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We are in a town square.

A building has walls festooned with blue and white tiles and a courtyard with busts of dead poets. The square is paved with small stones fashioned in black and white swirls, like ocean waves, surrounded by rococo-trimmed buildings in whites and pastels of pink, blue and yellow. At one end of the square we see a courthouse with a multi-storied library filled with ancient books. On a sidestreet we pass a store window decorated with dried shark's fins and a stand selling $3 silk ties, plastic kitchen utensils and brassieres, all padded and stacked, like a cordierra, according to size. At the other end of the square, inside a church named Santa Domingo, the faithful light candles before a pastel Virgin Mary. It is a church so inviting in its pastel delicacy that one could be deceived into the notion that God hath no wrath whatsoever.

Where do you think we are? Brazil, Portugal, the Azores? How about China?

Macau, an hour jetboat ride from Hong Kong, became a special administrative district of China in December of 1999 after being dominated by Portugal since 1554. Did you know that? It was mentioned, almost in passing, in the Western news media. The story did not have the buzz of the Hong Kong changeover with a Queen and a tearful Prince Charlie sailing off into the sunset of empire. It was also not nearly as contentious either. Macau didn't have a counterpart of Chris Patten, the rabble-rousing Governor of Hong Kong, to irritate the Chinese. The Macau changeover went quietly, with no PR overkill.

What was brilliant about this shift in rule was that the Portuguese were able to indelibly brand their cultural heritage on their former colony before they went the way of Vasco De Gama and sailed back home. The first time I visited Macau, in 1987, it was a tired colonial backwater that had taken on the character of many Asian cities.that is none whatsoever. Haphazard development: building ranging from blocky highrises to corrugated metal sheds, 1950s concrete boxes and Chinese shophouses crumbling beyond repair. The remnants of Portuguese culture, as well as everything else, were dying before my eyes.

Macau's reason to be was as a place for Hong Kongers to gamble. Playing the slot machine is called "feeding the tiger." Macau was and may still be rife with gang life and corruption, even though one of the main Triad bosses is now in the slammer on Macau's island of Taipa. The place to go then was the old Lisboa Hotel on the waterfront, which looks like a bird feeder made from a Quaker Oats box. Young Chinese and Russian "professional women" in revealing outfits still frequent the hotel's gift shops, making eye contact with single men. You don't see them upstairs in the lobby, however, where you will find a spectacular display of Chinese antiques from intricate scenes in hand-embroidered silk, to an ancient earthquake detector, which consist of a bowl filled with mechanical levers attached to dragons clinging to its side resting on a compass circled with frogs. An earthquake would set the machinery to work, loosening a dragon, dropping a ball from the dragon's mouth in to the mouth of a frog. The frog's placement on the compass marked the direction of the earthquake.

The Lisboa, however, now isn't the only game in town. Aside from the clack of mahjong tiles in the streets, Macau now has a giant neon-lit floating casino. International hotel chains and Las Vegas interests are vying for a cut of the action as well. The old Lisboa and its crowded, seedy casino, which once stood alone in creating Macau's ethos, is now dwarfed by glitzier gaming halls and the Bank of China building which looms across the street.

Portugal's parting cannon ball was particularly classy. It was to beautifully restore Macau's old central city and plus some areas of its islands of Taipa and Coloane, where Hyatt and Westin have established resorts. If you were to suddenly wake up in the central square of Macau, you would swear it was Europe. Up the hill, past the Chinese markets and faux antique stores, the facade of St. Paul's cathedral, Macau's landmark, has been shored up and restored.. The rest of the 17th Century cathedral burned to the ground in 1835. When I was there last, it stood alone in rubble. Now, it is the centerpiece of an archeological site with crypts containing the relics of 17th century Christian martyrs from Japan and Vietnam and a museum of sacred art. In case you don't know, Christianity had a big following in Japan and there is a cult there that believes today that Jesus finally settled in Japan and married a local girl.

Above St. Paul's, Monte Fort, which was once an exhausting uphill hike, is now reachable by escalator through the Museum of Macau. The walls of the escalator are an etched marble mural designed jointly by Portuguese and Chinese artists. It, an other pieces of art, symbolize the mix of cultures. The museum tells story of the genesis of Macau including its defense against the Dutch who even though they actually conquered Macau, were scared away by a single priest who blew up their ammunition dump. There are excellent multimedia demonstrations of various aspects of Portuguese and Chinese culture including booths that capture the sounds of tradesmen and villages of an earlier era. There is a display of the sport of cricket: not English cricket but Chinese cricket fighting.where the winners are pickled and preserved in tiny coffins.

One of the few places you can catch the sounds of Portuguese Macau, these days, is at the University, which has a demonstration dining room in its tourism college. The food is decent, but not imaginative.typical tourist fare. The entertainment, however, from Tuna do Macau offers songs of Portuguese Macau.

So hats off to the Portuguese, who bowed out gracefully, with a sweep of a cape -- as Vasco de Gama undoubtedly did to Emmanual II -- leaving a strong reminder their heritage. To them we say obrigado.thank you in Portuguese.a culture that, as nasty as it could in the old days, taught the Japanese to say thank you (arrigato) and did a splendid job of leaving their cultural stamp on Macau. We hope that no future "cultural revolution".or inattention by the Chinese will topple Macau's monuments or silence the rhythms of its Portuguese heritage.

The Mekong at Luang Prabang Laos
Story and all photos © Russell Johnson

Do you want to get away. I mean, really, really away?

I remember, as a child, listening to JFK talk about Lay-osh, in his Boston accent, about how Southeast Asian nations (for starters) would fall like dominoes in a monsoon if Lay-osh turned Communist. Few knew that within a few years, this poorest of countries would be even poorer, claiming the distinction of being the world's most bombed.

Luang Prabang, the former Royal Capital of Laos is now at peace, almost asleep. But it is gently awaking as one of the most enchanting places on earth.

Laos did turn Red, which didn't help its economy, but it is run by aging apparatchiki who, to their credit, don't want to see Laos hyper-westernized like neighbor Thailand. Luang Prabang is as culturally pure a place as you can find anywhere in the world. Markets wrap food in banana leaves instead of plastic bags.

Luang Prabang is one of quietest, most scenic, most restful places I have ever visited. Some friends suggested that it might be an idyllic spot to retire. I would not go so far. Laos has average wage of less that $1 a day, only one-fourth of its people have clean drinking water and it has few medical facilities. 

Designated a World Heritage Site in 1996, the town lies on a lumpy verdant carpet between the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. It was christened the capital of the "Land of a Million Elephants" in the 14th century, a title that was ceded to seedy Vientiane long ago. Despite the turmoil Laos has been through, more than half of its original 65 temples remain.  The sunsets along the Mekong, across the street, are blindingly beautiful.

Mornings, streets swarm with monks who later give way to bicycles and children. The usual Asian tradition of hanging out, cooking and burning stuff occupies the nighttime (I have fond childhood memories -- before pollution laws -- of the social ritual of communing around a pile of burning trash). There is not a lot to do for foreigners except talk to other foreigners. I paid a visit to the bar in the Phousi Hotel, more remindful of an Old West saloon than a Graham Greene hangout.

I was expecting to meet fellow travelers - perhaps some old tattooed CIA guy who fell in love with a local girl and went native. Instead I was faced with suspicious looking eyes staring at me from the bar. I slogged down my beer and discreetly made my exit. Bandits, smugglers and all manner of mountebank allegedly prowl Laos. I suspect, however, that the stares were aimed at me as a 6'3" Man from Mars than a target for mischief.

Bicycle is the best way to navigate Luang Prabang. I would be wary of public transportation. Photographer Alison Wright told me the story of her almost fatal millennial New Year's Day on a bus near Luang Prabang. You can read it in Outside Magazine.

One of the most beautiful, easy river stolls you can take is up the Mekong about 25km to the Pak Ou caves. These aren't your typical guano-floored dripping stalagtite caverns. They are lined with wood and golden Buddhas. The lower Tham Ting and the upper Tham Phum caves have been sacred sites for centuries, first of animists and, by the 14th century, Buddhists. Kings made yearly pilgrimages here until 1975 when most of the Royals took off for France. They are still important sacred sites, however.

We applaud Laos for being very careful about embracing mass tourism. We hope, as the country recovers, greed doesn't change that.

by Russell Johnson

It is Bali 20 years ago, I was told

I had to see this island in the Indonesian archipelago before it went up in a puff of tourism. Hopped a catamaran from Bali to take a one-day peek.

Lombok is flatter, not as jungly and a bit more rugged than Bali. Its beaches form crescents like white, toothy grins. There are few of the motorbikes and "bemos" that blatter about Bali like mutant insects. While tourism has become Bali's raison d'etre, some of Lombok is still on "island time." Nothing is too urgent or too serious...yet. Muezzins may arouse the faithful five times a daily, but Lombok also has a cult of "three-time Muslims," not-quites who are content with three daily prayers, observe truncated holy periods and share their temple with, heaven forbid, Hindus. The three-timers share a shrine with their Hindu bretheren...stones lined up in rows, like jurors, wrapped with white cloths and yellow temple sashes.

Welcome to Lombok
I landed in the port of Lembar and boarded a transfer bus that I was assured would take me to a place where I could hire a car and driver for the day. I was immediately accosted by a tourguide. I have as much disdain for free-lance tourguides as Mark Twain did. He called them all Ferguson because he couldn't remember their names.

"No, I do not want to go to the monkey forest." I said. I detest monkeys even more than free-lance tourguides: They masturbate in public, they crawl all over you, they bite, they steal sunglasses and cameras. I doubt that the biosphere would collapse if we shot all of the earth's monkeys into orbit.

"No, I don't want to shop for souvenirs, I just want a driver and a car." said the grump.

I turned to a woman seated in front of me who appeared to be listening intently. I asked her if she wanted to share the rental of a car. "No hablo Ingles." she replied. I switched to Spanish and we chattered on. She was from Ibiza, had friends on Lombok and was staying for several days. She suggested that I join them in renting a Jeep. As I only had four hours to get back to the boat, I declined. I turned back to Ferguson who gave me a big, sappy grin. "You stay with her, tonight, she be your concubine?" he asked.

As he didn't have any other takers, we settled on a price for a monkey-free, shopping-free tour of the island.

We drove through unsullied scenes of the tropics. Palms and tropical flowers framing vistas of valleys stretching to the sea. They looked like overdone realistic paintings produced by a master who needed the work. Ferguson pointed to stakes in the ground along the beach. "These are where hotels will go." he said. "All of the big chains." . The Army, I was told by two knowledgable sources, burned down the houses of local residents to make room for "progress."

I told the guide to stop at a particularly grand vista. He pointed to a small hotel positioned just right to take advantage of the view I was to photograph. "Only 30,000 rupiah per night," he said. "Beautiful place to bring your concubine."

He took me to a primitive Sasak village. A villager took me inside of a history house and showed me relics of his ancestors. Nobody tried to sell me anything, nobody screamed "transport?" There were few of the satellite dishes that are sprouting like funguses all over the third world. One imagines families laughing and arguing the night away rather than being slimed to a stupor by western pop culture.

Before the economic crash and all of the hullabaloo in East Timor the Indonesian government was making some strides at balancing tourism with the needs of the people. Tourism, indeed, is one of the few ways rural areas can generate enough capital to survive in a global economy. But pristine places have a capillary action on money...especially now, when there is no money. In Ubud, Bali, when the government halted the construction of new hotels, developers built large single family homes and labelled them "bed and breakfasts."

Lots of those hotels that were staked out are serving visitors, now. I hope mass tourism doesn't too far there...that big money has some sense of the need for balance.