sofasurfers

Read all about it…

Fleur and Ollie — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 09:10:02 +0000

So you don’t have to live it yourself. I’m now Writing the Book, see.

The tantrums, the toilet raids, the titty tours, the bedroom appointments, even the gothic bondage chatrooms - yup, it will all be there, and much, much more, in glorious, shameless explicitness. It’s called On The Couch, it features lots of Ollie’s photographs, and it tells both the geographic and personal journey that I took. Hypothesis: is it really possible to travel a continent by staying in the houses of strangers met online? And who really was placed on the metaphorical couch - them or me?

You can pre-order it here!

Touchdown

Fleur and Ollie — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 09:58:36 +0000

“Welcome to London Heathrow. The outside temperature is 7 degrees and the sky is expected to remain overcast today.” Reassuringly dreary.

But then my travel-tuned eyes turned towards London: so used to they to looking out of foreign windows, gauging new cities, London was instinctively perceived through fresh eyes: all Victorian townhouses and real Christmas trees with tasteful, twinkling lights - London resembled a quaint little Christmas card. What’s more, people in the supermarket let me go first. I patted someone’s Dachshunds and chatted to their owner. Everything seemed to fit the Goldilocks rule of proportion - not too big, not too small. I felt a surge of London pride. This will put me in good stead for receiving couchsurfers in my house… For now it is time to pay it back.

Shady ladies

Fleur and Ollie — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 09:26:49 +0000

Ignorance alert: presuming that Knightsbridge doesn’t count, my visit to Bahrain was my first to the Middle East.

So when confronted with the full spectrum of female muslims all within this tiny country (pop. 723,000), I confess I got a little confused.

“I class them in a sliding scale…” said my host in Bahrain (who happens to be Omani, but still drives a Porsche so he fits right in). Plus he’s muslim, so he’s allowed to make the following comments…

“Darth Vaders are fully covered in black abayas - you can’t even see their eyes. Then there are the Ninjas, whose abayas just have two openings for their eyes, while Batman gets a mono-slit for both eyes. Those Star Wars-esque Jawas sport large headscarves that protrude out the back [it's apparently a combination of piled-up hair and fabric], and then there’s the humble Maid Marian who just wears a simple headscarf. If any colour other than black is involved, it means they’re Shiite; if they’re black, they’re Sunni.” (Most Bahrainis are Shiite muslims, though the Royal Family are Sunni.)

I found Darth Vader out shopping with some ninjas in the souk…

Oh sorry, wrong picture…

But I still didn’t really understand the difference in religiosity, so I went to the grand mosque…

(Please observe the newly built (if dwarfed) “World Trade Centre” - yuh, twin towers even - just to the left of the Mosque, which houses Moda Mall from the Kuwaiti retail royalty, Sheikh Majed Al-Sabah. This rival temple bows to that other God, materialism.)

Right, anyway, back to the Mosque, where I spent a good hour mesmerised by a member of the be-gloved batman subspecies who was my dedicated guide (dedicated to informing just me, and - natch - dedicated to her “creator”). I am somewhat ashamed (and unworldly) to admit that it was the first time I had ever spoken to a hooded lady (save any sightless call centre encounters). Am I allowed to be shocked that she was so confident, so self-assured? A 23-year-old Islamic law student, she was well-educated, well-informed, open-minded and open to all my questions - we briefly became friends, and she even gave me her email. She explained that the choice (choice, she insisted) to be fully shrouded in black was a matter of personal interpretation of Quranic translations: some say potato, some say potarto. “I am only to be desired by my husband,” she added. “We don’t want to put temptation in front of other men - it’s not honourable.” It was a point that I only fully grasped as I disrobed

Mixed movies: Batman and Maid Marian

and walked through the city to my next destination in my Western clothes (and - gasp! - short sleeves), to the soundtrack of constant beepings of the horn (geddit?) and kisses being blown at me. Without my abaya, I felt naked and inappropriate and thoroughly un-Rome. “Oh they probably think you’re a prostitute,” confirmed my host back at home. “Ex-pats just don’t walk around here - everyone drives. Walking the street classifies you as a prostitute.”

That evening, we saw the other side of the coin. Relatively liberal, Bahrain is crawling with prostitutes, and thobe-robed Saudis who cross the border at weekends to drink and ‘dance’… “The Bahraini women just aren’t available,” says my host “They stay at home until they get married”. Ample opportunities are available elsewhere, evidently.

A spot of titty tourism (”No photos or you leave!”) took me to an Arabic bar where five sausagey-built Asian ladies danced on stage in an attempt to lure the few solo Saudis sheeshing away at their tables to come and buy the Arabic equivalent of a lap dance - the chance to lay a garland around the girl’s neck and to hold hands with her while she looks into their eyes for the duration of one whole song! All the girls were clothed from the bosom to the ankle, if tightly with some tummy spillage, in coloured silks. So innocent? “There’s a sliding scale…” said my host. A full service is supplied by China (recall that new Chinese proverb: where there is demand, there is supply). “In the late 90s, most of the Eastern Europeans were kicked out, and replaced with Chinese girls - I don’t really understand it,” he admits. Apparently they’re tighter, I offer. “I wouldn’t know,” says my host. That, I say, is the correct answer!

But first: a choice of four couches in Bahrain…

Fleur and Ollie — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 22:54:26 +0000

See, my flight to London had a stopover there. ‘Is that near Malaysia’ everyone asked. Exactly. That is, no one seems to know anything about Bahrain, not least where it is (not near Malaysia, of course - it’s a tiny country just east of Saudi Arabia), and not least, me. So I decided to turn two hours in Bahrain airport into two days… Primarily research warns me to wrap a light sweater around my shoulders in its cool evenings. And those four couches? They ALL belong to my final host, who also has three spare double bedrooms. No doubt he will be pleased to despatch me to London in time for Christmas …

Shut up, Shanghai

Fleur and Ollie — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 13:46:40 +0000

Walking to my host’s house in Shanghai, I had my first warning of
Shanghai’s noise nightmare. It was just a humble fast food outlet –
y’know, just one of those single-fronted, fluoro-lit
only-go-in-drunken-desperation numbers. Outside was a young, suited
man who was holding a MICROPHONE (for he was SHOUTING LOUDLY but I’ll
spare you the caps lock): “Yum, yum, come and get it! Fast food! Slow
death! Come and get it!” (Or something like that).
In China, even the low-rent fast-food joints have to make a noise to
make money. As one foreign student told me, “Unless you shout in
China, no one cares about you.” So the free-market frenzy of Shanghai
is right off the scale of noise pollution: “Miss! MISS! You come my
shop! Just lookin!” I’ll only come inside if you promise to remain
silent, I said… But no: “Miss! Miss! Come my shop! Chopstick! Jade!
Cucci [sic] bag!” My Italian host compared the Bund, the riverside
promenade and tourist trap numero uno, to Alien 2, where all the
aliens shoot out of their hiding places, screaming and yelling. Even
the house cat cries at night when he doesn’t get his way….
You know what this means? It’s time to come home – and so I am… But first….

Bible-bashing

Fleur and Ollie — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 13:45:07 +0000

Words you never thought I’d say (though probably never cared enough to
wonder): “May I come to church with you?”
This was no religious quest, but cultural - how is it to be a Chinese
Christian, I’d pondered - since my host is one. Hard…
“The head of our family church doesn’t think it would be a good idea
for you to come: the government is very touchy about Christianity.” Oh
that’s a shame. “But we are meeting for lunch afterwards - you are
welcome.”
And so each one introduced themselves to me: “My name’s… I’m a
Christian”… and together explained how the family church works. They
meet at one of the “brothers’ and sisters’” houses, where they take
turns to lead the teachings - there’s no priest, there’s no church,
just good faith and the bible. “You have to register with the
government at official churches,” one says. “I read on the internet
there are three times as many family church-goers as official
church-goers,” says my host. “NO PHOTOS!” says this week’s hostess.
“It is a real burden to protect the brothers and sisters,” says
another, in defence.

And yet, all around the dark heart of capitalism, Christmas carols are
being played full blast, there are Christmas trees at every turn, glad
tidings festooned around all shops, and all the other commercial
urgings of Christmas. In fact, there’s such a disconnect with
Christianity and Christmas that when I asked my host how he would be
celebrating, he just said, “Oh we don’t celebrate Christmas - we are a
typical Chinese family…”

Mission Shanghai

Fleur and Ollie — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 20:24:04 +0000

The Chinese couchsurfing scene in Shanghai is no different to the rest
of the country in that the majority tribe is Western TEFL teachers. I
have half resigned myself to the cause to stay with one such Italian
boasting 150 references (also a typical characteristic: guests really
have to impress these seen-it-all hosts). And half playing the wild
card, staying with a Chinese couple in the missionary position: “Thank
God we have found Jesus,” reads their profile. And their most recent
missive to me: “Let us show you the way.” Wild.

Too Cool for School

Fleur and Ollie — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 20:23:42 +0000

Knowledge of a couchsurfing school in the neighbouring town eventually
lured me like a vampire to blood. (Sadly, a couchsurfing school is not
where you get to learn couchsurfing etiquette for once and for all,
but instead, here in Yangshuo, in Guangxi province, a private English
school where couchsurfers are welcome to stay for even months at a
time, with free lunch and dinner, in exchange for making weekly
speeches to the students and participating in daily English Corners,
where all gather to chat in English.) And my, do the couchsurfers get
a good deal: we are put up in the students’ ‘dormitory’ (read: 3-star
hotel-esque establishment complete with English expressions at every
single step
where I shared a twin bedroom with an ensuite, large TV and DVD
player, and in-room hot-water dispenser – tea on tap!).
Because I’d left it so late (like, “Hello, is it OK if I come this
afternoon?”), and wasn’t going to be there for a single English
corner, I urgently needed to attend to my side of the bargain.
“Perhaps,” I offered in pathetic, unblinking earnest, “I can help out
in the school kitchen? [Can you imagine?! I was seriously up for
this.] Perhaps I can play badminton with the students? [Ditto.]
Perhaps I can help in the office?”
“Well, you could call our previous students to see if they would like
to come back to study,” says Charles, the school’s manager. “Try and
get into a conversation with them. Ask them how about the weather, ask
them how about their job.” Great, I said, in genuine delight; how
hilarious, I said in silent aside.
So I was set up with a spreadsheet of names and numbers and a script
(”Hello, this is [your name] from Zhuoyue [jo-yoo-eh] English
School… Welcome back to Zhuoyue when you have free time.”
Unexpectedly, it was a most rejuvenating experience – suddenly, I felt
like I was 22 again: like I’d just graduated, and was dithering about
in dead-end temping work… Because, yes, of course, it’s the task
that is so awful they have to get a temp in to do it. Most of the
numbers didn’t work. Of the 11 numbers I called, I got through to just
one boy, “John”.
Hello, this is Fleur from Jo-yoo-eh English College! I was just
wondering how your English was coming along since you left the
college.
“Uh? Uh?”
[Repeat lines one and two.]
“Ha ha – I sorry. Very difficult. No understand.”
Ah! Hello. This. Is. Fleur. From. Jo-yoo-eh. English. College! How. Are. You?
“I working.”
Oh. Sorry. If. You. Are. Busy. There. Is. A. Forum. On. Jo Yoo-eh’s.
Website. Where. You. Can. Practise. Your. English. Shall. I. Spell.
It?
“J-O-H-N”
Lovely, thank you very much, John. Welcome back to Jo Yoo-eh when you
have free time!
Forcing a conversation with John just felt like a small torture for
him, so I leave it at that. I go to sing a song – or go to the loo in
Plain English – where I find three toilets, one of which is
Western-style. In the two Chinese-style ones (ie, hole in the ground),
there are English expressions pinned to the door: “More haste, less
speed”, “Great hope makes great man”.
On my return, I spot a British boy. Hello, I say, with the kind of
entitlement you feel when you chance upon a fellow minority. “Oh
you’ve been doing that ring-round,” he says. “I had to do that last
year. It’s a complete waste of time – complete waste of time.”
So I abort task and set about some real temping work (aka discreetly
doing my own thing). At which point, natch, Charles asks me how I’m
getting along with the list. Well, I say, with gusto and job pride…
Both quickly fall away as I run down the list of names and expose my
uselessness, until I’m left standing there, stark nakedly useless. Ah
– it made me feel so naughty and young again.
Footnote: I must add that my unrewarding experience was only a
self-inflicted punishment for deciding too late and leaving too early,
and not having the time to involve myself in the cultural exchange of
their English Corner. It’s clear that couchsurfers have a really
fulfilling time here, and many do stay for months, years even. My
lesson learnt at the Zhuoyue English School was Just Deserts. It’s
probably written somewhere on the door of one of their Chinese-style
toilets.

Ping Pong is from China, Boris

Fleur and Ollie — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 20:19:09 +0000

Since conversation was severely limited, I invited Axiang to play ping
pong with me. “Uh?” Ping pong! You know, ping pong! Now I understood
that ping pong is so called because it’s onomatopoeic so I made a smal
song and a dance, giving it all the “piiing!” and the “ponggg!”, to no
avail. So I take to my pencil and paper and draw it: “Aaah! Ping pan
cho!”
I also learnt a few more things about the sport. Firstly, how to spot
a ping pong table: no green and white paint job and net fancy
business here – no, no: look for the cement-clad breeze blocks and the
plank of wood, like this one in the local school where we played.

Secondly, the bat is held almost like a pen, thumb and forefinger on
the front (as you’ll see ably demonstrated here)… Obviously, things
got a lot worse before they got better on my side of the ‘net’. And
thirdly, when playing against a 13-year-old boy, it is advisable to
stand a good four feet back from the end of the table. If only someone
had been able to advise me of this.

Post Script

Other sports in China: squash is called “wall ball”, badminton is called “feather ball”

Country Life

Fleur and Ollie — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 20:16:34 +0000

Somewhat against the traffic, as more and more of China’s population
takes a one-way ticket into its cities and out of rural life, I headed
towards the village of Xing Ping in Guangxi province – yes! A village!
I’d found a couchsurfer in a village… Or had I? Correct: exactly as
feared when going to a place where there’s only one option, my one
option went and ran out on me. Just as I was on the bus there as well:
after I’d sent a couple of unrequited texts, I do indeed hear back
from my host that that he’s left town. Grrrowl. “Go to the youth
hostel and find Axiang – she will look after you”. Harrumph.
Actually, despite my grumpy cynicism setting in as I was led up the
(garden) path into the youth hostel, I was not expected to pay to
sleep in a dormitory with hairy and smelly travellers (and nor they
with me…). Axiang, the 21-year-old niece of my absent host’s wife,
took me off to her place where I even had my own bedroom.
Communication wasn’t easy (our Chinese whispers conversation led me to
expect to be staying with her parents and brother in a farm; I arrived
to find it was just me and her above a grain store), but she gave me
her house keys and her heart, and a window to life in her village.

And so I got to witness buffalo (oh maybe they are water buffalo, but
hey, the shepherd is herding in his pants – that’s got to be village).

I saw sausages made like they used to – out of real intestines (and
please note the orange trees in the background; also observed: banana
trees, chilli bushes and strawberries – and those are just the ones
that I understood).
I saw Mao posters in pride of place by the TV (the real rural God) in
crumbly yellow brick houses with wide-open doors, holey ceilings and
woodsmoke fires… I saw a crowd which had gathered to spectate a
lorry unloading an oildrum (clearly a rare excitement). I saw abacuses
in shops, and small collections of orange pith (peel removed) drying
in the sun – some kind of cottage industry as they can sell on the
pith though I haven’t yet uncovered the point. I saw fresh dinner on
its way to the table – these little chucks were still alive.
And what about the yuf, when they can’t get their hands on any spray
paint and a good wedge of urban wall? Bamboo etchings. Let’s hope it
says something fully filthy.
I even went for a walk up those strange limestone camel humps where my
sole companion was this little calf (no people for two hours! Remember
this is China). I heard nothing but birds singing, cow bells dingling,
and sometimes just nothing at all. Total luxury.

And.. I saw this furry fellow in my bedroom – please do observe that
the water bottle you see for the purpose of perspective is a full
1.5litres, not an incy wincy 300ml one. In fact, so impossibly large
(and still) was my bedfellow that at first I thought it was a plastic
joke. But no – by the time I’d procured a giant jar large enough to
catch him in, he’d moved…into the shadows and into my nightmares.