Journals of a Hotel Manager

NYE? Just another day in banana republic for me.  Here is why:

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As the rest of the world slows down to the New Year’s Eve celebration, we at the hotel have rushed into a round-the-clock operation.

The chefs are busy chopping and slicing for the large banquet tomorrow evening that will feed up to 600 people.  Housekeeping staff are each assigned up to 14 rooms a day to clean.  Front desk is continuously crowded with guests wanting to exchange money, to buy stamps, and to request for duplicate keys which they have misplaced in the sea. Restaurants employ extra waiters to get through the non-stop mass that eat meals at all times.  Engineers check circuit breakers and haul in extra fuel for the stand-by generator just in case of a power outage as every air-conditioner is running 24 hours a day at the coolest setting.  And I sniff at the air in hope for an evening without rain.

My poor guests left their snowy homeland to come to our tropical island to usher in the new year.  But they have no idea that December is the most uncomfortable season on this island.  A few degrees south of the equator, our island observes the monsoon climate of the equatorial belt faithfully.  In June and July, we have the coolest weather and a constant breeze from the ocean, since it is essentially our ‘winter’ time in dry season.  By November, humidity shoots up to 85% and tropical rain storms unleash their unpredictable load for days.  The sun rarely makes an appearance, to much of our guests’ chagrin.  They in turn unleash their disappointment on me.

I look at the weeping windows with dripping condensation.  It is going to be a soggy New Year’s Eve with my innocent European guests all decked out in tuxedo and evening gowns.  I wish there is a polite way to advise them to wear cotton t-shirt and sarongs instead.

I’d better go take a look at the massive ice carving that is planned for tomorrow night.

Happy New Year!

© Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

Photo courtesy t0asty on flickr.com

In order to mollify Dr. S and to prevent any other complaints about the construction noise, I managed to locate the home owner.  I stated the fact that the construction noise was disturbing our guests.

“I am willing to make a deal,” said he, “but it’s going to cost you.”

Gritting my teeth, I tried to sound cool, “Name your price and I will see what I can do.”

“I can stop the construction until January 8^th, but you’ve got to give me three fennel balls.”

“Did you say fennel balls?”  I was baffled, “You mean fennel, as the vegetable?”

“Yes, fennel balls.  I need three.  If you can give me them, I will stop the construction.”

I agreed to look into it and hung up the phone.

Surely he was not pulling my leg, I thought.  His voice was decidedly distorted by the construction ruckus but I swore that he had said ‘fennel balls’.

Does fennel possess balls?

I walked out of my office and grabbed the first manager in sight, who turned out to be Andrew, my director of rooms, and asked him if he knew any fennel balls.

Andrew reacted exactly like all young people nowadays when being asked a question.  Without thinking he sat down in front of a computer and googled ‘fennel balls’.  After several combination of search criteria, he muttered, “Are you quite sure that he used the word ‘balls’?”

“That’s what it sounded like to me,” I was slightly defensive.

As we were both certain it had something to do with cooking, we reasoned finally that the home owner probably meant ‘fennel bulbs’, a raw ingredient to make dishes such as fennel and risotto balls according to ‘Chef Gone Wild’, or fennel matzoh balls as ‘Jewish Holiday Cooking’ advised.  It would be hard to find fresh fennel bulbs from our local market therefore the home owner was hoping that we could use our resourceful supplier for the hotel.

It would be a small price to pay for these fennel ‘balls’ in exchange for 10 days of peace and quiet on the construction front.  Joy to the world!

© 2008 Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

The grind of the festive begins by being yelled at on Christmas Eve.  What a surprise!  Guests can be most unforgiving at this time of the year.

With a full house, the home owner of a nearby luxury mansion has decided to start construction of his pool and patio recently.  The noise annoyed Dr. S, a guest from NYC, who had specifically requested room 408 with ocean-view windows that caught a hint of the construction sounds.

Of course, this is entirely my fault.  As a hotel manager, I must be devil reincarnate to some of the guests.  If the sun does not shine on a tropical island, it is my fault.  If the water is murky on a dive trip due to rain, it is my fault.  If the fishing excursion resulted in no fish being caught, again it is my fault.

As the minions tried in vain to find an alternative for Dr. S in a fully occupied hotel, who had refused any room in the hotel other than 408, which is quite impossible since there is only one such room, I listened attentively to his observation about my carelessness and incompetence to permit this catastrophe.  An arrangement of upgrade to an ocean front suite, a free spa treatment and a complimentary dinner at our fine dining room later, Dr. S was calm enough to send an email to his contact at our sister hotel in another country to vent off his remaining anger.  He graciously copied the email to me.  I will make sure to seek him out and wish him happy holidays at tonight’s Christmas buffet.

One of my mentors had said to me when I was almost in tears when a guest blamed me for something I did not do, still a young apprentice of 18 at my first hotel, “A good hotel manager needs skin of a crocodile.”  I remembered it ever since.

Talking about animals, rat complaints have dropped to just one last night, only a day after the rat god ceremony.  And the cobra was not sighted anymore.  I wonder if the divinity has a thick skin.  Surely they cannot grant every wish.

I wish I could turn the sun on and the rain off when my guests demand it; ask the elusive sea turtles to appear on cue when my diving guests descend; and above all, to make our neighbor home owner, a free citizen with his own rights, stop construction during the festive when my guests are most sensitive.

This may, after all, be too much to ask.  I think I will just grow another layer of crocodile skin.

© 2008 Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

The busiest season which in hospitality industry jargon called ‘the festive’ is officially underway.  It is characteristically evident by a full hotel, unusually large number of families and boisterous children, endless buffet, better dressed guests, and a depleted stock of champagne.  This is often the most trying season for hotel staff as well, who work overtime while the rest of the world enjoys the holidays.

Despite the economic crisis, our hotel occupancy has soared and will maintain its momentum well into the New Year.  On top of that, the owner of the hotel has decided to come and spend his festive season here with us, with a family of fifteen in tow.

I am planning a pre-festive gathering in my accommodation tonight.  All expatriate managers live in apartments and small houses on hotel grounds, near the parking lot.  It will be a good opportunity to charge their (alcoholic) batteries before the crunch.  But this morning my gregarious resident manager Lincoln, a loveable dude from Philly, came in to work with an ashen face.  During the entire morning briefing he muttered no word, especially when Mastra reported that the God of Rats prayer ceremony had gone successfully and we were to expect the rat problem to be resolved.

By noon Lincoln was pale and perspiring profusely.  I urged him to see a doctor but as the man he is he said he just needed some rest.  In another 20 minutes he couldn’t even walk himself back to his house.  We put him in a guest room that was out of order.  Poor Lincoln was not himself and was constantly in the bathroom.

Our in house doctor went to check on him but couldn’t find anything wrong except that he was very uncomfortable.  We put Lincoln in a car and drove to the nearest local clinic, where a blood test showed abnormally high white blood counts.  Lincoln was apparently doubled up in pain with a hugely bloated belly and running a fever.  Perplexed and worried, the clinic decided to evacuate him to a hospital in the capital.  The last I heard was that Lincoln was in a helicopter being rushed to the capital.  His next of kin, his sister in Philly, had to be informed and I also had to inform my boss of this development just in case anything worse was to happen.

I am facing a full house for two weeks, owner’s visit and the festive without my resident manager.  Life in hospitality industry is never dull.

Poor Lincoln, his festive is surely ruined.  I hope he recovers soon.  He will be missed at our party tonight.

© 2008 Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

Today is my day off.  I strolled casually to our beach restaurant for an early lunch before the crowd arrives.  I also wanted to make sure the cobra is no longer patrolling the beach area.

The head waiter Ketut fussed over me in a typical behavior that he did not expect me to show up on my day off, and would not want to commit a single mistake.  The menu had just been changed and I found some items for improvement.  I beckoned Ketut and said without looking up, “Can I have a copy please?”

“Yes, Pak,” Ketut replied.

A moment later a cup of coffee appeared in front of me.  I did not order it.  But I supposed that Ketut had wanted to impress me and he knew of my habit of starting the day with a cup of black coffee.  I had wanted an iced tea but I smiled anyway and thanked him.

At the end of my lunch, the copy of the menu was still not given to me.  When I questioned Ketut about it, he looked at me bewildered and pointed at my table, “But Pak John you had two of them already!”

I looked back at my table and presently realized that I did indeed have two of them: two coffees that is.  There is no ‘f’ sound in their native language therefore the locals have difficulty in distinguishing between the sounds ‘p’ and ‘f’, especially a head waiter who is nervous.  They can say ‘p’ perfectly well.  Such as the word ‘pak’, a shortened version of ‘bapak’ literally means ‘father’, is ubiquitously used to address all men to the effect of calling each other ‘mister’ in this polite society.

Coffee, in their language, is spelled as ‘kopi’ and pronounced exactly as it is spelled.

“My mistake, Ketut,” I laughed and walked away.

While passing by our fine dining restaurant, I saw that preparation and set up was going on.  It reminded me that the honorary consul of France was hosting a small holiday reception tonight.  I contemplated for a moment whether I should show my face at the party or not.  After all, it is my day off.  On the other hand, all guests and staff know that I live in the hotel hence it is difficult to escape a duty that in the industry we call ‘kissing babies and patting fannies’.

As I stopped and pondered my schedule tonight, my attention was drawn to an elaborate signage at the restaurant entrance.  Framed beautifully in carved wood, the signage was adorned with graceful whirls of flowers and leaves.  It was a perfect signage that we could use for the years to come, except that in the center it was written in a florid hand ‘Frivate Punction’.

I laughed again, and picked up the phone to call the restaurant manager.  I did not have the heart to personally admonish the artist who had obviously put in quite some thoughts and hours to this important signage for our VIP guest.  I also told the manager not to throw the signage away, for I want to keep it as a souvenir which will undoubtedly bring a smile to my face for the years to come.

© 2008 Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

As I am waiting for the news on the rats, my secretary Yeti came rapping on my door cautiously.  She is from the neighboring bigger island and observes a different religion.  On the island of the gods where women, all slender, wear hip hugging sarongs and tight lace kebaya while leaving their luscious black hair in a bun, Yeti’s loose fitting robes and headscarf concealing all traces of her hair makes her stand out.

“Pak John, excuse me, Pak Made wants to see you,” she said quietly.

“Made?  Umm, sure…show him in,” I frowned and tried in vain to think which Made this is.

The tradition of this island is unique and interesting.  Take names for example.  Nearly the entire local population has only five principal first names: Putu, Made (Ma-day), Nyoman, Ketut, and Wayang.  If you are a first born, no matter girl or boy, you would be called Putu.  Second born is always called Made.  And so on.  Actually Wayang and Putu are interchangeable, so there is no way of knowing whether this Wayang is the first born or the fifth child of the family.  There are certain variations but the five principal names are always prevalent.  If you call out “Hey, Putu!” in a busy market, at least one fifth of the people will answer you.

Hence my dilemma at this very moment: which one of the 200 Mades under my employ is coming to see me?

This Made turns out to be one of the engineers, the one nicknamed “the snake man”.  He is approaching sixty years old and has a passion for raising snakes as a hobby.  We invited him to show off his pets during the last New Year’s Eve party.  He had ruthlessly pulled out some poisonous fangs from quite a few snakes he was showcasing, thus both delighted and frightened many guests.

Made stood there with bloodshot eyes and quivering lips.  He muttered a long story.  His English was too poor for me to understand therefore I only locked eyes with him and nodded encouragingly.  I sensed that he was in fear.  All I understood was “I sorry, Pak.  I very sorry.”  But what could this harmless (old) engineer have done?

The story turned out to be, after Yeti’s translation, related to a complaint a few days ago.  A cobra was discovered hiding under a bush near the beach in the morning by a guest who went for a morning dip in the water.  It is not uncommon for this volcanic island to have snakes.  But a cobra on a hotel beach did seem unusual and dangerous.  Instead of calling pest control, our in-house snake man was asked to capture the snake, which he happily obliged.

Last night, apparently, he had a dream.  He dreamed that an old man with a long white beard jabbed a finger angrily at him, shouting: “You took my walking stick away!  Put it back!  Put it back!!”

Made awoke with cold sweat and realized that he had angered some deity by taking the cobra, a vivid resemblance to a walking stick when stretched out.  He went to pray at the village temple then came back to release the cobra back into the bush where it was found.

“I very sorry, Pak. But I have to,” he pleaded.

That’s great, isn’t it?  With the holiday season around the corner, not only rats are rampant but now a cobra has joined the melee?

I just hope Made’s dream deity with a long white beard takes his walking stick away, for good.

© 2008 Global Hotel Nomad (SH)

Mastra came back today as promised.  You’ve got to love the guy.  He is in his mid-fifties with thin oily hair and wears these huge spectacles that cover more than half of his wide brown face.  As an Assistant F&B Manager, he has no skills.  But as the head of the religious community of this island (he works as a priest in his village on his day off), we cannot afford to replace him.  He is in charge of all the temple ceremonies and acts as liaison officer to the neighboring villages when we need extra staff.  If he is as adept and passionate in operation as he is with religious matters, he would be a star.

“Pak John, I find you the auspicious date,” he did not seem very happy with that news.

“That’s great, Pak Mastra, right?  When can we hold the ceremony?” I tried to look triumphant and pushed some paperwork away to the corner of my desk to show that he had my full attention.  There were another three complaints last night and I am sick and tired of hearing them.  Skeptical as I am with this whole rat god story, I am nevertheless willing to try anything to annihilate these beasts.

“Next Monday, Pak.”

“That’s two days away!” I exclaimed with pleasure.

“But we have problem, Pak.  We need forty tails.” Mastra asserted.

That is a problem.  We have a standing contract with Rentakill, the largest local pest control company, but they are obviously not doing very well with the current situation.  The traps around the property yield anything from two to five rats a day.  The local community does not trust Rentakill because the management and staff are from a different religious sect.  But the locals are not willing to run pest control companies because of their religious belief of reincarnation.  A rat or a stray dog could be one’s grandmother or uncle.

“I will tell them they need to catch forty by Sunday.  Make arrangements for the Monday ceremony.” I told Mastra.

He looked at me with big eyes, made even bigger by his enormous spectacles.

“Yes, Pak John,” he excused himself politely before leaving my office.  He knows better than to question the command of a superior, especially one from a buleh.

I picked up the phone and dialed the general manager at Rentakill.

I sure hope the God of Rats is around on Monday.

Island of the Gods, Indonesia

During the morning briefing the night manager, Agus, read through the log book.  There had been yet another five incidents with rats last night.  I groaned inwardly.  Yesterday when I passed by the lobby I saw this super tanned Italian woman shouting to a poor receptionist.  She was brandishing a piece of torn cloth and upon a closer look I was horrified to find that it turned out to be a bikini bottom, minus the crotch.  According to the guest, the crotch area had been eaten by a rat.

“What should we do to get rid of these pests?” I asked around the table.

All the locals lowered their heads as if ashamed.  It is really the fault of no one around the table.  The construction on the vacant lot next to our property has started.  Rats, locally bred or imported through construction materials, have become rampant.  As the nearest water and food source, our hotel with over 300 rooms has become their favorite haunt.

Apart from a bikini bottom without a crotch, we have had complaints about baby bottles being chewed through, snacks being ripped open and generally a lot of noise during the night.

“What about a ceremony to the god of rats?”

I looked up and found Mastra looking at me with blazing eyes.

“Do you think it will work?” I asked.

I know that there are numerous gods on this island and everything has a god, including metal. I have seen offerings on a new car.  But for rats? Well, why not?

“Yes, Pak John.”  Mastra said solemnly.  “I believe if we make a ceremony for rat god, the rats will go away.”

“If you think it will work, sure.  Shall we go to the temple now?” I inquired.

I volunteered because they always like it when a buleh (pronounced ‘boo-lay’),  literally ‘albino’ but now a synonym to all Caucasian people, shows respect and support for a traditional religious ceremony.

“No, Pak John. We will first collect some rat tails, then find an auspicious day and make a ceremony.  I will consult my religious calendar and come back to you.”

“I can’t wait,” I replied.