Journals of a Hotel Manager

Living on a construction site means there is no escape from the constant cacophony of drilling, sanding, soldering and banging.  Friday is the blessed day off for the construction team although very few of them are Muslims.  So I slept in until 8:30am.  Currently I live in a single room in the management block since the previous GM has not officially vacated the GM bungalow and he has gone on his sabbatical.  In the future, this room will serve as a 2-year home for a department head.

Housing is a major problem, mainly because the island is so small that we are forced to put staff up in dormitory style while making space for other essential luxuries such as a computer room, a relaxation room with books and TV, a staff laundry area, a basketball-cum-football-cum-volleyball-cum-badminton-cum-social dance-court.  The contract guarantees a department head single room accommodation.  The room is around 150 sqaure feet with its own bathroom.  It is equipped with a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a chair.  I have seen a Motel 6 near the Death Valley better than this.  Line staff live six to a room, sharing one bathroom.  We try in vain to choose roommates in different departments.  It is not because we don’t want inter-departmental friendship.  It is important to guarantee some sort of privacy for each staff in the accommodation during the day albeit for just 20 minutes.  Therefore we will put an overnight security guard, a morning shift waiter, a day shift housekeeper, an afternoon shift Front Desk agent, a split-shift kitchen commis and a late shift bartender in one room.  Hopefully during shift change one of them at least could use the bathroom without waiting.

As part of the renovation process, we are constructing a staff hotel on BI.  The owners paid a hefty sum on a piece of land on the western shore of BI.  We are building a 200-bed accommodation for the staff there so we can hopefully reduce the occupancy in the staff rooms to 3-4 people per room. 

With the construction of the staff hotel, we will need to upgrade the generator system on BI as well as setting up a sewage treatment plant.  We are looking at spending up to $100k on the infrastructure.   Otherwise the staff hotel will be nothing but an empty shell with no power and no water.   The upgrade of the electrical system and the water/sewage will benefit the local villagers for generations to come.  I am surprised at the owner’s generosity and wish that the negotiation with the BI island chief tomorrow will be an easy one.

TI is truly a tiny island. About 2000 feet long and 200 feet wide, it was originally a sandbank from BI. The tip of the island pointed almost to true north, thus allowing guest villas to be built on both east and west shores offering sweeping view of sunrise and sunset over the ocean. Beyond the northern tip of the island are the popular water bungalows built on stilts where guest can enjoy the feeling of living on water.

Due to the limited area of the island, back of the house area is cramped with all support functions including our own generator, water desalination plant, kitchen, laundry, all offices and staff quarters. The GM bungalow is on the southern-most tip right next to the sewage treatment plant: so much for the glamour of living on a remote island as the chief.

Every island has an island chief, virtually the village leader. The staff jokingly referred to me as the island chief. This is a new title that I have to get used to. At the moment, I govern a skeleton crew who is essential to the hotel re-opening - engineers, HR, reservations and a small kitchen team that feeds the staff. The island is currently swarmed by 500 construction workers. They have very clear duties and functions. The Thai team is in charge of concrete, managed by a Thai manager who likes to cook deliciously looking Pad Thai for his staff. The Bangladeshi crew members represent the experts in laying pipes and electrical lines. The Indonesian delegates are all master wood carvers who work with massive wooden blocks for the refined decoration in public areas. On the hotel side we also have a Japanese language teacher, a Filipino in house nurse and a Nepalese doctor, Sri Lankan kitchen team and some local staff who work as government liaison. It is exceptionally international and so far we have a great camaraderie.

Not that we hold parties with the construction team. They lay their pipes and pour their concrete; we deal with owners and the hotel set-up. Together we simply co-exist on a tiny island for the same purpose: to renovate and re-open the hotel. At meal times in staff cafeteria, the workers let hotel staff jump line. Hotel staff will not sit with the workers. Indeed, they can improve their personal hygiene but who can blame them for smelling like an old shoe after working in the blazing sun the whole day? They eat twice as much as us office workers and still look hungry.

Today the doctor was in action not because of construction accident. A couple of Thai workers caught a lionfish from the lagoon and grilled it over a campfire, not knowing that lionfish is poisonous. One of them actually had a flat-line and the doctor had to shock him back to life.

As much as I want to keep my hands off the construction teams, since they are hired directly by the owners, I guess I will have to have a word with their managers if they speak English. I don’t want to send anyone in a body-bag off my island the first month I work here. It will not be easy as an island chief.

Day breaks at 6:50am in the tropics but everyday the mosque on the neighboring island broadcasts its prayer call at 5am. TI is literally a stone’s throw away from the next island, inventively called by the locals as Big Island (BI). Comparing to our tiny island of 20 acres, BI is three times the size.

Separated by a narrow but deep channel of approximately 50 feet wide, the current is swift and strong thus making it impossible to swim across to BI. BI is populated entirely by 900 locals and the main industry is fishing and cannery. The hotel is cash cow for BI since we rent 20 houses from the locals to accommodate some of the staff. Our 700 staff frequent the only barber and a local restaurant on BI as well, making it one of the richest islands in the country.

I took a stroll on BI today, accompanied by the HR director and the Chief Engineer. It was 10 o’clock but the sun was already searing hot. We boarded a tiny flat-bottomed boat from the loading dock and packed ourselves in with another 4 staff.  There was not enough room for sitting so we all stood facing the front of the boat. The journey took less than two minutes.

The jetty on the southern tip of BI was built by the hotel. Empty bottles, torn slippers and general garbage welcomed us on the beach of BI. The village was tightly constructed around a central courtyard of the size of a basketball field. Walls were made of broken corals which had been outlawed by the government since the 1990s. Houses were small, dark and dilapidated. Every house is equipped with a towering black plastic water tank issued by the government. The only fresh water source is from the rain.

Local women wore headdresses and long robes despite the humid tropical weather. Men loitered in the shade of banyan trees on incredibly uncomfortable looking ‘chairs’ made of ropes. Children ran around barefoot in tattered T-shirts. There was no smile, no ‘hello’, and no friendliness that I had been expecting from the famous tropical hospitality.

The shops that surrounded the central courtyard were doubtlessly established to attract tourists - guests at our hotel were the only tourists. Sadly, the souvenirs and trinkets that were on displayed looked like they were from any shabby tourist trap on Kuta Beach (Bali) or in Patpong (Bangkok). There is no local artifact at all, unless you want to buy the illegal shark’s skull or turtle shells.

In general the island was poorly maintained with garbage everywhere. It would be a hard sell as a “local highlights excursion” to our sophisticated guests who will pay $1000 a night after the renovation.

It has been a week since I came to this tiny island in the Indian Ocean. At the beginning I was reluctant to take this transfer. I had been looking at a city transfer after spending almost three years on an island. I had had enough with the beach, the sun and the coconut trees. Given the current economic climate, one cannot be too demanding. The previous GM has been put on an unpaid leave for the past six months. I should really count myself lucky that I got a transfer at all.

What really attracted me to come here is not the idyllic picture of this island painted by the website and the brochures. I came here to do a full renovation and re-opening of an existing property, and to help the current GM to open a brand new one on another island.

So far I am stationed on the island locally known as Tiny Island and for the sake of anonymity I shall refer to it as TI from now on. The property was built in the early nineties when terracotta floors, driftwood furnishings and lack of air-conditioning set the trend. Now twenty years later the guests became more sophisticated and the property had been in sore need of a facelift ever since the 2004 tsunami added further damage.

The owners held off the construction since last October. The rumor within the company was that they wanted to see if Obama got elected. When I arrived last week, guest bungalows on the east shore of the island had been sitting in a rubble for the past five months while the west shore still had villa intact.

It will be the first time that instead of patching up hotel rooms I would be directing a bulldozer to tear them down.

The guest in room 781 called the operator at 5am to complain about a leak. Engineers didn’t come to duty until 7am. So a security guard was called in to assess the damage. Sure enough, the walls of #781 had tiny rivers running down and the ceiling was bubbling from the water seepage. It was obvious that the leak came from upstairs, room 881.

Security guard called an Assistant Manager and together they went to #881. The carpet in the corridor was wet. No one answered the door. They couldn’t really bang on the door since it was still very early and the other guests would be disturbed. A phone call into the room was also unanswered. The AM produced her master key and went on to open the door. The carpet was soaking wet. There was a female guest sleeping in the bed. The bathroom door was ajar and the faucet was still on. A male guest was fast asleep in the bathtub with water overflowing and splashing onto the marble floor. Both guests were completely intoxicated and it took nearly 10 minutes to wake them up.

#881 turned out to be attending a conference at the hotel. The room had been paid for by the company. The wife probably tagged along for the shopping and the gala dinner. The damage assessment came to nearly $10k to replace the carpet, the wallpaper and repaint the ceiling in #781, not including two rooms have to be out of order for at least a week during a busy season. I told the credit manager to quickly charge it to their personal credit card. It didn’t come as a surprise when the card bounced. The guest did not pick up the phone or respond to any of our messages regarding the damage.

The conference group had only one day left at the hotel. #881 probably wanted to sneak out with the group. I ordered the room to be double-locked and surely enough at the end of the day the guest came down to the front desk fuming about his key not working. When the guest was asked to pay for the charges, he flatly refused. Instead he threatened to write to the head office to complain about the water pressure being too strong. Only after the conference organizer intervened did the guest write out a check for the damage.

About a month later, I received a letter from this guest. In it he inquired about a possible compensation on the damage of his computer bag. He had the audacity to include a photo showing the bottom of the computer bag with water damage.

As the state visit approached, we began to prepare for the room according to the requirement provided by the protocol office. The room would be occupied for only about 6 hours as a 4am departure was scheduled. The presidential suite was declined and a regular room was chosen. Fresh flowers were nixed probably to avoid biological germ attacks. A day prior to the arrival, secret service brought in an unusual amenity to be placed in the suite. It was a piece of glass, 8 ft long by 6ft tall, mounted on wheels. We watched as the secret service pushed it directly in front of the windows. Bullet-proof, it would be the ultimate protection from snipers stationed on other tall buildings in the area. Hence the reason a regular room instead of a suite - there were fewer windows to be worried about.

On the day of the arrival, the entire city was shut down from 8pm onwards. Staff were forbidden to enter or to leave the hotel until after the VIP arrival. Roads were blocked off to allow the motorcade an uninterrupted and swift drive from the airport directly into the loading dock. Our beautiful marble entrance was deemed too difficult to control. There was no welcome committee, no flower girl, only the hastily scrubbed loading ramp with just a hint of the garbage odor. The VIP was led quickly into the staff elevator by a group of hunky secret service agents who had scouted out the route days in advance.

Once in the safety of the room, we were allowed to roam freely in the back of the house or to go home. At 3:30am I left home to come to the hotel for the preparation of the departure. A select few of us were nominated to represent the hotel to say goodbye to the VIP. I lived 8 miles away from the hotel and it was an easy 20 minute drive on local streets. I was stopped by police squad cars stationed 3 miles away from the hotel. The police asked for my license and questioned me in a several different ways why I was driving to the hotel at this hour. After I had produced my business card and told them my service was required at the hotel, they were able to cross-check my name from a ‘safe list’ and allowed me to proceed.

Upon my arrival, I was not allowed to get into my own hotel. SWAT and secret service agents swarmed the loading dock in anticipation for the departure. We were told to standby in the pre-dawn cold so we could get a glimpse of the VIP. At 4:30am sharp, the VIP emerged from the staff elevator. Despite a few hours’ of rest he looked surprisingly fresh and alert. He was shadowed by 2 agents and quickly shook our hands while mumbling “thank you”. Without a moment’s lingering, he disappeared into a shiny limo and the darkness of the early morning. Another identical limo, with an identical license plate, immediately followed the first car. After the first roundabout, it was already difficult to deduce which limo was the diversion.

By the time other guests woke up, the SWAT had already left and all the last traces of a state visit were wiped clean including the massive bullet-proof glass panel. The hotel made a pretty good chunk of revenue for the 6-hour visit but the preparation took a lot of efforts and strain. I also felt sorry for the VIP. It must be constant anxiety for the head of a state to live with such pressure to think every single minute someone wanted his life.

It is not unusual for us at luxury hotels to host the head of a state. All employees must submit their social security number and go through thorough background checks. Floors were blocked off to accommodate just a few guests. The other rooms were kept empty by providing a protective layer above and below the room that was intended for the VIP. SWAT team and bomb squad were stationed at the hotel weeks prior to the arrival. Secret service dudes with their government issued black suit and earpieces paraded the area. Helicopters hovered above just to make sure no one was planting anything suspicious on the roof. And kids were getting arrested.

Come again?

The prelude to the big arrival was to have two children, 10 and 12, arrested. They were excited to see so many choppers circling around our property and pointed laser pens at the pilots. The pilots took the laser beams as laser guns and called in more choppers. The kids went wild as up to 5 choppers now circled their window. The SWAT and local police were notified. A couple of rooms were quickly isolated from the pilot’s observation and doors were banged down only to reveal two giggling boys playing laser pens by the window. Their father was on business in the city and the mother was later found out to be in the spa. There was no joking with the SWAT and the two boys were handcuffed and brought down to the police station.

This state visit certainly did not start well with us.

In the great state of California where plastic surgeons have offices right next to lawyers, anything is possible. Fernando was a 6-ft tall steward who worked quietly in the dishwashing area. He had a mane of thick black hair cropped short and general masculine good looks. Fernando was married and had two little girls and a small boy. During employee parties, he would introduce his family to us. Fernando was just a regular Hispanic guy.

No one paid much attention when Fernando began to grow his hair and shave his stubble several times a day. He had always been a gentle guy but his voice started to become softer. One day he announced to the HR director that Fernando was in the process of becoming a Fernanda.

California labor law is perhaps one of the strictest I have ever seen. Any discrimination in terms of racial, sexual, age, or disability will undoubtedly result in a lawsuit. There was no guideline against sex change in our company or in the state. We gave Fernando our blessings as long as the sex change did not affect his work performance. After all, Fernando’s job was in the back of the house so the guests would not be affected, no new uniform needed to be issued and life should go on as it was except that Fernando would become a woman.

Most of the staff accepted Fernando’s decision with a shrug. It was California with an ex-Terminator as a governor, nothing was too weird. Things went well for several months as Fernando began to wear feminine clothing after work in conjunction with the massive hormone therapy. As his breasts started to develop, however, staff became uncomfortable.

Male staff did not want a man with breasts in their locker room. Female staff certainly did not want a woman with a penis in their lock room. We decided to build a special locker room for Fernando so he could enjoy the benefits of any staff members such as taking a shower and changing into uniform at the hotel. It was an easy task comparing to the unknown repercussion should we choose to terminate a staff based on sex change process.

Fernando continued his work and life at our hotel. At employee parties, he still brought three children, only that he wore make-up and high heels and his wife no longer came.  The last I heard was that he was saving money to have the final operation to make him finally Fernanda. I wish him well.

I always respect the staff at the Laundry Department. They usually work in a stifling hot environment with relentless humming of the washing machines and banging of the dryers. Everyday they need to handle mountains of sheets and towels.  Also, they have to sift through various guests garments and sort into material and color to be properly laundered.

It is entirely another story when dealing with undergarments with dubious stains and unpleasant odor. Some of the staff wear plastic gloves for that purpose and I don’t blame them. Guests often complain about the price of $3 for a piece of underwear to be washed. I am quite certain that if I ask a guest to handle strangers’ panties or briefs with skid marks and hair stuck on them, he would think $3 a piece is totally not worth it.

Most laundry staff will handle skid marks from guests without repugnance especially since they cannot associate the undergarment with a face. All they know is the scrawling on the laundry list with the guest name and room number. But when it comes to the uniform from colleagues they know and have eaten at the cafeteria together, it is more difficult.

At my hotel in Southern CA such a complaint came all the way to me. It was reported that a sous chef liked to go commando while cooking. There was no policy against going commando at work and we all knew a popular doorwoman who was a star employee also had the same penchant. She was earning tips by the thousands that her salary rivaled mine - not because she wore no underwear I must say - guests often returned just so she could open the doors for them. But the sous chef had very poor hygiene standards. His pants, even after being washed, had stains therefore no one else would want to wear the same pair of pants. No laundry staff would want to touch his pants. He messed up the uniform par stock just by not wearing underwear.

It was a delicate issue for Pierre, the Executive Chef, to deal with. How would you tell a grown man to wipe his behind after going to the bathroom? Also, how would you bring up this topic in an environment like the kitchen?

At the end, the sous chef chose his freedom in the pants over a job at a top hotel. The doorwoman is still the star employee to this day - sans underwear. Just as with many hobbies, I guess this particular pursuit can either cost you or reward you.