Classy Guest House – not so classy

Article by: https://kitsunebunny.co.za/classy-guest-house-not-so-classy/

Ever wondered how creativity can thrive in a tough economy? Starting a small business as an artist in South Africa is like painting on a torn canvas – challenging, but with the right strokes, it can still become a masterpiece. In a country grappling with high unemployment, inequality, and a volatile currency, turning art into a business isn’t just about talent. It’s about resilience.

Starting a small business as an artist in South Africa comes with several unique challenges due to the country’s economic and social landscape. Taking a leap of faith, I begin my preparation for Comic Con Africa 2024 in Nasrec, Johannesburg.

South Africa has one of the highest levels of income inequality in the world. While some people have high purchasing power, most of the population struggles financially. This limits the artist’s potential audience and can make it difficult to find steady buyers.

The fluctuating value of the South African Rand makes it tough for artists to price their work consistently, especially when dealing with international clients. A weak currency also raises the cost of imported supplies, increasing overheads for materials.

Small businesses, particularly those in the creative industries, often find it difficult to secure funding or loans. Many financial institutions see art as a risky investment, leaving artists to rely on personal savings or informal funding channels. The art scene in South Africa, particularly in major cities like Johannesburg and Cape Town, is competitive. Standing out in a crowded market requires not only exceptional talent but also strong marketing and branding efforts.

Navigating these challenges requires not just creativity but also entrepreneurial grit and adaptability. To succeed as an artist running a small business in South Africa’s challenging economic climate, resilience and strategic thinking are just as important as creative talent.

While the South African economy may pose difficulties, there is a rise of e-commerce platforms, social media, and online galleries, artists can sell their work internationally without geographical limitations. I have designed my website and set up an online store, Deviant Art and Instagram.

At Comic Con Cape Town and Comic Con Africa, I was humbled to meet passionate communities that value and support local art. Engaging with local art collectives, exhibitions, and markets. Participating in art fairs and exhibitions like Comic Con, which attract collectors and buyers interested in South African talent. Networking with fellow artists and collectors at these events can lead to collaborations and commissions and everlasting friendship and support.

Finding affordable or locally sourced alternatives can help lower costs and increase profit margins. But for Comic Con Africa I was strapped for cash. Flight tickets, accommodation, transportation and stall costs contributed to the financial strain.

Landing at O.R Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg, I was met with a fellow asking if I need an Uber. Now in Cape Town I met a gentleman that works for Uber that does private trips for us. We agreed to a private trip of R178.00 as per the Uber app. I phoned my husband once we were on our way and made sure the driver heard me saying that he can track me on Life 360.

I stepped out of the Uber, squinting at the quaint guesthouse that looked like it had fallen out of a brochure from decades past. The website had promised “charm and serenity,” with pictures of sunlit rooms and lush gardens. But here I was, staring at peeling paint, creaky doors, and brown foliage.

I checked my phone. “Are you sure this is the place?” I muttered. The driver shrugged. The gate swung open, “Welcome to The Classy Guest House!” I forced a smile and stepped inside. The smell of mildew hit me like a punch. The grand entryway from the photos was actually a dimly lit hallway, cluttered with mismatched furniture.

The Uber driver Andile demanded that I pay him R200.00 cash. Precious, the receptionist at the guest house, told me that Joburg people will do anything for money. Due to high unemployment, with over 30% unemployment, disposable income is limited for many South Africans, making it hard to own a small business, harder to sell art. Consumers are often focused on basic needs rather than luxury or non-essential items like artwork.

My room wasn’t much better – dusty, small, and far from the cozy escape I imagined. I needed a place to stay for the Comic Con Convention. So, I figured I’d only be there at night. The rooms were not soundproof as advertised. Every night, the strange sounds started. At first, it was faint – a soft tapping, like raindrops against the window. I brushed it off, pulling the thin blanket tighter around me. But the tapping grew louder, sharper, as if someone was knocking. I sat up, my heart pounding. There came the whispers. They started low, drifting through the air like a breeze under the door. The window latches were loose and rattled with the loud vibrations of music and laughter, growing louder, people staying there would bang on your door, scream, and shout and break glass bottles.

Towels and bedding were torn and old. The walls had holes, cracks, and chips in it. The media box and wifi cables were attached through a hole in the wall. The lights had no cover, and the water was limited. After a few mins of showering, they cut the water. If you get warm water, you’re lucky. The wall sockets were not covered, and if you wanted to boil water, you could only put the kettle on the floor, as you couldn’t reach the wall plug. The cups and glasses were cracked and chipped.

Managing about 20 hours of accumulative sleep over 5 nights, I worked 10-14 hours a day. With no money for food, but I brought Easy Oats for sustenance and drank water from the tap. My body ached. My mind fogged with exhaustion.

I returned to the not so Classy Guest House.

Deciding to extend my visit and Precious informed me that if I paid R1500 cash, I could stay another 3 nights. An easy hustle for an exhausted mind and the rates were cheaper than the Booking.com app that I used to book the room. An agreement and payment were made on Friday evening and Saturday evening a gentleman asked about my payment. I told him it was taken care of, and I went to my room. Sunday morning, he asked me again about the payment.

Towering over me with aggression, I handed over the crumpled money, my fingers trembled. His eyes, cold and unblinking, followed my every move. The room felt smaller with him standing there, like the walls themselves were inching closer, trapping me. I had no choice, not if I wanted a place to sleep tonight. Just earlier that week I heard the news over the radio about a woman found dead in her room at a B&B.

“Now, the key,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to send a chill down my spine. I hesitated, clutching the key in my hand. Something wasn’t right. Why would he want the key after I paid? My gut twisted with a sense of impending doom. “What for?” I asked, voice shaky. “Just procedure,” he said, his smirk widening as he reached out. “No key, no stay.” I didn’t believe him, but fatigue overthrew my fearlessness, clawed at my reason. My belongings were still in the room.

“Sam, it’s just money, it’s just clothes. It’s not worth your life.” I told myself.

Slowly, I placed the key into his waiting hand. As soon as it touched his palm, his grip tightened, and he turned, walking out without another word. Precious, the lady at reception, took my hand and led me away and sneaked me back to my room and told me that we needed to pack quickly, and she would sneak me out again.

On my way to the convention, I managed to change the flights to an earlier date to Monday. The plan was to complete Sunday. Go straight to the airport, sleep there and then go home. Once safe and surrounded by my fellow exhibitors, I fell to pieces, and I told them my story.

A week later, safely home in Cape Town, I have since learnt that the week I was in Johannesburg, 4 women have lost their lives. Found dead in their B&B rooms.

I could have easily been 1 of those women.