Journals of a Hotel Manager

The recent lack of posts is simply because I have been working about 20 hours a day. There is absolutely nowhere to go unwind on an island that is a construction site.   The home I have currently is not enticing at all.  Therefore I work.

Most staff loiter in the cafeteria after dark when the temperature is cooler, where they smoke a cigarette and watch ESPN. But now even the cafeteria is being gutted out to be renovated. We all need to trek through dangerous pipes and uneven sandy path to the northern tip of the island three times a day to eat our meals at the Seafood restaurant. At night, it is pitch dark and only our cell phones provide a glimmer of light so at least we won’t run into each other or into a ditch.

The food also starts to get to me. Due to the tiny kitchen that we are currently operating in, there is no point importing expensive food supplies. The ingredients are all fresh but the menu consists of tuna, tuna and tuna. In the morning it is canned tuna; lunch is tuna curry; and dinner gives you tuna broth. We have to eat everything with steamed rice. The only vegetables we get are onions and carrots. I am certain that at the moment, after years of abusing my heart and liver with fatty steaks, foie gras, pork chops and the essential cheeseburgers, I should be in better health than when I was born.

I don’t feel healthy though. I feel as if my stomach is eating itself. I have been dreaming about a greasy burger and a cold beer. That’s bad. Therefore today I decided to take the evening off and go to the famous Airport Hotel bar. The most important reason is, of course, our alcohol license has expired and can only be renewed after the renovation.
As the country is strictly Muslim, only islands that have hotels can apply for an alcohol license. The Airport Hotel is renowned for being the only locally run hotel that sells alcohol. Because it has no star and is just an airport hotel, a beer has a much more reasonable price than in a 5-star hotel such as ours. I could go to another luxury resort and I am sure they will waive the charges. But it requires a phone call to the GM as an island protocol, an unavoidable hello and chitchat with one of the executives who will receive me, and I don’t want to say I simply pine for a burger.

The Chief Engineer, an Aussie, and a consultant for boats (yes, there is such a job and he gets paid well), a Yank, joined me in the watering hole for expats who crave cheap junk food. Half of pound of beef pattie and half of a dozen beer later, I am happy to report that the sound of the lapping tide on the beach is sweeter, and the millions of stars above are brighter than ever.

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