Journals of a Hotel Manager

I ran into Max, our flamboyant and theatrical German chef, who stank from his morning shopping trip to the local fish market, near the loading dock. He showed off a box full of snappers, groupers, and prawns as if he wanted to sell them to me. I congratulated him on his fine choices.

“Ja, you can say that again, boss,” said he, “because today I really got into a fishing boat to make sure the fishes are fresh.”

The story turned out that Max had not been too happy with the catch on display in the market. He asked his main supplier, an old wrinkled guy called Nyoman, to take him fishing once in a while. By paying 10% extra, Max promised to buy whatever Nyoman hauled from the net.

This morning turned out to be a lucky day hence the beautiful catch which would make our Thursday night’s seafood buffet even better.

“When he pulled the snappers in they were zo fresh, ja, and zo many! I was very happy so I started to rock the boat a bit, ja, you know, just to show I am happy,” Max continued his triumphant adventure, “But Nyoman turned completely pale, ja, and grabbed the side of the boat. I say, ‘What’s with you man? You afraid of the water?’ You know what he said, boss? He said he cannot zwim!”

Max slapped his forehead in melodramatic disbelief.

“But the man has been a fisherman all his life! Can you believe it?”

No, indeed I cannot. This island is a curious place. It is surrounded by beautiful water but very few locals enjoy the sea. They consider water impure, where the garbage ends up. Instead they worship the majestic volcano. Apart from the dozen or so youngsters who learned surfing from tourists, you hardly see any locals hanging on the beach.

It must take poor old Nyoman a lot of courage to go out to sea daily to earn a living. I feel sorry for him should the weather one day turns against him while he is out at sea. At the same time, I admire his tenacity of making a living while he knows he could be killed on any given day. In view of that, my job is much easier as I don’t face certain death everyday on the job. Maybe I should stop whining so much and go back to work.

photo courtesy maikondrum@flickr.com