The Hotel on the Roof of the World (10 page)

During the course of the evening, Gunter had found a scruffy little man at the buffet table using a pair of chopsticks to dismantle the
pièce montée
. He had piled his plate up with steaks, potatoes, cold meats, cakes and yogurt in one heap, and he was now trying to take the apple from the suckling pig's mouth. Gunter was furious, and presuming this man to be a driver who had found his way in to the banquet room from the group buffet, marched him out of the restaurant. No amount of protests would stop Gunter. It was his restaurant, this was an important banquet, and no filthy truck driver could mess it up for him.

It was Jig Me who broke the news to the General Manager. Gunter had thrown out the new head of the Friendship with Foreign Countries Association. Jig Me was seething. It was a serious loss of face all round. There was no other option. Gunter had to go. He handed in his resignation, due to ‘personal reasons', the following morning and spent the day in his room. Holiday Inn would try to find him a suitable position elsewhere in Asia – but nothing could be guaranteed.

The only good thing to arise from Gunter's dismissal was that there was now an extra space free around the table at the Morning Meeting. Mrs Qi Mei and the three people to my right had all moved down a place, so I could now follow their direction and sit two seats away from the breath monster.

Morale was low. Mr Liu read out the news that thirty-one television sets were missing from the hotel – Party B was on the attack. We had suffered greatly from the embarrassing dismissal of Gunter and we needed a victory to put us back in control. The Security Department, which was run entirely by local staff, was blamed for a total lack of professionalism. The Security Chief pointed out that in the missing property report of two years previously, there had been forty-eight television sets recorded as missing, so if there were now only thirty-one sets missing now, his department had done a very good job. The idea of burglars tiptoeing through the corridors late at night to return stolen television sets was an intriguing one and rather put a stop to our attack.

To change the mood of the meeting, I announced my ideas to increase winter business, which at least cheered up the General Manager. I had found a telephone book with 1,400 addresses of foreign companies in China. I planned to send a letter to each of them, to entice their high earning expatriate managers to visit Lhasa during the winter months. Known officially as ‘doing a mail out', this is only the most basic sales activity, and similar sales efforts take place in every marketing-orientated hotel in the world.

A few days of organising lay ahead: the copy writing, printing the brochures and printing labels for the envelopes, and under normal circumstances, the ‘mail out' should be finished by the end of the week.

Printing the brochures is usually the longest part of a mail out, so Tashi and I started with a visit to the Lhasa printers. It was a fraction cleaner than the hospital, but exuded the same air of efficiency – and, curiously, the same smell. We were taken to meet the director in his office but before we could discuss any business, tea had to be served and cigarettes offered to everyone. A minion rinsed out two large blue-and-white tea cups while the director showed us to our seats between piles of printed booklets. A spoonful of green tea leaves was dropped in each cup and boiling water added from the office thermos flask.

Chinese tea is not an easy drink to handle. The leaves float to the surface, and drinking it requires the skill to take a noisy slurp while simultaneously blowing the leaves away from your mouth. It is a complicated procedure which I was never able to master. If you are not careful you end up with mouthfuls of tea leaves which you can either swallow or spit out into the office spittoon.

He looked at us with some surprise when we asked him if he could print us a simple black-and-white brochure by the end of the week. It transpired that he was not at all interested in doing any print work for the hotel, as he had not been paid for the last work that he had done. He went to the cupboard and pulled out a stack of laundry lists. There were no straight lines of print but instead the letters followed roller coaster rides across the page. Capital letters were used freely in the middle of words and there was no letter ‘s'.

He explained that they could not find an ‘s' when they printed the list, so instead had used an ‘=' sign. Thus ‘socks' on the laundry list had become ‘=ock='. He thought it looked perfectly good and could not see why Holiday Inn should have been so fussy. To anyone with a sense of humour they would have been ideal, but for a professional company they were certainly lacking.

Tashi remembered the case of the printed laundry lists from the Morning Meetings. He told me it had taken nine months to produce the laundry list and when it finally appeared in such a state, it was returned.

Before leaving we were taken on a tour of the print works. Chinese and Tibetan characters were cut out of metal and stored in row upon row of wooden boxes. It looked very primitive. Along the back wall stood a line of machinery covered in dusty sheets. The director proudly pointed to them.

‘From Germany,' Tashi translated. ‘Very good. Gift of the Australian government.'

State-of-the-art printing machinery lay covered in sheets while only slightly more modern versions of the Caxton printing press were being used alongside.

‘Can we use them?' I asked hopefully.

‘May-oh.'

‘Why are they here then?'

‘Putchidao.'

Nobody knew what they were there for, or how to operate them – but they had a high prestige value. The director could proudly tell his friends that he had foreign equipment in his factory. It wasn't going to help me with the mail out, so I concentrated on the resources in the hotel.

‘Mr Alec wants to make propaganda for the hotel,' Tashi told the other office staff. I was shown the highly prized electronic typewriter that was in the possession of the Sales Office. Replacement ribbons could only be purchased in Hong Kong and in any case the letter ‘a' had somehow been chipped off the daisy wheel. I seriously considered typing a letter by avoiding the use of the letter ‘a' but decided that I would have to use such peculiar phrases that no one would understand what I was asking them to do. ‘As' could always be painted on by hand if I could just photocopy the letter 1,400 times.

Of the three Canon photocopier machines in the hotel, only one was still partially functioning. A piece of tyre rubber had been glued onto the top where the cover had been broken. Light grey paper coated with dark grey toner chugged through the contraption, usually becoming chewed into concertina shapes by the machine's intestines. There was no way this was going to produce 1,400 copies of an attractive letter to be sent out to prospective hotel guests.

Harry lifted up my hopes by telling me that there was an unused offset printer in the hotel that had sat in its packaging for two years. One thousand dollars' worth of brand new machinery sat in the Engineering Department, eagerly awaiting its first use. It was complete and perfectly functional. There was just one small flaw; an essential can of oil was missing and it was such a specific oil that it could only be obtained from a certain manufacturer in Hong Kong, known only to the supplier of the printer. There were no records to say where the printer had been supplied from and none of the local staff could remember anything about it, except that it needed a special oil which had been ordered at the time of the purchase two years previously. As the oil had not arrived since its order in 1986, it seemed unlikely that it would arrive by the end of the week.

Mr Liu, the Controller, was the only hope. He alone had a laptop computer in his office and a small printer.

After much negotiation I was permitted to use the computer and printer overnight between the hours of 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. for a limited period of one week only, as after that he had to do the ‘month-end closing' and would not be letting the precious computer out of sight.

It took four sleepless nights to print out the letter on the tiny printer without an automatic paper feed. Meanwhile I had to devise a way to get the letters to their intended readers. Mr Liu had made it categorically clear that I was not to use the computer to input the addresses, as the memory was nearly full. He ran the entire hotel accounts from this computer with a peanut memory and did not wish to risk overloading it.

The only solution was to use the photocopier. Derek had taken the three machines apart and reassembled them to make one that gave its best performance in years. The dark grey toner stood out just a bit darker than usual and the background greyness smudged across the paper a little less than before.

Pages from the address book were photocopied and my staff spent an entire day cutting out each address with the office pair of scissors. Tashi had been shopping for large pots of glue and the rest of the week was spent pasting the addresses on to the envelopes. When it was finished, Tashi pointed out that the addresses were written in English but the postman at the Lhasa sorting office would only be able to read Chinese. We then sorted the letters according to which province in China they were going, and my Chinese staff wrote out the province name in Chinese characters on the envelopes.

Inserting the letters in the envelopes took another day and then we hit another delay. There was no self-adhesive strip or gum of any kind on the back of the envelopes and we had to paste each one individually. All that was left was to take them to the post office to be franked.

We bundled the letters into farm sacks and took a lift down to the main post office with Dorje, the hotel driver. Cows and cyclists jumped out of our way as we sped down the cycle track in the Landcruiser. Nobody at the post office knew what a franking machine was. Tashi didn't know either, so it was difficult for him to translate. They looked in horror at the sack-loads of mail that we had brought, and reluctantly sold us stamps. The required amount for each stamp was 35 fen, but of course they only had stamps of ten, three and two fen. Each envelope would require five stamps.

Tashi called in for more glue on the way back to the hotel. I should have taken this as a sign of what was to come, but at the time I didn't realise the significance. He explained when we returned to the office. Chinese stamps do not have glue on the reverse side – every one of them had to be glued on by hand. This took three more days of sticking. Finally, we set off for the post office with our sacks full of totally glued envelopes.

‘May-oh.'

No, the postman would not take so many at one time. He said it was not possible to carry so much and that we could only send out 200 per day – some of these were returned because one of my staff had been sticking the stamps on the back of the envelopes, instead of the front.

I was in the office early the next morning, trying to steam stamps off envelopes, when the two Canadian mountaineers burst in with a bottle of Chinese brandy. Greg and Dave were at last ready to leave. I left the envelopes soaking in water and followed Greg and Dave out to the forecourt where a convoy of Landcruisers and trucks stood ready. A team of Tibetan drivers, eager to start the race, revved the engines to fever pitch, causing gusts of exhaust fumes to blow through the main entrance into the hotel lobby.

I waved as Greg and Dave climbed into their Landcruiser and the convoy pulled out onto the Everest road. Statistically, they only had slightly more chance of making it to the top of Everest as of not coming back at all. It was a sombre thought as I went off to the Morning Meeting.

Jig Me announced that Chinese National Day was approaching and there would be celebrations throughout the land. The Vice Governor would host the traditional 1 October banquet at the Holiday Inn and all foreign staff and other expatriates in Lhasa would be invited. It was truly a day of celebration, commemorating Chairman Mao's glorious founding of the People's Republic of China on 1 October 1949.

Just one small point. Would Mr Alec inform the hotel guests that they would not be allowed to the Barkhor due to security reasons. Guests who had paid thousands of dollars for the trip of a lifetime would have to avoid the spiritual centre of Tibet and the famous bazaar. The ban would only be for five days, I was told, then we wouldn't have to celebrate any more.

Anything could happen on National Day, which by no small coincidence was the anniversary of the 1987 Tibetan riots and the date of the customary burning down of the police station. Chinese military filled the streets and the People's Armed Police were placed on full alert.

BANQUET BLUES

During the Morning Meeting of 30 September, Jig Me announced that the National Day banquet which Chef had been preparing for National Day, 1 October, would now be a day early because National Day was a public holiday. Heather translated into Chinese and the Tibetans and Hans smiled; a day off work. Mr Pong rumbled in his chair, giving the expatriates time to push their seats back in anticipation of the tidal wave of halitosis that would engulf all around the table, but the General Manager stopped him short: ‘You mean the banquet that we are preparing for tomorrow is now going to be today?'

‘Yes.' It was Jig Me who replied. ‘Today at seven p.m.'

Although there was considerable relief that Mr Pong had been kept silent, the confirmation that the National Day banquet was a day early had caught all the expatriates off guard. Chef had given his Sous Chefs the day off, the storerooms were empty and the local Purchasing Manager had not been seen for three days. Nevertheless in ten hours the top VIPs of Lhasa would be arriving for the National Day banquet – the highest social event on the Lhasa calendar. The evening had to be a success. There could be no more embarrassments. The loss of face over the dismissal of Gunter was still fresh in everyone's mind and we badly needed to restore the prestige image of the hotel and boost the morale of the expatriates.

Chef left immediately for the kitchens to check which extra provisions he would need for the evening. Tu Dian, the Tibetan Deputy Food and Beverage Manager, followed him.

‘May-oh wenti!'
Tu Dian called out as he left the room. Translated literally as ‘no problem',
may-oh wenti
was always a worrying remark. With the laid-back attitude of the Tibetans, instead of meaning; ‘No problem, we can solve this one',
may-oh wenti
usually meant; ‘No problem – the evening will be a disaster.'

Chef was determined that there would be no problems with the food that evening. He wanted to show that his side of the Food and Beverage Department could run just as well now that Gunter had left. He was particularly keen on giving a good impression for the General Manager, as he was relying on a recommendation for a transfer to a less stressful part of Asia.

I passed Chef's office on my way back from the Morning Meeting, and caught a glimpse of him giving instructions to his staff. It was a surreal scene: thirty Chinese and Tibetans dressed in kitchen whites packed in a tiny office, staring with expressionless faces at a peculiar European flailing his arms about in the air. Although his Chinese vocabulary did not extend far beyond the essential phrases of
‘may-oh'
,
‘putchidao'
and
‘may-oh wenti'
, he had an exceptionally high level of understanding with his staff. He had been without an interpreter for over a year and had developed a form of kitchen sign-language with which he could communicate perfectly with both Tu Dian and the cooks.

With the index and middle finger of his right hand he made jumping motions across the table, and with his left hand he made a series of mock karate chops over his knuckles. He nibbled his right index finger and made an imitation of steam blowing out of his ears. There was much discussion and nodding amongst the cooks who smiled in recognition of the dish – Sichuan frogs legs with chilli peppers.

The other VIP dish was harder to mime, but as it was always requested at the top banquets it was an easy one to guess. Chef pulled his head back and hunched up his shoulders to hide his neck. He brought up his hands, palms outermost, to the top level of his shoulders and waved his fingers at his cooks. This confirmed what they had expected – turtle would be served at the National Day banquet. Tu Dian rushed off into town with the market list. Dorje, the hotel driver, was waiting for him in one of the Holiday Inn Landcruisers so there was no doubt that it would be the fastest shopping trip possible.

The General Manager spent the afternoon putting the restaurant staff through their paces. The banquet would be in the form of a self-service buffet; the simplest Food and Beverage formula, where it would be difficult to make mistakes.

The idea of waitress service for a banquet of over 200 people had been abandoned. Even in the small coffee shop the a la carte service was a disaster. It was hardly the fault of the waitresses; they had never seen any world other than their own isolated land of Tibet and had no idea how a Western restaurant should work.

The most basic rules of restaurant service were totally alien concepts to them. No matter how many times it was explained that the starter should be delivered before the main course they invariably made the guests wait half an hour and then brought starter, main course and dessert in every conceivable order except for the correct one. All the permutations and combinations of dishes were tried out: main course first, soup next, dessert last; all at the same time; none at all; only the drinks and not the food; the starter for the adjacent table with a dessert that had never been ordered. The waitresses considered it to be of little importance, as long as the guest received his food he should be happy. Pointing out a mistake to the waitress was inadvisable whilst the meal was still in progress. This would lead to everything being grabbed from the table and rushed back into the kitchen. The same food would come out ten minutes later (and ten minutes cooler) and the waitress would try to remember who had been eating from which plate. It was very complicated.

A straightforward buffet for the National Day banquet was the safest bet for a trouble-free evening. All that the waitresses had to do was to set the tables, serve drinks, and clear the tables afterwards. It seemed simple enough.

I was called into the banquet room late in the afternoon to check on the English lettering for a 40-ft long, 5-ft wide banner which was being hoisted above the head table. The giant white letters of ‘NATIONALDAYRECETPION' beamed out across the room, pinned onto a background of bright red cloth. The only minor problem was that all the letters ran in a continuous line. There was some dismay when I asked for the words to be separated and for the spelling to be corrected. Chinese and Tibetan characters, presumably saying the same message, had already been glued across the top of the banner and there was no space left to split the lettering onto different lines. We eventually settled for the solution of squashing the letters closer together so that there was enough space to distinguish the individual words.

Beneath the banner, the long top table was being set for twenty Lhasa VIPs. Charlie had been persuaded to part with the only white tablecloths to be found in Lhasa on condition that he personally supervised the method of securing them to the table – an intricate valance of blue, red and gold brocade edged with red silk, hung around the front of the table. The hotel's two silver candlesticks decorated with spirals of gilded dragons stood in the centre, between the silver place settings for the Vice Governor of Tibet, the Consul General of Nepal and the head of the Foreign Affairs Office. The top table was fit for a king.

By a quarter to seven, the General Manager could take five minutes to relax, confident that after spending the entire afternoon showing the waitresses how to clear tables and serve drinks, they would make a star performance.

Tu Dian had found all the ingredients in the market, and Chef and his team had prepared a mouth-watering buffet. At least mouth-watering if, like the VIP guests, you take a fancy to lightly poached turtle in its own broth, tiny frogs legs that blow you away and Chinese hacked chicken, chopped into portions guaranteed to contain a greater percentage of minute bone splinters than edible meat. Fortunately the banquet menu contained a few Western favourites; tenderised yak steaks, pork chops and mashed potato and a tasty dish of beef slices with green peppers.

Chef had even been able to find his best watermelon engraver in the staff quarters and had set him to work on a display for the buffet table. Minute sections of the dark green outer skin of the watermelons were carved away with the point of a kitchen knife, forming contrasting patterns with the paler green inside. Delicate pictures of cranes and Chinese ladies now turned the humble melons into temporary works of art.

The General Manager made his last inspection of the banquet room at five to seven. He stopped at the centrepiece of the buffet: an enormous watermelon depicting rural scenes from mainland China. His eyes screwed into focus on a moving black cloud that hovered above melon. His gaze followed into the centre of the room and back to the buffet table.

‘Flies!'
he screamed out. ‘Where is Housekeeping? Where is Chef? Why do I have flies at the most important banquet of the year?!'

The waitresses disappeared and the cooks behind the buffet table made themselves busy. Derek the Chief Engineer arrived.

‘Why are there no fly screens on the windows in this room?' the General Manager bellowed at him. There was no table to thump as he was standing up.

‘Well, I, err. You see the fly screens needed repair and my men have been very busy and well, we thought the banquet was tomorrow and err…'

‘No. Don't answer me. Get me Housekeeping! Get me the spray!'

Charlie came puffing and panting into the banquet room with a box of aerosol cans. Chef rushed his food display back into the kitchen as the General Manager tore the wrapping from the first can.

‘If you want something done around here, who has to do it?' he muttered to himself as he fumbled with the cans in the box. Taking one can in each hand, he held his arms aloft and with his forefingers tightly on the spray buttons, marched down the gangways between the tables, showering the contents of the cans into the room.

The hosts for the evening, the Foreign Affairs Office of Tibet, arrived just as the last cans had been emptied. A cloud of insecticide hung across the room and the waitresses held napkins to their faces in an attempt to avoid inhaling the sickly spray.

‘A very beautiful room,' the chief of the Foreign Affairs Office remarked to the General Manager through Mrs Chen, the official interpreter, ‘and a very pleasant scent you have made in the room for us tonight.'

‘Yes, especially for you,' the General Manager bowed graciously in reply.

The Chief of the Foreign Affairs Office thanked him profusely and set about forming a line of FAO personnel by the door to welcome the banquet guests. Arriving military commanders and Party chiefs were shown to their respective places along the head table. This always took some time as if you are invited to sit at the head table, it is usual etiquette to feign; ‘Oh no, surely not me sitting at the head table!' and to insist on first taking a place at one of the normal round tables where the common masses, or proletariat, would be sitting. Only after several more pleadings from the hosts do you then proceed to the head table, still shaking your head in disbelief at the great honour bestowed upon you, and making loud protests that you are not worthy.

The General Manager was dragged from behind the buffet table where he had been inspecting the cooks' uniforms, and forced by the Foreign Affairs Office to sit at a position of honour towards one end of the head table. It was no feigning when he pleaded not to sit there but despite his protestations that he had to oversee the banquet, the hosts made it very clear that as head of the international hotel in town, he was to take a seat at the VIP table.

For the minor dignitaries and the other foreign residents, seating had been arranged by the Foreign Affairs Office at round tables. Each table was reserved for a particular
work unit
, which is the comradely phrase used by the Chinese to describe any entity which provides employment. Table six, where I was sitting with the expatriates from the hotel work unit, was in the furthest corner of the room, pressed tight into the right angle formed by the wall and the line of windows behind the head table. A loudspeaker stood as high as my chair, just behind me in the angle of the corner. I should have thought ahead to what this would mean but at the time I was too busy being introduced to our hosts to realise the significance of this unfortunate seating position.