sofasurfers

[This is Ollie here. Hi! Everyone]

Well, it’s been just over a month since Fleur set-off with me (can you believe it? just over a month… 8,000-odd kilometres and a few not so odd kilometres… public speaking, panda testicles, our man with a gun, sleeping with a rat (no pun intended!)… lots of new friends, 3 or 4 new languages and now a new travel buddy - all of this and she’s only just half way through).

And I can’t believe I’m having to read it all from home!!!

Especially since I’ve just uploaded all the pics from our first moments in moscow. I could have shed a tear, but instead Fleur’s blog keeps my eyes much happier than that

And so without further adoo, click here to see the pics from when it all begun:

Moments from Moscow: Click thumbnails to load the photo story.

Go Fleur! I miss you! We miss you! Couchsurfing loves you! Kazakhstan needs you! 

[Cheerio all, from Ollie]

As with any community, couchsurfing is rife with gossip; outrageous
behaviour travels fast and far online. And so, on my last day in
Xi’an, Beth takes me to her English school [quick tangent: in the
staffroom, a very shy Chinese student with a clipboard interviews us
about music: "Do you like music? Why do you like music? What don't you
like? Why not?" but she's so shy, she doesn't write down any of the
answers; she just blushes and flees – it's the sweetest thing] where
she looks up online a Californian couchsurfer in China who has been
causing something of a stir with his sexual preferences. Actually, so
keen is Beth to pass on the goss she phones both Gareth and another
Xi’an couchsurfer; we probably spend an entire hour searching for his
online profile. Anyway, search over, it seems he invites his lone
female guests to swing with him. Couchsurfing works because it
operates an Ebay-style reference system – and the act of
propositioning unwilling women makes for compelling reading with some
juicily negative references: “This man boasted about how “large” he
was, and how well he could “satisfy” a woman and then invited me to a
swinging club. His conversation is totally inappropriate for
couchsurfing.” And another more (typically) cagey reference: “I
strongly advise that before accepting this man’s hospitality, you meet
him for a coffee beforehand to check that you both want the same
thing.” So: surprise, surprise – people really do use coushsurfing for
casual sex. What’s more surprising is that this man is a couchsurfing
ambassador (for which you need just 10 positive references and to have
been vouched for by another ambassador), which goes to show that
ambassadorial glory is somewhat meaningless. And – what do you know –
there’s a swinging scene in China

I now have a Chinese mobile: +86 150 1144 2562. I am dearly hoping to be reunited with my UK number and replacement BlackBerry (THANK YOU CHLOE AND ABID) imminently – I should have it by the time I leave Beijing (the night of the 9th November), when I set off for Xian, land of the terracotta army, and then Urumqi, land of the Uigher people, and then – fingers crossed, Buddha willing – Kazakhstan by 19th November.

This fine pair of Binatone MR 200 superhero devices mysteriously landed on my doormat this morning. Brand new. Addressed to me. Bizarre. It is a small miracle because I’ve spent the last two days on the phone to mobile phone companies trying to find cheap international call rates. A physical impossibility!

But seriously! Where did these come from? Anyone? Aaaanyone?

POST SCRIPT

It turns out that these two delights were sent by those other two delights, Joe et Julie. It’s the kindest thing in the world - and unimaginably useful when travelling with a man with a  broken leg (”Come along, hop-along Ollie!”). Thank you thank you thank you!

I’m going to get a Moscow haircut, with a hairspray finish and everything. It’s a small, dangerous fetish of mine with dubious consequences (just read the comments on this piece I did for Sunday Times: “Is the person pictured male or female or what? Impossible to tell, but I wouldn’t want to meet him/her/whatever!”). I am going to invite Ollie along.

I’m taking sponsors… (FB )

I received a most distressing telephone call from Ollie last night. “I’ve finished packing [distress part I] and my rucksack is small enough to take on as hand luggage [distress part II].” My hand luggage is barely small enough to count as hand luggage. And I haven’t finished packing yet.

How on earth? “Well, I’ve only taken what I really need.”

So have I! I’ve exorcised London and its trappings from my system. I’ve taken leave of my looks. I will be a walking smart-wool animal. With a change of underwear. I will be a walking smart-wool animal. I will be a walking smart-wool animal (I’m trying to get used to the idea, see?). I’ll need all that stuff!

“It’s just that you’ll regret it when we have to walk for four or five hours with it on your back.”

No, no, no - we will NOT be walking for four or five hours. NOT, got it?!

And besides, seeing as you’re empty-handed, and someone invented the word chivalry, we’ll be just fine.

Ha ha ha (FB - obviously)

You might be wondering by now, why the monologue, Fleur? Go on, let Ollie have a go! Well, the fact is some of us have jobs to do. Ollie has been enslaved by the system all day and has had far more important matters to attend to. As for me, I’ve been at home today, “prepping” (which - obviously - means forming a rather sudden and acute habit to blogging). Don’t worry though. I’m sure it won’t last. And - hey - it’s 6.30, beer o’clock. Ollie will be in the pub by now. In the meantime, here’s a little bit of Ollie for you. (FB)

Ollie has been sensibly acclimatising to bad weather

Since thus far, our couchsurfing experiences have been limited to the virtual world (as we simply message and receive messages from prospective hosts), it seems appropriate enough to find oneself treating the whole endeavour rather like a computer game. And so, since we graduated from the entry level (big city - ie, Moscow, plenty of safety shots to take aim at, choice enough for spare rooms and even the wonder of horses’ hooves past bedrooms; see below), we have found ourselves, like naive kittens, seeking just a little bit more danger…

COUCHSURFING LEVEL II

So, for our first stop out of Moscow, Ekaterinburg (some 24 juddering hours away via the Trans-Siberian Express), we arrive at 2 in the morning, where in fact our brave and trusting host will still be on her holiday - she has left us in the undoubtedly curious company of her pet rat.

COUCHSURFING LEVEL III

Next stop, we’ll be staying with a man with a gun in Novosibirsk - really. Look at his profile picture and you’ll be looking down the barrel of an AK-47 (”Get scared of my userpic? Get the fuck out from my profile!” he says). Actually, we won’t let you look at his picture because violating his rights might mean turning the (metaphorical or literal) gun on ourselves. And double actually, he has 23 couchsurfing friends and we have none. So a) who are we to talk? b) he has back-up. And c) he does actually sound like an eminently likeable character.

BLACKBELT COUCHSURFING

And then, there’s the German nurse in Mongolia’s capital, Ulaan Baatar, who sounds so extraordinary/ extreme/ <insert-word-for-totally-terrifying-that-begins-with-’ex’>, that we suspended our “we just wanna stay with natives” rule for the experience. Here’s what one recent guest says: “At Sabina’s i had the craziest CS [couchsurfing] adventures, she is unique, in both really good and really bad ways, but once you understand mongolia you understand sabina, or viceversa. So, in the end, thankyou sabina!” Anyway, she’s up for hosting us in her Mongolian ger (like so:

though this isn’t her ger, but a friendly flickr photo). And we are up for the ride.

And this is David Shrigley’s curious cat…

David Shrigley

“I’m Dead”, 2007, Courtesy of the artist and Stephen Friedman Gallery

(FB)

I like to grumble about my insomnia. You see, if I do it enough to enough people, maybe someone one day might just volunteer the ultimate cure. Chez moi, I insist on a controlled environment at sleepy time - blackout blinds + eyeblinds + an interminable supply of sleeping pills at hand. Plus I do what I can to avoid sleeping around. I mean sleeping over at friends, of course..

So perhaps it seems a little ill-advised to set off on what is essentially an extreme camping trip for 80 days, never in the same place, never able to achieve that controlled environment, never able to promise my sleep spirit its much-needed calm and silence. What’s more, our only respite from sleeping on floors/in one-room flats/not sleeping at all because we’re busy being polite and drinking vodka all night with our hosts… will be the judder of long-haul trains. It’s just as well that I like to power the world of sleeponomics.

And so I have been shopping/borrowing/begging.

8 x 20 Boots’ own Sleepeaze sleeping pills. Bought in pairs from four different pharmacies to avoid rousing suspicion.

A “snowman” all-in-one fleecey sleepsuit (it’s not meant to be a sleep suit - really, it’s for ballerinas to warm up in)

male ballet dancer not included, huh huh

Two inflatable pillows

One pillow case

Three earplugs. Please don’t question the logic of an odd number for an even-numbered cause. There is none. Unless preparing for panic can be called logical. Of course it can

One shortwave transistor for listening to The World Service - miraculously soporific

Plus my trusty eyeblinds. Actually, perhaps I should double up, to compensate for the inevitable lack of black-out curtains

Or perhaps I should just read this list. Marvellously yawn-inducing.

(FB)

So Moscow - our first stop, the land of our imminent couchsurfing deflowering… Where on earth to start?

We go a-couchsearching online (ok, we’re late on this blog thing - this actually all happened about a week ago). There are just 20 “definitely” and “yes, have couch” hosts to choose from in Moscow from a total of 301 registered there (the difference between definitely” and “yes, have couch”? Enthusiasm, apparently). Oh. Oh well. Still enough to have quite a good nosey through the virtual net curtain. Profiles are organised similarly to the social-networking template of Facebook or Myspace (ho ho, travel pics, messages from friends, references - enough for untold lost hours in a couchsurf drift). Oooh - “Masha” looks nice. Oh. She has a young baby. Well, what about “Vladimir” and his wife? Hmm. There’d be four of us in his one-room flat. Well, “Martin from Wigan” has a spare room and no dependents. Hit, surely! But then, he’s not exactly very Russian. The perfect fit is a task of tesselation - actually, it’s starting to feel like we’re setting up our own arranged marriages in Moscow. Finally we hit on some likely candidates. No babies, the possibility of a spare room, natives, and crucially, all in the top tier for verification (meaning they’ve proved they’re who they say they are) and with lots of good references.

Hold it, hustlers (that’s us)! The couchsurfing collective is not without their own parameters. “Don’t expect a response if you have cut and pasted your request,” says one. “No couch to those with empty profiles just saying you are “cool, open-minded and easy-going”. [Note to self: delete! Delete!] And get this: “If you’re one of those free accommodation hunters who just read about CS in a newspaper or a yahootravel blog or something like that, DON’T bother applying. You may try to seem what you’re not, but, believe me, it won’t do good to anyone.” Yikes. I wonder - what are we, really? Feeling fully fraudulent, we set about writing a glowing, personalised request. Nothing. We send another. Nada. Send another. Zip. I haven’t felt like this since applying for my first job. Now what?

Some days later, our couchsurfing inbox finally gets a visitation. It’s a match! Now I haven’t done any online dating (honest), but the way my little heart surges when I read the message must be comparable (think joyful rush, followed by a rapid fire of thoughts, adrenaline, questions). What do they look like? Let’s have a squizz at their photo. Better still, all their photos. What will our first “date” be like? Will they match our impressions? Bet they look completely different. Wonder if they’ve Photoshopped themselves…. And just like online dating (apparently), communiques are purposefully cute, flattering, flirty. Both host and guest are suspended in a happy communion of sweet, innocent friend-making. It’s incredibly nourishing of soul.

And so. Tomorrow. We will find Tanya. She will meet us at her local metro station. We have swapped numbers. We have scrutinised her photo. But this will be a blind date - her profile picture is of an empty lakescape - namely, Lake Baikal.

We have bought her a book from London. We are looking forward to hearing horses walking across her building’s courtyard (”If you are a sound-of-hooves-fan, this is definitely the place,” she writes invitingly).

We are fully charmed. So far. (FB)

We are Fleur and Ollie

What to do when faced with the threat of global depression, mass redundancy and general falling in of the skies above? Perhaps make like the Garbage Warrior and build an off-grid “earthship” out of old water bottles? Or maybe buy a hen and a rooster and get building that ark? Or - like we are about to do - go couchsurfing around the world. Ok, that’s an exaggeration - we’re off to couchsurf a continent. But what do we mean? Slobbing out on the deluxe pleather sofas of Kazakhstan, flicking through unintentionally comic local soaps? Quite possibly. But only as a byproduct of Mission Couchsurf.

In virtually every country on this earth, kindly folk are offering their couch/spare room/garden/body-sized pockets to travellers who subscribe to the burgeoning number of travel-networking websites, or “hospitality exchanges”. It’s a match-making site for the as-yet unpaired ‘have couch’/'want couch’ halves of the world. You can couchsurf in Antarctica. In Micronesia. And - happily for us - Russia, Mongolia, China and Kazakhstan. Is it quid pro quo, everyone asks? No! It works on the premise of Pay It Forward - those karma gods are watching… Couchsurfing is free, friendly, and, yes - thrillingly - entails staying with total strangers met online. Ollie and Fleur are go… (FB)

And where are they going? Well…click on this map to see: