My Published Articles for ViewsHound: The Joys and Pains of Managing a Beach Resort in Marinduque

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Joys and Pains of Managing a Beach Resort in Marinduque

Moriones Parade, 2013
In eight days The Moriones Festival, 2014(April 14 to 20) will start and from what I heard a similar program that was presented the last 5 years will be again offered to guests and tourists all over the world.

In spite of the absence of air services from Manila, I am lucky that both the upper and lower floors of the beach house are booked. A couple from the US has reserved the upper level and another couple from Australia has reserved the lower level. I believe the two men are professional photographers who are looking forward to take photographs of the Morions and other colorful events scheduled for the whole Easter week. The Moriones Festival always remind me of an article I wrote in my blogs a couple of years ago on the joys and pains of managing a small beach resort. Here it is in case you have not read it.

Center Stage of the Conference Hall-Ready for a Wedding Reception

A closer view of the Conference Hall

Entrance to the Conference Hall

The Conference Hall

The third Bedroom with Two Double Deck Beds-The Room is Air Conditioned

The Second Bedroom with Two Single Beds

The Master Bedroom with the Queen Size Bed

The Beach House after Completion of the Bottom Floor as the 3rd Bedroom

Early Evening in the Main House-so Quiet and Calm

The front yard of the Main House

The landscaping in the front yard of the Main House

The driveway from the main house to the national road

In 2005, three years after my retirement from FDA, Macrine and I started constructing a beach house with no intention of opening it to the public. Two years later we decided building a multi-function Hall by the side of the beach house.
(Note: The main house-our retirement home was built in 1999-three years before our retirement).

However, in 2008 after numerous inquiries and urgings from friends and relatives, we decided to open both the Beach House and Function Hall to the public. I then created a website( www.chateaudumer.com) and a blogsite ( http://chateaudumer.blogspot.com).
Just this year, I posted a video on YouTube titled Chateau Du Mer-Marinduque. Since then, the hall had hosted more than 40 wedding receptions, seminars, parties, and community prayer meetings and picnics. The beach house on the other hand had less than fifteen guests, mostly from abroad ( US and Europe).

So, what are the joys of running a beach resort and conference center. First of all, Macrine and I enjoyed meeting strangers which afterwards become our friends. Second, I love hearing positive comments about the resort, such as: your garden is so beautiful, the landscaping is perfect and I feel like I am in the Garden of Eden in this place.
It was indeed a joyous moment, when one day, one of our young guests during a wedding reception informed me, that our retirement house ( which was built earlier) is her dream house and that someday, if God permits she will have a similar one constructed.

This Holy week, a van load of tourists from Manila stopped by and requested to take pictures of the beach house and conference center area. One of the tourists had seen my website and wanted to see the place in person. She commented the place is as beautiful as the pictures in the Internet. Last, but not least, the conference center is the only Hall in the whole province of Marinduque that can accommodate more than 300 attendees in doors and up to 500 attendees outdoors. This resort is also providing permanent employment for two local residents and temporary employment to four local residents, which help the economy of this 3rd class province.

So what are the pains of running Chateau Du Mer Beach Resort and Conference Center?
First, there are unique physical maintenance problems, since the compound is exposed to salty air and breezes almost all year round. Most of the fixtures even stainless steel had to be cleaned and rusted almost every year. Repainting and repairing equipments are common. Just recently, the water pump did not work. I had to replace it immediately at the costs of $400. Wood borers and mites attacked most of the wooden and bamboo structures as well as furnitures. If you know of a chemical that will kill the wood borers and mites( not termites), please let me know.

Second we have problems with the recruitment of reliable and honest personnel. Since 2008, we had already two managers. One we caught stealing. The current one is honest but super sensitive.

Lastly, the resort income is only enough to pay for the taxes. Hopefully as the economy improved more tourists will visit Marinduque and more young people will hold big wedding receptions; the resort will then earn enough to pay for both maintenance expenses and taxes and might even earn a little profit. But I am not depending my livelihood on this project. We build the place for our personal enjoyment. Our relatives called the place "Macrine's and David's Follies" in their old age.

Above are some recent pictures that I took of the main house, the conference Hall and the Beach House. Hopefully you visit one of my sites, in case this is the first time you have heard of Chateau Du Mer. Comments are appreciated.
Here's a short video of Chateau Du Mer Beach Resort and Conference Center

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Joys and Pains of Managing a Beach Resort in Marinduque

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