A narrow escape from lockdown in a prison of politeness

There they sat, on my couch, as irrepressibly happy and nauseatingly in love as any couple who still believe that "married" and "bliss" are words that sound as good together as "Debbie" and "Carlo".

In the week we'll always remember as "pre-lockdown", the Swiss lovebirds arrived in Joburg and moved into our house. It was six days into their planned month-long trip along the Garden Route, and three days after their engagement.

Somewhere along the way from Cape Town to Plett, they'd hit an epic roadblock: Covid-19. The world was being put in timeout and Debbie and Carlo - a business contact of my partner, James - were coming to stay while they tried to move their April 17 flight home forward.

We were happy to have them in the sense of the old proverb that says house guests always give pleasure - if not in their arrival, then certainly in their departure. It would likely only be a few days anyway, and then they'd be on a flight back to Switzerland, sad to have had to cut their South African stay short, but happy to be home for a lockdown of their own - in their case, with open bottle stores and cosy nights by the fire with snow falling gently outside.

Being strangers, we had a lot to talk about that first night. Carlo had flown solo around the world; Debbie was an accomplished lawyer. James builds planes, and Carlo had come to SA as part of a team working on the first electric light sport aircraft. He'd decided to throw in some romance, bring Debbie along, and pop the question while they were here.

Oh, and then there was Alex, the third wheel on this caravan of love. A member of the electric Sling team, he'd been left behind to work on the project while the other two had roamed the beautiful coastal towns of the Eastern Cape.

They were paragons of politeness. Complimenting me on everything from my taste in art to my gorgeous children and the three-course meal I'd made to honour their arrival. They raved about South African wine (they raved about everything) and laughed at all of James's jokes, showing great interest and enthusiasm when he read aloud chapters from a book on South African political history over dinner.

With them, small talk was easy. We swapped recipes for chocolate mousse and cheese fondue (theirs) and braai marinade and potato bake (ours). Their company was a happy distraction, though they flouted the no-touching rule and gave my children huge hugs whenever they came into the room. "Ha-ha, elbow-knocking, what a funny South African peculiarity," giggled Debbie.

After dinner, we sat in the lounge and watched President Cyril Ramaphosa announce the imminent lockdown. They managed to change their Swissair ticket home - no cost, no fuss. They insisted on helping me clean up, put everything in the wrong cupboards, and then we all went to bed. I'd sort it out in the morning.

"Babe," James's voice on the phone the following day barely concealed his panic. "They can't get out. Cyril has shut down the airports. The Swiss are locking down with us for the next three weeks."

My dreams of binge-watching Netflix evaporated before me. A prison of politeness furnished with idle conversation flashed in front of my eyes. We'd have to dress for dinner, make our beds (and theirs), appear for communal breakfasts, share our food and toilet paper and single TV set, and watch their relationship deteriorate in real time as she began to realise that a lifetime of his high-pitched laugh and childlike enthusiasm for EVERYTHING would end in orange overalls for her.

James's lateral frontal pole went into overdrive. "Who can I call to make sure they get on the last flight? Where's the closest hotel? Are the pharmacies still open? Get tranquillisers to put in Carlo's drink! Can I fly them back to Switzerland myself?"

At the 11th hour, they did make it onto the final departing flight. They gave my kids a bear hug goodbye, and were gone. We settled down to the serious business of getting on each other's nerves without any help from guests forced to overstay their welcome. And through it all, despite our private thoughts and conversations, we'd learnt an important lesson about hospitality: that the most important thing is making your guests feel at home, even if you wish they were.

Do you have a funny story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photo of yourself.