In 2015, my husband and I purchased a quirky, dual-occupancy house on a mountainside with the most exquisite ocean view.

Enchanted with our newly renovated home, we envisaged many years of hosting family and friends.

The idea of hosting complete strangers in our intimate space never crossed our minds, until a member of my book club suggested that we utilise this perfect set-up for running an Airbnb.

“It’s like picking up money off the beach,” she said. Block certain dates for family, and open up the rest for profit. Sounds easy, doesn’t it?

So eight years ago, “Fawlty Towers With A Touch Of Class” went live. We decided on this eye-catching name after our niece nicknamed us Basil and Sybil. Say no more!

Weeks went by without so much as a query. We desperately needed a review.

Eventually, my sister booked a few nights (I did refund her), and after a fabulous review (which I helped her write), the bookings began trickling in.
The guest apartment was so clean, you could have eaten off the floor. I kept checking and re-checking that all was in order.

Eventually, the doorbell rang. With a final glance in the mirror to assure myself that I resembled a seasoned, responsible hostess, I ran up the garden steps to welcome our first guest, who bore no resemblance to his profile picture of a dune buggy.

An elderly man with long hair and a hippie headband greeted me warmly. I couldn’t help noticing that he had difficulty walking. How was he going to manage all the stairs? Hadn’t he read the small print? 
Guest A continued to puzzle us. He would go out every evening and return at sunrise. He stayed in all day and turned down the offer of clean linen and a service.

Was he out gambling, drugging, womanising, here in the Deep South of Cape Town? Surely not! This went on for 10 days. I vowed, then and there, to shut down this crazy, stupid, venture.

After his departure, we gingerly entered the apartment, expecting the worst. But it had been left in mint condition, together with a generous tip for our cleaning lady.

“Okay,” I thought, “I can do this after all.” Thereafter, we had a few unmemorable bookings, until three charming bachelors from Johannesburg arrived for the weekend.

After a rowdy three-night stay of wine, women and song, I asked them why they had chosen our quiet little village. They said they were attracted by the view!

The mop-up operation on their departure was a depressing affair, involving a home visit by a company called Extreme Clean, and two trips to the recycling depot. 
Fawlty Towers indeed, but thus far not much sign of class.

Sense of humour failure set in, and we changed the name to Heaven Sent, opting for safe and boring. My fragile nervous system was not designed for this kind of stress.

I promptly raised the rental and re-scripted the house rules. Water restrictions and load shedding tested us to the limit.

On one occasion, we returned home after dark to a hysterical guest from Singapore. She and her family needed to check out urgently.

Unbeknownst to us, there had been a burst water pipe in our area that evening, and the toilets weren’t flushing.

Despite the 5-litre bottles of water stored in our garage for emergencies such as these, they were inconsolable.

The idea of lifting a cistern lid and manually refilling it was too abhorrent for words. Apparently, nothing like this ever happens in Singapore. Lucky them! 
Over the years, despite mutating into experienced super-hosts, it never became as easy as picking up money off the beach, but the rewards were palpable.

We were privileged to host people from all over the globe, curious guests with a fascination for our stories, our accents, our history, and the friendliness of our people.

We had a returning Canadian guest who has become so involved with our local community that she helps teach art and pottery in the township on Saturday mornings. 

Then there’s Greta, who loves baking and spoils us with homemade German delicacies, and the little children who pick flowers from the garden, or gift us with drawings of a whale, a shell from the beach, or a gem from the scratch-patch.

So many of our guests, months after they depart, continue to update us with images of their subsequent marriage, a newborn baby that was conceived in our home, or other events they know will warm our hearts. 
It’s been quite a ride, and “reading” guests isn’t easy. Some prefer privacy, others delight in feeling at home. Americans confuse me. On check-in, they are super friendly and demonstrative.

A warm hug from someone known only to you via the website and a profile picture, is always a good sign. And yet, from the moment they depart, it’s out of sight, out of mind.

A public review on the platform, something all hosts work hard to achieve, will seldom appear.

Every negative challenge made us want to give up, yet every positive review offered an affirmation that was difficult to walk away from.
Our venture into the hospitality industry has now come to an end. We’ll soon be moving to a retirement village, with new insights into human nature.

We are more forgiving, more resilient, and kinder than we give ourselves credit for. We have learnt much about our own country from foreign visitors. What a win!