SOME days you just cannot get rid of a colony. So it proved for Portugal in 1974 when, in a frenzy of conscience and pragmatism after its socialist 'revolution of the carnations', it tried to give Macau back to China. Thanks but no thanks, said the world's waking giant. Maybe later. Twenty-five years later, as it transpired. Next month, the tiny nation on the edge of Europe finally gets to wash its hands of the miniscule enclave on the edge of China, bringing to a close a 442-year chapter of history and making Macau and Hong Kong twin guinea pigs in Deng Xiaoping's 'one country, two systems' experiment. The night of December 19 will be one of the longest of the year - and not just for the officials charged with keeping 'sinner in history'-turned-European Union representative Chris Patten and Chinese President Jiang Zemin at opposite ends of the banquet table. For the handover falls just short of the winter solstice: the sun will make a mad dash to set on the last day of Portuguese administration, yet will have to be dragged kicking and screaming over the horizon to greet the first day of Chinese rule. It is as if the heavens themselves will echo the hopes and fears of the populace. Few among the 96 per cent Chinese residents mourn the passing of the Portuguese. Past administrations - if not the outgoing regime - have more often than not been characterised by indifference, nepotism, corruption and incompetence. And while most welcome the youthful team picked by incoming Chief Executive Edmund Ho Hau-wah - the average age of his policy secretaries is 44 - there still swirls an undercurrent of uncertainty about the mainland's intentions. The symbolism seems apt. After all, Macau is nothing if not a city of myth and monument, of portent and poetry. Little is as it seems on the surface. Peel some paint from the candy-coloured pageant of colonial piles, dislodge a couple of shiny cobbles, and you will find a city simmering with contradictions beneath its indolent facade. Acid-quilled humourist P J O'Rourke once penned a piece on the 'people power' revolution in the Philippines under the title, '400 Years In A Convent, 100 Years In A Whorehouse', in a nod to the country's colonial past. '450 Years In A Convent With A Whorehouse And A Casino In The Basement' might prove an apt headline should he turn his attentions to Macau. In few places is sin so easy to come by, and absolution so close at hand. A veritable United Nations of hookers jostle pneumatically with risibly nicknamed gangsters in the shadows of churches. Neither are things quite what they seem when it comes to the handover. Much has been made of how Macau's transition has avoided the typhoon of vitriol and acrimony that soured relations between the British and the Chinese. But the orgy of back-slapping, glad-handing and 'agreeing to agree' has not stopped the mainland from adopting a less-than-conciliatory rubric to greet the big day: 'The end of the humiliation'. And while negotiations for the most part have been smooth, there have been several sticking points, not least the make-up of the court of last instance and the stationing of a PLA garrison in Macau. Macau's many contradictions have all been grist to Carlos Morais Jose's mill, as writer, advertising man, and former nemesis of the Portuguese administration. He is holding court in a smoky corner of the Casablanca Bar, part of the new nightlife strip along the reclaimed land of the Avenida Dr Sun Yat-sen. He arrived in Macau as a fresh-faced anthropologist from Lisbon nine years ago and became one of Macau's most prolific and critical journalists, his barbed epistles constantly pricking the administration. The thread that ran through many of his articles was that the Portuguese administered Macau for themselves and not for the Chinese populace, happy to insulate themselves in what another local writer termed a 'self-imposed social and mental ghetto'. Now Mr Jose runs an advertising consultancy and has written several books. 'The time for being critical is past,' he shrugs. 'When I was critical, there was still time to change things, to try to make a difference. Now, there's no point. So for now, this is the time to party.' We are only a stone's throw from the Lisboa - that icon of architectural excellence which resembles nothing so much as a giant wedding cake with a UFO on top - and its lurking louts. Yet we are a world away. Outside, the sun is dipping behind the bay, where the bridges to Taipa hump and sprawl like glowworms. Its fiery palette briefly anoints the golden skin of the statue of Kun Yam, the goddess of mercy, whose tender presence will be invoked later to ward off incipient hangovers. The only sounds are the muted chatter of early drinkers and the insect whine of Vespas. In the opposite direction to the Lisboa, another architectural marvel is taking shape - the giant, glowing 'Chinese Lantern' that will house the handover ceremony. Mr Jose is a member of the Dead Poets Society, a group of bards and scribes who gather each week to honour Luis de Camoes, the one-eyed 16th century poet who was the voice of the Portuguese empire at its peak. The dingy lighting casts his saturnine looks in chiaroscuro and his animated hands tear great rents in the shroud of smoke. 'You have to understand,' he says, 'myth has always been as important as history in Macau. There's a mythical justification for our staying here, the part of our presence that's connected to poetry.' He is referring to the popular - although disputed - belief that Camoes wrote some of his epic verse in Macau. Such is the poet's stature among the Portuguese, it would be like Shakespeare having penned some of his masterpieces in Hong Kong. 'Never mind if he wrote here or not,' Mr Jose says. 'Hong Kong has a cannon to symbolise the British presence. We're proud that our heart here is in poetry.' He describes Portugal's and China's relationship regarding Macau as 'like an old couple in bed, sleeping back to back. There's no passion, but each likes to know the other is there'. Mr Jose plans to remain in Macau. But he says at least 80 per cent of his Portuguese friends have left or soon will. After a slow start, localisation has proceeded apace in the past few years and cushy colonial sinecures are disappearing quicker than a batch of the enclave's famous egg tarts. THE big question facing Macau is how to define itself after the handover. While there is much talk about being a bridge between China and the European Union and a gateway to markets such as Brazil, there is no doubt gambling and tourism will remain the economic mainstays. These wellsprings of revenue have been hit hard by the Asian crisis and the internecine triad turf wars, but most residents are optimistic the worst is over on both fronts. One casino worker says: 'There were a lot of triads who got very greedy and wanted to get everything they could before the handover. Now they are in court. China already has people here looking at the whole scene very carefully and you can be sure after December 20 they will come down on the thugs like a tonne of bricks.' There is no shortage of locals ready to trot out statistics on how safe Macau actually is, citing an annual murder rate of fewer than eight per 100,000 people, compared with 80 per 100,000 in Washington DC. They feel Macau has had a raw deal, especially in the Hong Kong press, and perhaps they are right. To some degree, an anti-Portuguese backlash is inevitable after the handover, but the enclave's movers and shakers agree that it is vital Macau retains its unique blend of East and West. They fear being swallowed by southern China's sprawl; of becoming, in effect, a suburb of Zhuhai. In an effort to prevent this, all manner of foundations and institutes have been set up to perpetuate Portuguese culture. One is the Fundacao Sino-Latina de Macau, headed by Gary Ngai Mei-cheong. 'Our main objective is to make Macau a bridge to Latin-speaking countries,' Mr Ngai says. 'We are teaching thousands of Chinese people Portuguese.' The foundation also offers legal studies - a priority, he says, given that the Portuguese excluded the Chinese community from the legal profession until five years ago. 'The third thing we are trying to do is facilitate business contacts between small and medium enterprises in Macau, China and Europe,' he says. An admirable aim, according to Macau University economist Kwan Fung. But largely pie in the sky. 'I'm not at all optimistic that this is going to achieve a great deal,' Mr Kwan says. 'Macau's trade with Latin American and European countries is not significant at all. Trade with Portugal is less than one per cent of our GDP. 'People keep saying we can be a gateway to the EU for China. But China's trade in Europe is with Germany, France, the UK and Italy, and China already has long-established relationships with those countries. Why does it need Macau? I think there's a lot of wishful thinking going on.' Despite several years of economic decline, Macau's fundamentals remain sound. Its GDP of US$6.8 billion (HK$52.8 billion) means a comfortable standard of living for its 430,000 residents, and its reserves stand at US$2.4 billion. Despite the glut of office space and residential housing, there are still cranes on the skyline. Projects under way or soon to start include a marina, a convention and exhibition centre, the world's eighth-highest tower (fondly dubbed 'Stanley Ho's erection' by locals), a bridge from Macau to Zhuhai, a new building for the courts and Legislative Assembly, an international port, and the new city of Cotai which is planned to rise up from the vast 620-hectare reclamation between Coloane and Taipa islands. Macau hopes to tempt Hong Kong companies to set up 'back offices', taking advantage of lower salaries and rents. Hutchison Telecom and Star Paging have already shifted paging operations. Mr Kwan says, 'Our best bet for the future is to stick with what we do best: tourism and gambling. The casinos should be modernised and cleaned up, more of a Las Vegas type of thing, and we need to open up more tourism offices abroad.' Jose Luis de Sales Marques, chairman of Macau's Municipal Council, the Leal Senado, says Macau's greatest asset is its human resources. 'Macau people are very resilient,' he says. 'We've had to survive in all sorts of conditions for centuries.' THE ceremony itself will involve 2,500 assorted dignitaries, who will gather before midnight after a programme of cultural events, cocktails, fireworks and a banquet. Earlier, Governor General Vasco Rocha Vieira will leave his official residence and proceed to the salmon-hued Government Palace, where the strains of a Portuguese band will herald the lowering of the flag. 'The entire area will be the focus of a complex play of light,' says a handover office spokesman. 'The inside of the building will be dominated by the stage area where dignitaries will be seated. There will also be large flagpoles for the formal exchange of flags.' After the ceremony, the swearing-in of the new officials of the Macau Special Administrative Region will take place. 'Unlike in Hong Kong, where Patten left at midnight with Prince Charles, many of the Portuguese VIPs, including the Governor, are invited to this event,' says the spokesman. General Rocha Vieira will fly out with President Jorge Sampaio early on Monday morning. By the time the last of the champagne is quaffed the proceedings will have emptied the coffers of about US$30 million. One person not toasting the historic moment will be Father Manuel Teixeira, the twinkle-eyed 87-year-old priest who rises at 4am each day to perform Mass in his tiny room at the Pousada de Mong Ha and who still pens a daily newspaper column. 'I've offended the Portuguese many times, and I won't be afraid to offend the Chinese in the future,' he says. 'I speak for Macau people.' Father Teixeira this month celebrated the 65th anniversary of his ordination. He says he will be sound asleep by the time the Chinese flag is raised. 'I'm optimistic. Everything will be OK,' he says. 'But I won't stay up to drink a toast. I gave up drinking when I turned 80.' Next week: A tale of two legislators
