Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [35]
Piling misery on misery, a gloomy tourist bus provides the only transportation from the airport to our destination, the capital city of Nouméa, and it’s on full stall, sitting sans driver for more than an hour waiting for all the passengers on our flight to claim their massive loads of luggage and then collect their wits enough to climb onboard. The drive to town takes another hour, and after that the bus stops at every other local hotel before reaching the Nouvata Park, where our worst fears about the place are immediately confirmed. Dozens of people are trying to check in at once, and the reception staff dawdles along like mules on a mountain climb.
After Bill gets to the front of the line, he says snappishly, “Our original reservation assured us a room with an ocean-view balcony,” the major consideration for us at any tropical seaside hotel. “Are we getting the same kind of room here?”
That’s going too fast for her; she needs five minutes just to find the paperwork, sitting in several unorganized stacks behind the long desk that keeps customers at bay. Finally she answers, “Oui,” but we remain skeptical, taking the elevator up with jaded expectations of foreboding.
When Bill opens the door, we gasp in disbelief. The balcony alone could hold a small island and it affords a splendid view over the hotel pool to the beach, sea, and sunset. From here, balmy tropical temperatures and gentle sea breezes assure us succor from our colds. The enormous bed faces the same scene through sliding glass doors, and the curtained windows behind the bed provide an identical vista from a circular Jacuzzi tub and shower. The huge room borders on Vegas flash, but of all the places we stay on our entire trip—including some much nicer quarters—none is better suited for rest and recuperation. Over the next few days, we learn that most of the Nouvata Park rooms fall well below this level of comfort, as do all the accommodations at the closed Novotel. Our good fortune results from making a reservation specifically calling for an ocean-view balcony, available at the Nouvata Park only in the most expensive doubles and suites, normally priced considerably higher than we’re paying on our Novotel rate. The hotel is bigger and busier than we prefer, and not within walking distance of as many restaurants as the Novotel, but hey, we’re slower than we prefer and temporarily more concerned about our congested chests than our taste buds.
Cheryl collapses right away onto the bed, unable to manage much of anything except to confirm that her temperature remains 102 degrees. She says, “I think we should have the hotel call the doctor on duty,” something neither of us has ever done in decades of travel. “I must have a bronchial infection.”
“What are the chances of good health care,” Bill asks, “out here at the end of the earth, marooned on a speck of land in an immense ocean? We could try the antibiotics we’ve brought for other purposes.”
“No, as a French territory, New Caledonia must have decent medical resources.”
“You’re probably right.”
Bill sucks in a lungful of willpower and returns to the crowded reception desk to try to convey an urgent need for a doctor. Although it’s late on a Saturday afternoon, within a couple of hours the promised physician appears at our door carting a bulging black bag. “Hello,” he greets Bill in cheerful English. “Am I at the right room?”
“Yes, come in,” Bill says, leading him over to the primary patient. As the doctor listens to Cheryl’s raspy breathing with a stethoscope and takes her temperature, Bill asks, “How did you get to New