) passed out from it
b.) was really tired
c.) wanted the journey to end quick
But I didn’t give a rat’s ass. I made it! I was going to Macau, baybeh! And oh by the way, after all that rushing… the plane was delayed anyway. Why? Cause’ there were two more passengers who were late, and who did not take part in the airport triathlon like I did. Asswipes…
Forewarned about the harsh cold weather conditions during November, I arrived at the Macau International Airport prepared with jackets, sweaters and all those other forms of clothing that I usually wouldn’t be seen in unless you paid me lots of money. As I was checking in the Macau International Airport, I hand this lady my passport, all smiles, being all cheerful cause I was in a new place, doing my very best to shine with my ‘happy-tourist’ vibes… but she changed that. I handed her my passport, and see, the picture of me in my passport was that of me back when I had spiky hair. She looked up at me, grinning at her stupidly… and she pointed at the passport and said “Hair ah?” No, you slit-eyed hoe. That’s a porcupine. After much hair modelling and repositioning, she was finally convinced but not before I muttered “fuckin ridiculous” and gave her a dirty look. There, I felt better. Airports really weren’t my thing.
The weather in Macau this time around could reach 10 degrees Celsius, which from my experience could make any nipple pointy and huge noses like mine frosty. But it also made it the perfect weather to commute around Macau in what would be my favourite mode of transport – by foot. There was actually so much more to the city than just tall, flashy buildings with neon lights, flashing women and fancy lobbies and boobies. Like… more boobies, pole dancing and well, you’ll see…
Go thatta way to Grand Lisboa
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