sofasurfers

You may – or may not – recall my acute case of CGS (couchsurfing guilt syndrome) in Mongolia where I was shown photo after photo of my host’s guests creating culinary delight after culinary delight for their host. I then spent my three days in solitary confinement on the train vowing to cook, trying to unhibernate some classic British recipe from the dusty archives of my mind. I questioned my Vladivostok host on this – so does everyone cook for you? “No! Please tell me what I am doing wrong. I have had forty guests [a lot by couchsurfing standards], and not one has cooked for me.” I knew that I couldn’t really live with myself if I ducked out of this challenge. So, faced with another challenge of a vegetarian – Stasia – in our midsts (did I say – I forget – it’s another clear characteristic of couchsurfers; I’ve had three vegetarian hosts so far), I set about not making too much of a mess of… you guessed it, Cauliflower Cheese. Of course, I burnt the white sauce, the white sauce curdled and went watery, and I only served up at like 11pm (not entirely my fault, but too dull to divulge why). Actually, I give to you the new Russian name for Cauliflower Cheese, courtesy of Natie, my host, and it’s infinitely more poetic: ‘White Trees’. Too pretty a name for something that was too ugly to photograph.

So while Ollie convalesces at home on his Popeye superfood diet of
crustacea, turbo-seeds and seaweed (I’m guessing), I have some tips
for him from my Mongolian ger. I even sampled it: egg-shell bread,
yes, that’s right, bread made with broken egg shells; the theory of
course being that the crunchy stuff in eggs makes your bones more
crunchy. “Delicious,” I declare (for it was – and not a bit scratchy),
and vowed to relay the recommendation directly to our brave soldier.
And there’s more, Ollie: soot and water, to be mixed and drunk. But
not just any old soot. It has to be soot made from ‘co-pie’. Co-pie?
“Yes,” says my host, “from the co.” Ah – the cow (for they have two
cows just outside our ger; we have been drinking their fresh, hot
milk). Ah, I realise – soot from burnt cow pats. Na Zdrowie.

Rally cars stuck and stranded on the Russia / Mongolia border.

Sheep soup before [Ollie adds: remember the tale of the slaughter video?]

Sheep soup afterwards [Ollie adds: well done Fleur... but you didn't lick the bowl!]

“The Kennel” [Ollie adds: makes you cold just looking at it]

Fleur’s rail friends [Ollie adds: I'd like to add a comment on the guys hair-doo, but I'm speechless]

Number One
As I’m tucking into my Mongie veggie stirfry, I notice that Katja, the
dreadlocked Danish girl who has been staying here before me, has
picked up her plate and is licking it clean. I glare at her with
undisguised shock. “We like to lick our plates,” assures Begzsuren, my
Mongolian host. So I see! And why, pray tell? “Well first, it shows a
good regard for the cook. Second it cleans the plate, and third it’s
good exercise for the tongue. Exercise is good for health. We exercise
the rest of our body, but not our tongue.”

Number Two
I returned from Mongolia to Ulan-Ude in Russia, reunited with my
Buryatian host, and found myself halfway through a hen party. Turns
out the Russkis have a much cleverer version of Mr & Mrs. Instead of
testing the bride how well she knows her future husband, they turn the
questioning onto the groom, and for every question he fails (for
example, identifying his bride-to-be’s lips from a selection of all
the hens’ lip imprints, or kissing a photo of his bride-to-be that has
been posted on the ceiling), he has to pay a fine and all the proceeds
go towards a big girls’ night out.

Couchsurfing Guilt Syndrome (CGS) Part II
One couchsurfing given is that before long, the host’s computer comes
out and a slide show of their life’s photographs begins. I wondered at
first if it were a couchsurfing ritual by decree, but even our virgin
hosts would sooner or later (usually sooner) pull out the laptop for
our pleasure. Then I thought it must just be a Russian thing, but it
happened in Mongolia too. For it was in Begzsuren’s Mongolian ger
(complete with all mod cons, including a keyboard, a TV and a washing
machine) that I learnt of my terrible failing as a couchsurfing guest.
“Here is the Danish couple building shelves for our ger. Here is the
French guy making sushi for us [sushi?! In Mongolia?!]. Here are the
Canadian boys making apple cake. Here…” Oh no! Thus far, I had been
singing for my supper with gifts (I had bought Kinder-esque eggs for
the kids, and posh-for-Mongolia chocolates for the parents, plus
offered to do the washing up). Oh no! My domestic shortcomings just
can’t make amends, and yet the couchsurfing host is surely all too
aware that the gift of time is of infinitely greater value than a (not
very) glorified box of Fererro Rocher. Oh no!

So I’m at the Mongolian border where I see that the 20-odd british cars - a mini, a black cab - that I spied on my way out are still waiting in no-mans-land, with their ‘London to Ulan Bator Rally’ stickers on them. And still no drivers in sight. Maybe they were impounded… I remember reading about their departure in the Evening Standard - the Mini as I recall had a red phone box on its roofrack. Maybe it is now somewhere on the Mongolian Steppes. Anyone know what happened to the drivers?

I located the right library (do you know, i’d been waiting there the day before, to be told, “Oh no! Not this one - you need…’), and was taken out to the hills by the librarian’s 9-year-old son. This turned out to be a spot of extreme public transport surfing, as like matches in a box, we were rattled to bits by the lurching bus. Frayed nerves were soon soothed by a six-hour sesh of child therapy - yes, four cherubic, twinkly-eye Mongolian children clambering upon me, playing the  recorder (me and them: London’s Burning of course), and feeding me chocolate. We all lived in one room, my bed the carpet, and I thought to myself: imagine the smokiest pleasure of a one-room family Ger ever working at home. I’m now Russia-bound.

1. Irrepressibly energetic

2. Over achievers

3. Instinctive international diplomats

So i’ve just returned from meeting the 20 year old ‘International Relationships’ student, Narka for a drink. She had to pop off to a TEFL exam. I had to have a sit-down.

“I want to go to Europe and bring the energy that I collect there back to Mongolia. Europe has clean streets and educated people I would like these things in Mongolia. Oh I am so happy to meet you!”

Despite this being her very first Couchsurfing encounter, Narka is a natural - patriotic yet open minded and of course possessed of all three LCDs. Or - given that she is the cutest ting ever - a fine Miss World candidate. Photos soon promise!

[Ollie adds with irrepressible jealous energy: blog post sent via SMS and the power of the wind from a ghengis khan unicorn]

“Three days in a semi-nomadic ger,” I boasted!

Ahem. I lasted one day.

So Plan A was to stay with a German woman who has married and bred with a Mongolian man. In the ger. But the day before, I learnt that Fraulein had gone off on her nomadic wanderings, leaving just her husband and offspring. “Fine!” I thought - how interesting. I can ask her husband about all matters Mongol. I can play with the kids. I can toast my toes on the in-ger stove. Things didn’t go quite according to plan when I realised that he neither spoke German or English. I was shown my ger, the stove was lit, and the door shut behind me. The fire went out. I went out. “Knock, knock!” (Not a joke). I walked into his house, feeling a little short-changed, feeling a little like a dog put out in his kennel, and now feeling like a stray dog begging for scraps. You see, I didn’t go couchsurfing for free accommodation, but for the couchsurfing spirit - for human warmth, for an exchange of ideas and cultures, and - certainly at this stage of my journey - for company. So then we have this amusing, silent struggle, as I sat in his kitchen in the warmth, refusing to go back to my kennel, him and his children in his living/bedroom (the sum total of rooms in his house), studiously ignoring me. I finally retired, not before nibbling on some dry bread that I’d brought with me (yes, dinner), only to be woken up at 5am by a dream that I was surrounded by howling dogs. As I woke, I realised that, yes, I was surrounded by howling dogs.

I checked out this morning, and thanks to Ollie, organised another host, who lives in a “traditional Mongolian house” (whatever that is; I never found out). “Yes” he says, “I’d be happy to host you. Meet me at the Public Library where I work.” Ah - instructions sound so simple until you actually try to follow them. So I asked many people where the Public Library is. “There are many public libraries! Which one?” Oh. A meta-analysis of results take me to Ulan Bator’s central library (the winner of my survey, with four votes). I wait at the prescribed time. I wait beyond the prescribed time. I look quizzically at newcomers to the scene, waiting for some kind of recognition in their eyes (I am, after all, the only white girl in town). But no. No show. Onto Plan C - the guidebook. Yes, for tonight, I confess, I shall be paying for my accommodation. But actually, it almost feels like a homestay. My host, Bolod, a deeply gracious and kind man, has made me tea, offered to do my washing (finally! the first this trip!), and sleeps in the room next door. I seem to be sharing my room with an English girl called Rose (Rose and Fleur - sweet!) and an American but they also seem to be out at present. Meanwhile, I have arranged to meet with a local Mongolian couchsurfer tomorrow, who would have put me up had her sister not given birth four days ago. So to cut a non-story short, the curiosities continue, on- and off-piste.

Footnote. I have just met ‘Rose’. Actually, it’s Roland. Ha ha ha.