sofasurfers

“I think I’m going to kidnap you,” I said to Lindsay, on our first night in Almaty. I’d realised that while guest-host relations couldn’t have been worse, being able to be able to laugh/discuss/dissect with my ally – and not to have to rely wholly on the social interaction or otherwise of my host – was infinitely better than being on my own. I recalled my couple crisis in Beijing, where, compared to the catastrophe in Kazakhstan, nothing actually happened; it was just a series of nuances that – because I was alone – I was hypersensitive to. Here, we were sharing the pain, so it just wasn’t half as bad. That said, we were never quite sure whether the root cause of the problem was in fact because we were two. But actually, so what? If I were to recruit a new travelling companion out here, I don’t think I could have found a better candidate. She even draws caricatures while I write – I don’t have to sully their true identity if I want to post a picture of them.

So, instead of Lindsay waiting in Almaty for her friend to arrive from China with her new passport, visas, money, etc, she’s taking to the road with me, maybe just until the next stop, Shymkent..

“But why you want go Shymkent?” Support Act had asked. “It’s just a road.” Well… firstly, a devout couchsurfer doesn’t really have the pick of Kazakhstan. Actually, I’d wanted to go to Turkestan, some 180km (don’t check, probably wrong on that one) from Shymkent – it “contains Kazakhstan’s most impressive monument,” according to the guide book: the Timurid Mausoleum of Khodja Ahmed Yassaui (oh yes! Juicy cliffhanger there: coming soon! Juicy photos!) - but there’s not a single couch there, so I’ll just have to take a day trip from Shymkent. Secondly, (as I see it) couchsurfing tourism isn’t like conventional tourism – it is much more experimental, more open-minded. So if Shymkent is just a road, then I would like to see what that means: how do the locals cope? Maybe that’s why they’re couchsurfing hosts – to ensure a steady flow of fresh blood. Actually, our Shymkent host is a young American Peace Corps volunteer – it seems that half of Kazakhstan’s couchsurfers are thus, and probably for the same reason as those whose town is just a road. But we’ll see about that one.
Anyway, so Lindsay said she’d come voluntarily – a case of the Stockholm Syndrome perhaps.

I’d been so looking forward to Kazakhstan – after China and all its control and efficiency, I was anticipating a more heady sense of romance and passion here…

And so to the Russian couple, my – or rather our – hosts in Almaty, having joining forces with Lindsay, my SF NBF. We’d met the guy-half in town, where I’d felt that familiar sense of excitement and promise that comes from breaking the ice with total strangers you’re about to spend a few days with. He drove us around Almaty while he ran his errands, and in between, we listened to Russian rock, talked about Kazakh football (“Of course I support Russia – Kazakhstan don’t win”) and were educated in the wily ways of police bribery (“Oh! You got good deal!” he tells us – another story…). Finally, after much lurching, swerving and emergency braking, we arrived at his – another grimy Soviet apartment block, of course. The girl-half met us at the door – clutching a large, stripey cuddly cat and sporting these little pigs: ok, so a 24-going-on-4 situation.

She slinks back off to the bedroom while we repair to the kitchen with Guy-Half for his homemade borscht and tea – we eat off a glass-topped table filled with foreign banknotes. Did all your couchsurfers give you these? “Actually, yes,” says Guy-Half. Ah! I say, I have the perfect thing. Filled with gratitude for our hosts, not least for putting up one extra stray, the SF-er, and with warm fuzzies for good couch promise, I produced my mint North Korean note that my hosts in Xi’an had given to me (who founded the Young Pioneer Tour company to North Korea). While it was essentially worthless, its Ebay value would be pretty exciting, but I guess I wasn’t attached to it yet, I hadn’t been expecting it and it felt like an appropriate gesture…

But then the fun started.

Girl-Half summons Guy-Half from the kitchen. We talk amongst ourselves until the distinct sound of sobbing becomes impossible to ignore. Eventually he returns, and so begins a perpetual cycle of him to-ing and fro-ing, as if playing a game of tennis for one, as he is caught in the middle of guest and girlfriend duties. We shift uncomfortably in our seats, but it doesn’t matter because it’s as if we aren’t there. It also becomes apparent that it’s going to be one real cosy sleepover, as we deduce that we’ll be sleeping in their own bedroom – plus all our stuff has been put there (yeah, so forget about getting anything from your bags – the bedroom is totally no-go until further notice). After several rallies, we meekly ask for an introduction to the elephant in the room. Umm, is everything ok? “Oh, yes, of course, it’s just the autumn… moods?” Autumn blues? “Yes – it’s nothing, really.” We remain unconvinced. Girl-Half takes a bath, throughout which Guy-Half continues his tennis rally, jumping up on demand literally every five minutes to attend to her whim. After a time Guy-Half’s support act enters the fray. Support Act is the goofy court jester, a Goa-loving, authority-hating neo-hippy. We can only presume that his role in this kitchen sink drama is to babysit for us – I mean, why else invite the gang into a domestic? But frankly, he could have been Mr Blobby and I still would have been happy to see him. With him, we could almost pretend that all this was just a figment of our paranoia. Until… RRAAAAH! She serves an ace: screaming, yelling, sobbing, screaming, yelling, sobbing…for a good (or actually very bad) 20 minutes.

I take it back! You can keep your romance and passion! I just want peace. I just want to be able to relax. Anyway, Support Act is sent off to get food for her, and returns with dumplings and bijou cakes

and finally Girl-Half slinks into the kitchen, in a pink-and-white polka dot fluffy dressing gown, and sits on Support Act’s lap, giggling coquettishly with her head cocked and her finger coyly in her mouth. She only speaks in Russian, but when she does try to say something in English and I don’t hear her, she flips, yelps in Russian and locks herself in the bathroom. I don’t know – it all sounds so extreme, maybe you’re thinking that I’ve failed to tell her side of the story, like maybe we pulled her hair or flushed her head down the toilet. Guy-Half apologies: don’t worry, I say – we understand. We are women.

Oh anyway, this storm in a teacup continues right into the next day: Support Act is despatched again to hold our hand so our hosts don’t have to, and (we presume) to keep us out of her sight until after she has gone to bed – we all have to leave the house at 8.30am, and are only delivered back after 11pm. And then, in the afternoon, Guy-Half calls: “Well, is it ok if you leave tomorrow? My sister is coming to stay [Really?!]. I can help you with a hotel.” Umm, well, umm – I mean, what can you say? As non-paying guests, we really have no rights (I feel like I’ve written that before somewhere…). Of course we can leave. So Lindsay put in a call to a couchsurfer that she’d previously tried to surf with and explained the situation: so we now have a new couch for tonight. And this morning, as we packed up our belongings, I secretly, guiltily reclaimed my North Korean banknote – since the unspoken contract has been broken.

“So couchsurfing – this experiment in idealism…” says Lindsay over lunch, a deux. “Do you think it’s a success or a failure?” Well, it depends how you define a success, I guess. Certainly, the chance to observe up close the personality and behaviour of the locals in a genuine setting is something you can’t put a price on – even if that means being shaken to the very core by the volatile Russian temperament. However, the opportunity to have some control – and rights - is something that I could happily pay for now.

Anyway, we decided to have us some fun - sans hosts.

We climbed a mountain - we’d hoped to see all of Almaty from above…

(”No, no - there’s no pollution in Almaty,” our host had said. “It’s just winter fog.” Right…

We went shopping…

Room for growth...

We went to the Russian baths, and had a shampoo and set.

We had fun.

And now the whole anticipation of another new host and ensuing charm offensive is set to start again… Fun.

So I got me into a Kazakh supermarket - Mission Number One in Almaty!

And look what I found. At least these bad boys are behind bars.

“OK, I’m just going to come right out and say it,” said my latest ally, the girl from San Francisco (her travelling companion and her had to separate in Urumqi because the former had had her passport (and all the visas), money, tickets, you-name-it, nicked, while the clock was ticking on the Kazakh visa). “Do you think I could stay with your couchsurfer in Almaty?” She’d made her own requests on couchsurfing.com, but none had come good. Why not? Well who could say for certain, but there was clearly some confusion from the outset: “How do you get to the point where it’s actually OK to ask to stay with a couchsurfer?” she’d asked. Eh? You just click on the bit that specifies you’re looking for a couch. “Oh I’ve just been seeing if they’ll meet up for a drink and then get stuck when it comes to asking to stay - I think I’ve been too passive.” (FYI, it should be pretty foolproof – you say what you’re looking for, ergo they know exactly what you’re looking for.) Anyway, the social experiment will be taking on an extra dimension in Almaty. After all, in the spirit of couchsurfing, how could I very well say no? And besides, it will most likely be more fun and less strange to have an ally again – for all of four days. However, my hosts say on their profile they are happy to receive one couchsurfer and no more – so is this a liberty too far? Still she is slight and supersweet. I have texted my hosts, a Russian couple – and they have said “Welcome”.

The Kazakh border - the fun starts

So we’d barely crossed into Kazakhstan, when friendly faces started popping round our cabin door. ‘kazakhstan is boring!’ said one.

L: My NBF from SF; R: another happy Kazakh

‘Chelsea Futbol!’ said another. We’re currently entertaining a 4-year-old (who almost cried when eventually I confiscated my nice camera from him, but he seems to be distracted by drawing on my sheet and being poked in the tummy). Oh no - he’s remembered and is upending my pillow looking for it it. I have to go! Verdict: not boring.

How can you say nyet to me?

Not naturally blessed with the patience gene, I have noticed a
remarkable spell that seems to have been cast upon myself when in the
presence of my couchsurfing hosts. It must be something to do with the
overwhelming sense of indebtedness when staying as someone’s
non-paying, barely-contributing guest. For yes, I can’t promise that
it will last, but I seem to have located my long-dormant patient
streak. It’s particularly apparent when then not in the company of
one’s host, when suddenly my wicked old friend, The Impatient One,
reappears. And how bad I felt for the kind and sweet economics student
who agreed to accompany me to Turpan. To be fair, it was a trying day.
It was a six-hour round trip, plus long walks around fascinating
historic sites, all to the incessant accompaniment: “So, in Britain,
what do you eat for breakfast? So tell me about British history…
What do you like to do in your spare time? What do you like to do in
your spare time? What do you like to do in your spare time? (This is
not a typo.) So, in Britain…?” Sometimes, I had to say, do you mind
if I just read this sign (you know, those museum signs where the lines
are too long and the words start jumping about if you don’t
concentrate). Then there was: “Take a photo” (repeat three times at
every point of interest and non-interest). And when I did take a
photo, my new photographic assistant would be right behind me looking
into the screen. Plus there an ever-ready arm to hold mine when
approaching any imminent danger – a step, for example, a door. Don’t
worry, I’d say, I can do this by myself. DON’T WORRY! PLEASE! And when
I gazed out of the window, it would be: “So are you meditating?” or
“What are you thinking about now?” or “So, in Britain…?” And then of
course there was the language barrier: “So, in Britain, jin shah
panas?” What? “So, in Britain, jin shah panas?” Oh God, and then he
started shouting in the Jiaohe ruins to hear his own echo, and started
mucking about with a megaphone we found. I wanted to scream. But it
was when he said, “America is a much more open country. Britain is so
closed and rigid,” that I burst. And exactly are you basing your
opinions on? I snapped. “American culture is much more diverse, much
more available – Coca Cola is everywhere, we have American films.”
Well I suggest you do a bit more research (ooh! Challenging me and my
national pride – big mistake). It was a shame I had lost the will to
speak because he did of course have much to say for himself. But it
seems, British women are something of a rarity out here. Everyone,
including him, assumes at first I am American (”99% of Western women
we see here are American, so when I realised you were British, I
understood you were precious”.) Yes, but I can cross the road unaided,
thank you. The Impatient One clearly needs some more couchsurfing
therapy.

Jiaohe

Taojing