HOST SPILLS THE BEANS
What’s to love about renting a cabin to exhausted city slickers, tourists and bush-bashing biologists? For a start, it beats wrangling goats to milk
A irbnb may be rapidly becoming a vexed phenomenon, but for many hosts like my wife and I it represents a welcome modest windfall. It’s no rivers of gold, as I still have to travel to Hobart from the Huon Valley to work several days a week, but it is an opportunity to augment our income. That’s not to say Airbnb’s negative impact on the availability of rental vacancies, including in Hobart, shouldn’t be acknowledged. Many cities across the globe have already capped the maximum number of nights entire houses and apartments can be let without the owner or tenant being present. Amsterdam recently introduced a 30-night cap, down from the previous 60. In Barcelona last year Airbnb was fined $960,000 for advertising unlicensed flats on its website. And in Vancouver homeowners are no longer permitted to list houses that are unoccupied. They can only rent out a room in their principle residence. In New York, which is taking a different approach, whole properties now have a 30-day rental minimum.
It is beautiful, but life in rural Tasmania has its economic disadvantages. Semi-decent work opportunities are limited. Wrestling with alpacas and the fine art of milking goats or sheep isn’t a realistic option for many people. Hospitality work with its de- risory award rates can be a gruelling affair. And, so far, touch wood, our small-scale experience of being Airbnb hosts has only been positive. Mind you, it’s not money for jam as many people seem to believe. The Australian Taxation Office duly collects its Airbnb taxes.
Though my wife and I have reinvented ourselves as some sort of modern-day chambermaids – without the frilly aprons – it’s brilliant to be able to work from home for at least part of the week. And we’re finding it’s generating a more reliable stream of income than does supplying modest amounts of seasonal produce from our garden to one of our nearby cafes. We’re
fortunate the previous owners had the foresight to build this stand-alone cabin with its stunning view over the Huon River. We’re about an hour from Hobart Airport and on a manageable circuit for tourists and weekenders over from the mainland.
Just this morning our Airbnb guests Kevin and Tom loaded up their all-wheel-drive and went on their way. As the sound of their vehicle faded away, our dog gave up her low-level growling and was quiet again. Later this afternoon, or perhaps it’s tomorrow, another hire car will arrive and occupy the parking spot next to the water tank.
Last week a young couple from Brisbane stayed for two nights. They were taking a mini-break without their toddler. They said they could see themselves living in rural Tasmania, but they weren’t confident they’d manage without the support of their extended families. They seemed at a crossroads in their lives, but beyond listening, giving them a few eggs and some fresh produce from our garden, I don’t think my wife and I had much to offer.
Just after Christmas a Japanese couple stayed for almost a week, but we barely saw them. They were gone from dawn to dusk in their tiny hire car, presumably travelling the length and breadth of the island in their quest to take in every noteworthy place of interest.
Among our more unusual guests were a couple of PhD students from Ithaca, New York. They’d travelled all the way here to spend their nights in the bush, studying our owlet-nightjars. After dusk they set out with their cameras and equipment to net these nocturnal creatures and to catalogue their specifications before releasing them back into their habitat. And then they were off, bequeathing to us the long bamboo poles they’d used to trap the nightjars. We are using them to stake our tomatoes.
I wonder if Kevin and Tom remember their week in our cabin. Or were we just another place on their itinerary? I can’t help being curious. I put it down to my rural upbringing where everyone watched everyone. When you share your space with strangers, it’s difficult not to make mental notes. I always envy the early self-funded retirees. But the couples with toddlers, at this stage in my middle-age? Perhaps not so much.
Kevin, who is edging towards the end of a long career as a maths teacher, looked exhausted when he arrived. All he wanted to do was to take in the view, try some local cider and make a start on the Hilary Mantel tome he’d received for Christmas. Tom is a systems analyst, but he says he’d prefer to work with animals. But now, after a week here, they are off to catch an early morning flight to resume their busy schedules back in Sydney.
I know this sounds silly, but by the end of their stay, as with many of our Airbnb guests, we’d almost become friends. It was more than casual conversation about the weather or Tasmania’s traffic. A tinge of regret always surfaces when the ones we like leave. Silly, I know, because they are strangers who’ve paid for their stay. It’s essentially a business transaction. It’s unlikely we’ll see Kevin and Tom again. And yet, I can’t help keeping my fingers crossed for them when they get back to Sydney.
Like so many of our guests they have a longstanding affection for Tasmania. They are frequent visitors. But perhaps theirs is a rose-tinted perspective. So many tourists skirt along the surface of the places they visit. This island’s sizeable struggling class is not on many visitors’ radars. In this respect, of course, Tasmania is not unique. But with the wow factor of Mona and all our natural attractions, the list of things to see and do is a long one, and often, a week isn’t enough time. Of course, there’s also our broody beautiful landscape that somehow manages to endure. Our guests’ enthusiasm always serves as a wake up for us not to take this place where we live for granted.
After breakfast my wife and I head out across our deck to the cabin. It’s in reasonable shape; dishes are done and put away. No half-eaten cheese or leftover smallgoods lie forgotten in the fridge. There are no spillages or breakages. In short, we can have no cause for complaint. In lieu of a face-to-face goodbye, Kevin and Tom have taken the trouble to leave us a thank-you note.
We set to readying the room in preparation for our next guests. Cleanliness is the litmus test of the Airbnb world. You are only as good as your last review. The feedback mechanism on the Airbnb website allows no wriggle room for subterfuge. Needless to say, a bad review is not good for business. And my wife is keen to maintain her Superhost status, so we knuckle down to the task at hand.
To be frank, cleaning I can take or leave. I began my working life as a cleaner at a hospital in Melbourne, back in the 1980s, and I’d thought I’d consigned that experience to my past. There can be no shortcuts in the Airbnb world. Bed linen and towels have to be loaded into the washing machine and hung out to dry. There’s the dusting and vacuuming, rubbish to be disposed of, food scraps to be taken down to the compost bin, and, finally, the floor to mop.
Sometimes our guests are careless and forgetful. But rarely is anything ever broken. They can get carried away. It’s not so bad. Occasionally we will unearth overlooked underwear among the sheets. And our collection of forgotten mobile phone chargers could almost cover our coffee table. But this is all just part of the Airbnb experience. After all, our guests are generally here for a good time. And sometimes, if the quantity of empty bottles of alcohol is any indication, some folk certainly like to kick back.
Tasmania’s winter is no deterrent. Canberrans express barely concealed nonchalance about our cool nights. Queenslanders and the guests from West Australia and the Northern Territory are less sanguine. Melburnians? Well, they simply regard Tasmania as a more sparsely populated extension of their backyard – a sort of poor country cousin.
We’ve grown used to hearing the mainlander trifecta refrain: unbearably long hot summers, intolerable gridlock on city streets and skyrocketing real estate prices. As good Airbnb hosts, we’re happy to listen to our guests’ misgivings, plans and intentions. After all, moving to Tasmania is a big decision and we have no crystal balls at our disposal.
The hire cars will continue to come and go, crunching along on our gravel driveway. But for now, it’s time for morning tea. The freshly laundered sheets, pillow cases, doona cover and towels are flapping in the morning breeze on the clothes line, and the floor is mopped. The cabin is all set.