Isn't odd the whole business of staying in someone else's house for money? In Labrador, I once stayed with a completely disfunctional family, who prowled around all night, and fought over the food. In mid-Wales I stayed with a farmer whose house hadn't been re-decorated for almost 100 years. In Norway, I had to share my breakfast with 11 pet hedgehogs, and, in Bath, my room came with about 50kg of teddy bears. But it's a good way to learn what's going on locally. Before coming to Guyana I’d spent weeks trying to find a family who’d have me to stay.
This was obviously a novel concept in Georgetown (see photo). Why would a bucra (or white man) want to stay in a Towny home instead of a big hotel? What will he eat? Will he need a pool? Undaunted, I sent out more emails, and they began to percolate into the Diaspora, spreading out from Canada to Israel. At last, I found someone, a local MP. Although she was meant to charge rent, she never did, and - instead - she threw a little party to celebrate my safe arrival. It was once of the happiest homestays I've ever had.
