The ferry to mainland China, in our case to the city of Zhuhai, leaves from the Royal Pacific Hotel in Hong Kong. The term "ferry" conjures up hopes for a breezy, relaxing ride with ample legroom and an open view. But alas, this was not to be. This ferry is a working boat, a catamaran filled with airline-sized seats and enclosed in frosted glass. I was deeply frustrated at the frosted glass. It seemed to offer no practical advantage other than to block the passengers' view of the sea. My American mind found this maddening.
I think it must be a universal precept that the people staffing passport control in every country be hand selected from that nation's surliest motherfuckers. In the business of policing the barriers that humans construct around themselves, the Surly Immigration Officer -- who stamps your passport reluctantly, as if he finds you a grossly wanting speck of humanity -- can serve only one purpose. This is to remind you that you are at the mercy of a foreign government, and to behave yourself, or else. It's foreign policy posturing at the grassroots level. Americans are hardly exempt from this, and we add an additional boot to the neck of the hapless entrant: the requirement that entrants fill out their entry cards in English. Contrast that to the fact that I've never once had to depart from my native language while filling out immigration forms in Europe and Asia, other than to issue a crisp "thank you" in Mandarin to the mainland immigration control officer. Hardly a feat of linguistic dexterity.
After we had all contended with the passport control officials, we got into a van driven by the father of one of Bladerunner's suppliers, an attentive, kind young man I'll call Jacques. (I call him this because the American name he selected for himself is also a common French-ish name.) Jacques' dad welcomed us all warmly, then drove us to this restaurant:
To get to this establishment, the name of which roughly translates to "Ship Close to the Moon," you drive down a long peninsular drive with water on either side. When we entered, we were immediately led to the tank area. Yes, the tank area.
You know what's coming, don't you?
These aren't so bad. Crab, fish, we eat those all the time. Then you walk around the corner.
Sea worms.
Oddly phallic looking sea life. These things were swaying back and forth hypnotically, like groupies at a Barry Manilow concert.
All I could get out of O, our translator, was that these are fish organs of some kind.
Who knew the ocean had so many worms, eh?
Stone fish. Cool, huh?
Then we turned another corner. It was here that my husband, runner of blades, chaser of bears, cliff-diver, car-racer and fearless thrill-seeker extraordinaire, whose pulse seems rarely to depart from the flatline, turned, shrieked like a frightened toddler, and began to search out the exit. You see, he cannot abide a reptile. Even a mere turtle seems to unease him; geckos and chameleons make him recoil a little; snakes produce a palpable horror, and a crocodile is enough to make him truly hysterical.
Snakes. Lots of them. Slithering.
He was visibly shaking as he took this photograph, but I credit him for taking it at all. According to O, these small crocodiles are imported from Thailand. Had we wished it, we could have eaten this:
We did not. O had tried some the last time he was here, and he advised us that it was nothing special, just your basic meat. With a repulsed quiver and a grimace, Bladerunner declined the croc.
In the end, we ate some snails, a very tasty and delicate fish, gigantic prawns (whole, with eyeballs, yum), and a lobster noodle dish that I liked a lot. I loaded up on the lobster and noodles. And loaded up again.
I would pay for this later.
Tomorrow: Revenge of the Tank Creatures.
