sofasurfers

Note to self: don’t overcomplicate the communication when
corresponding with locals.
This little lesson was learnt when approaching my most recent couch in
China, in Guilin (going south, getting warmer, now hitting 20
degrees!). I’d organised to stay with a native Chinese host (whoop!
These are rare beasts on couchsurfing!), who lives in a
tri-generational set-up (triple whoop). “Please let me know if it’s
possible to stay, otherwise I will find an alternative,” I’d said. And
possible it seemed – my host responded: “We have couch and floor for
you.” But just two days before I was due to arrive in Guilin, I
received the following bulletin: “I have given your couch to an
Australian man as you said you had alternatives.” Nooooo! How I cursed
my excessive verbiage – how I’d confused matters.
Oh anyway, I managed to find a new host, though not native but Serbian
– and, with some amount of silver lining, he happened to be a
couchsurfing ambassador (so, a) he knows everyone in town, and b) he
honours his offer). “Ah – you were going to stay with Bleepity Bleep,”
he said, when I explained Plan A. “He’s a married gay guy, and he also
lives with his mother. He’s on couchsurfing to meet young men. You
see, it’s very difficult to be gay in China.” Complicated, then.

So, London is cold, huh?! Actually, when my (new Russian) host in
Karaganda (some 4 hours south east of Kazakhstan’s capital) said the
outside temperature was minus 15 degrees C, I whooped; he just looked
at me with disdain. It’s true, my ‘the colder, the better’ optimism
was unarguably tourist folly – a local would never be so flip (not
least when the mercury hits minus 40 degrees). But this was what I was
here for: I wanted to touch the frozen frontier. I wanted to
experience deep freeze, I wanted to know what this shock to my system
would feel like: it’s what locals have to negotiate every winter – so
I wanted to negotiate it too. When the moisture in my nostrils froze,
when my trousers felt like sausagey ice-packs wrapped around my legs,
when my fingers stung after just a couple of seconds of exposure, when
the sharp, cold air tickled my throat as I inhaled, I felt a warm glow
of satisfaction. In Moscow, a Kazakh had told me, “In Moscow, no one
looks at anyone else in the street, but in Kazakhstan, everyone
watches for everyone else to see if the tips of their noses have gone
white, to tell them they have frostbite.” Up till now, I’d presumed
this pure Kazakh myth; what Kazakhs tell their fair weather friends to
illustrate their colder climate and their warmer hearts. Now, it
seemed like it could very well be a reality. So, I asked my host: do
people suffer frostbite much here? “Yes,” he confirmed. “Actually this
is a real problem with alcoholics, because they don’t feel it
happening.” So vodka: not quite the anti-freeze it’s presumed to be.

And so to Karaganda’s city square, where like all good former Soviet
towns who know what’s good for them, a formidable statue of Lenin
stands proud, here his mighty gaze facing Moscow. These little
torpedos of snow can try all they like, but Lenin’s hold is
indestructible.

My host isn’t so impressed though: “Lenin was wrong. Communism suits
the lazy, the people who can’t be bothered to get a job – the
government just gives it to them.” Capitalism gives people an
incentive to succeed, he argues… It’s certainly seems to drive the
fruit sellers to the market.

“They’re very excited. It’s a big shock to see a British girl here.”
We’re in the local market, to buy fruit and veg, and despite the
temperature, it’s very much business as usual, with the market
operating for full nine-hour days. My host goes to buy some Persimmon
– but aren’t they frozen? “Yes,” he says, “but they taste better this
way – they’re much sweeter.” [When I eat one at home, with a spoon,
it's like a pure fruit sorbet – yum]. Anyway, as soon as I pull out my
camera to snap a stack of fish in nature’s refridgerator there…

and how they keep their little fishies warm there

people clamour to be in my photo

and so a kind of two-way tourism takes place. “Angliya?!” they say,
with awe and wonder. But, I ask my host (who happens to be blond and
blue-eyed – and might I point out, despite its irrelevance here, my
host’s blond hair is over two foot long), why can’t I resemble
European Russian? Why can’t I blend in in this multi-ethnic nation?
“Russian girls dye their hair. They dress differently. You just don’t
look like you’re from here.” True, there’s no mink or rabbit chapka on
my head, no trashy patent leather black spike heeled boots worn on my
feet in all weather. As we catch a bus home, a Russkette with crisped,
yellow hair comes unavoidably into our view. “See what I mean about
the dyed hair?” says my host. And actually, it’s a thrill to be the
odd one out: it really confirms that a frontier has been crossed.

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

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

For a couchsurfer, the words, “Good night” are always accompanied
with, “So what are you up to  tomorrow?” in an attempt to work around
and with your host’s plans. For my final night in Xi’an, there didn’t
seem to be any major plan – Gareth was taking his businesss English
students to KTV, the karaoke bar (well, I suppose singing English
songs is good language practice – but for business English??), but
that would finish early and Beth didn’t have any. So, returning from
the mountain, I dropped a quick text saying I’d be backin town at 7pm.
I didn’t hear from Beth until 8.30, when she called me to say that she
too was going to karaoke. They’d be back at 10.30 (I had keys). “Oh –
would you like to come?” she said (afterthought, I thought to myself).
Nah, I said (I’d got up at 6.30 this morning, plus I really didn’t
have the energy for madness tonight) - I’ll see you at home. But of
course I didn’t because it was another late night for them. “A perfect
guest is one who is part of the furniture,” they’d said at dinner the
night before. This evening’s dinner-for-one got as far as opening some
rice pudding that I’d bought from the local shop, only to find that it
had congealed back in March, its best before date (foods on sale way
past their sell-by date is a frequent occurrence here, I am
realising). I was even without a cuppa, for there is no kettle in the
flat. And so, with the other little pile of abandonment, their
Chihuahua cross called Gumpa (named after Chinese beer), we shivered
on the sofa together. China’s heating is centralised: “The government
says when it’s hot and when it’s cold,” Gareth had explained. Feeling
lonely should be the one thing that the couchsurfer is protected from
when being hosted – but what was I supposed to do? Pull rank over my
hosts and say, “Hey come on, guys, it’s my last night – and no, I’m
not up for karaoke again”? Well, at least I was being the perfect
guest.

Footnote: you may be wondering how the dog managed to go to the loo,
locked up in that third-floor apartment. Was it litter trained, I
wondered? I looked around for a litter tray but there was none. And
the apartment didn’t smell of accident. Then I followed a slim opening
in the French windows leading onto the balcony: a long, skinny balcony
which I soon discovered was decorated with long, skinny dog logs. The
RSPCA wouldn’t approve. Still, at least it’s not on the menu.

So with Beth’s other half, Gareth, stumbling in the next morning at
10.30, having been drinking till this time, I console myself with the
idea that at least they’ll want to take it easy tonight. We meet in
their living room at about 7pm, and settle in for some Family Guy on
the telly. Both are swaddled on their respective sofas in their
(uncovered) duvets, I on an engulfing armchair. We chill. Now
admittedly, this may not seem like headline news, but for me, it was
the most exciting event thus far. There had been Chinese TV in
Beijing, but it only served as background noise to the couple’s rants
about China and those strange, silent tensions between girlfriend and
boyfriend and girlfriend and guest. Here in Xi’an, we chat, we do our
own thing, we play with the dog, we laugh at the TV. There are vague
discussions about going out locally to get something to eat, but I’m
willing it away – right here is perfect. But finally there is some
action, and Gareth and Beth take me to their neighbourhood. It’s a
total trip. First we meet their friends in the corner shop, and we
stay to banter awhile (they banter, I observe). We pass their friend
who used to own a restaurant but lost it: she plies us with strange,
processed meat balls boiled in spicy water and refuses to let us pay;
I am introduced to the whole family. G&B pick up some beer (that side
of things never seems to stop) to take home and Gareth charges into
the shop to muck about with the adolescent shop attendant (he tells me
later he was trying to pinch his nipples). They muck about some more
on the talking calculator, tapping in numbers that apparently also
say, “Dirty bitch!”, “Your nephew and your uncle will go to hell”. We
finally stop at a Muslim restaurant – when the waiters see Beth and
Gareth coming, they shout at them affectionately in the street. We eat
lamb kebabs outside (B&G buy a bottle of rice wine – they shot the
lot, and chase with beer) and talk about China. “The problem with
expats,” says Gareth, “is that they live in an expat bubble. I know
many who have been here for two years and now as many words.” You
could not say this of G&B – they both seem to speak excellent
conversational Chinese; they are the opposite of my Beijing hosts, in
that they are fully engaged in local life. They get what they give.
They have learnt the language, they have made friends, and they love
it here. “I don’t understand why people live here if they don’t like
it,” says Gareth. This bridge to local life is exactly why I’m
couchsurfing.

So at the designated time, I trot alo g to KFC, the meeting point for
the Xi’an couchsurfing group monthly get-together (some serendipity
that it lands on the day I land, sans host). This is where a) I hope
to connect with my replacement hosts, and where b) I hope to parachute
into a readymade social gathering with instant friends. It’s only when
I arrive at KFC-on-a-China-scale (ie a vast, 600-cover eaterie) that I
start feeling a bit tragic/shy/lost. I see one whitey with two young
Chinese people, but I can’t bring myself to assume that the one
mixed-race group are the couchsurfers. I hide behind some fauxliage in
an attempt to bore myself into action. Soon after, I hear the words in
my ear, “Are you here for the couchsurfing meeting?” (’Meeting’ – why
so businesslike?). Hello Romeo (real name, apparently) – Romeo is a
Californian airline pilot who had actually called me earlier in the
day to respond to my last-minute couch request (though by that time it
was all sorted). “Do you know if this is the right KFC?” he adds.
Pointing out that there is in fact another (though smaller) KFC
directly opposite, I find myself potentially in yet another ‘casual’
directions drama (when due to meet my Beijing hosts at Peking
University’s West Gate, I learnt that there were in fact two West
Gates… and then there was of course the “which Ulan Bator public
library” fiasco). This, I realise, is a Chinese hazard – so big,
everything is in duplicates: London is just so village by comparison.
Actually, no such drama ensued – the other group I’d spied were in
fact couchsurfers, and we gravitated together in one seemingly normal
and thoroughly unstrange collection of strangers: not one person had
met before, yet there was so much to share. Eventuallythe female half
of my hosts arrived –Beth, a 26-year-old Canadian English teacher –
and we set off to our meal (not in KFC).

After some mixed messages from my host in Xi’an (I’ll meet you off the
train/get a bus to the centre of town), and no response to my sms, my
couch was clearly looking a little shaky in Xi’an. I called him, I
texted him, I called him…. “Sorry, the subscriber is not reachable”.
But it’s only 9am, and I’ve taken refuge in a youth hostel (which for
a traveller who wants their ear to the ground, it’s the next best
place as there’s a constant flow of stories, tips). Plus they have
wifi. So I jump straight in, and join the Xi’an couchsurfing group.
And look! They’re all having dinner tonight. Soon I will have local
friends, even if I don’t have a couch. I also make some last minute
requests, on account of Plan A going awol (I later receive a text from
his number saying, “Jack forget phone. He went old hometown. He maybe
tommorrow come back. What can I do.”). And lo, some hours in, I get a
response, from the city ambassador no less, who hosts with his
girlfriend. Moral of the story: don’t make snap judgements.

So I didn’t feel at all guilty about popping out to a couchsurfing
party back in town that evening – in fact, it was almost my duty to
leave. (And yes – praise be to couchsurfing, for delivering instant
gangs and house parties even – house parties! My favourite! - in
every big town.)

So was ‘Sustainable John’s’ birthday party – a twenty-something
American guy (yeah, I know, not very investigative of me not even to
get his age) who works for the Beijing outpost of a British renewable
energy company. (Note: another couchsurfing characteristic – a strong
eco conscience.) My friend Donagh is there, who Ollie and I had met at
his own couchsurfing party in Moscow, where he worked as an architect.
He’s staying with a Philippino, whose mission on his couchsurfing
profile is “to spread faggotry around the world”. Colourful
conversation is anticipated. “So may I ask you a personal question?”
he demurrs. Umm, go on then. “Have you ever laid any of your hosts?”
Ha ha ha ha ha. I say, young man! No, thank you! “I have,” he
volunteers (one suspects that his initial question was really just to
enable this confession. “I’ve even had a couple of straight guys. I
just say to guests that they can sleep in my double bed if they’d
rather not sleep on the floor.” Ah – that old chestnut. Lucky Donagh.
Ha ha ha ha ha.

And evidently, lots of people use couchsurfing for hook-ups – and
there are enough Russian girls whose profile photos feature themselves
naked for as far as they can see, happily fuelling the stereotype that
they are easy. But what happens when couples couchsurf? Do they? My
straw poll of one, who perhaps we shall leave unnamed, says no - “You
just don’t feel like it. Even if you have your own room. The
conditions just aren’t optimal.” And what about couples who host?
Well, maybe that’s why I wasn’t welcome for the evening with my
Beijing hosts. One guest reports: “Yes, I once stayed in the same room
as a couple, who were clearly, though surreptiously at it at bedtime,
and then again in the morning. It was pretty awful – and immature, I
reckon: I was so conscious of my every breath. I was trying to pretend
to be asleep, but I didn’t really convince myself. It was the same in
the morning – when it was all over, I then feigned waking up – with a
big yawn and stretch.” The moral of the story: no more couples.

My couchsurfing friends: Donagh and Yvonne at The Great Wall

So leaving the cocoon of my five-star hotel, I set out for my first
Chinese hosts, a French-Taiwanese couple who lived near Peking
University. A young couple, I thought – they’ll be feathering their
nest! The maternal instinct will be flowering! They will take care of
me! And while I’d originally intended to stay only with natives, I
speculated that ex-pats might give me a more honest perspective on
life here. And honest I got: however, I know with some certainty that
Big Brother is watching (check this Security Error Notice that popped
up when I was online: “It is possible that someone may be trying to
intercept your communication with this website”), so I’ll save it (and
my bacon).

But while the French post-doctorate biologist couldn’t have been
kinder, more hospitable or, dare I say, more handsome (he baked apple
cake, took me to the market, lent me his bike etc), she didn’t seem
possessed of the couchsurfing spirit. Maybe she had a headache. Maybe
she was cross because I broke the only toilet (yes, I sat down and
with my apparently doughy derriere, snapped the seat, creating one of
those cracks that pinches your bottom so sharply, you don’t know
whether to laugh or cry). Maybe she has only-child syndrome (China, a
nation of only children, doesn’t seem to exhibit this disorder of the
developed world, however). Or maybe she just felt threatened – she
certainly made it clear that I wasn’t to be accepted. At our second
dinner, she was virtually silent: her nails were top priority for some
15 minutes. Meanwhile, Monsieur mediated. He and I chatted like she
wasn’t there, though it was impossible to relax and defy her repelling
forcefield.

…is great (yes, there’s a phone signal here). We’re 800m up, and some of the climb reminded me of my 1st encounter with stairs, when you have to take to all fours to mount (stop that now!). As one fellow climber said, ‘Now I know what they mean by breathtaking views’. For others, The Great Fall of China would be more appropriate. And for company, I’m with CSers, hearing about how some are more like bed hoppers! Gory details soon!

Hitchhiking in Russky Island

Hitchhikers and couchsurfers exist happily in the same Venn Diagram. There is also a massive young hitchhiking movement in Russia. When I explained to Stasia, my new St Petersburg friend here in Vladivostok and inveterate hitchhiker, that thumbing a lift in Britain is a long shot these days, on account of our fear of baddies, she replied, “Yes. Apparently only Poles and Slovaks pick up hitchhikers in Great Britain.” (I felt some amount of national shame.) Anyway, so there we were – Stasia, another Russian couchsurfer called Nikolai (who was from the Altai mountains and actually staying in a hotel in Vladivostok on a business trip, and who used couchsurfers to find instant friends on the ground) and I, on Russky Island, in the Sea of Japan off the coast of Vladivostok (bear with me here!)… somewhat stranded because we’d missed the bus. “Let’s hitch!” I venture, feeling like I could ride on the coattails of someone who knew what she was doing.

And so she did – while I futilely (that looks wrong) stuck my sore thumb skywards, Stasia calmly flagged down a car rather like a policeman would – palm held flat and vertical in the international sign language of “Stop”, and then raised up and down in the code of “Slow down – now!” We were quickly picked up by Alexei, someone who’d lived on Russky Island all his life and whose job was to cart sand around to construction sights. And no, he wasn’t a military man – he just liked a bit of camo. Why am I laughing so much? Because I’m in the midst of saying, “Please! Camera further away from me – please!”

Now this belonged to two other couchsurfers that my host had corralled from other hosts around the city: Martin and Mikhail from Slovakia and the Czech Republic respectively – and their Skoda, driven all the way from The Czech Republic. The Skoda was our lift up to the fortress (six of us in all, in two shifts). And so, perched atop another guest’s lap, we headed for the fortress, only to be stopped by the notorious Russian police… Not, however, in hot pursuit of some pocket money for them in the form of a speeding bribe, I mean fine (no chance in the Skoda), but, in fact, in hot pursuit of the Skoda itself – which they seemed to think was the most hilarious thing in the world ever. So hilarious that all jumped out of their car to film, photograph and laugh at this antique creature. Now they were off-duty, so it’s completely ok that they were all sideways with beer. (and indeed still drinking it, in plastic pints.

Skoda and couchsurfers: Nikolai, and orange-clad girls (another couchsurfing similarity - I think it must be about being brave enough to wear orange and stay with strangers). The bespectacled one is my host, Natie.

Vladi Police: Off-duty drinking policemen looking and laughing at the Skoda’s rear engine

So this was the highly anticipated Ambassador’s Reception at
Vladivostok Del Mar (blue seas! Speedboats! Water sports!). My most
able host, Natie, is the city ambassador for Vladivostok, and even
before I had pulled into its historic station ( the end of the line of
the world’s longest railway), it was obvious that Natie deserved her
stripes. “I have a plan to organise visiting Vladivostok Fortress for
a few couchsurfers this afternoon,” she had texted. “Would you care to
join?” With my travel guide informing me that this fortress – built in
1910 with some 1.5km of tunnels – is “really hard to find” and that
“visiting on your own is very difficult,” I gladly signed up.

Vladi Del Mar: taken from the train

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.

Hello all. Ollie here.

Well, the leg’s rested up a bit [squeamish people might like to skip the next sentence...right...about...now] and my surgeon in London has now sewn-up the holes made in Rio de Novosibirsk (!) so here’s the 1st photo-set to celebrate. (Don’t worry…there’s no photos of the leg). No, these 1st pics are from our 2nd stop-off - Yekaterinberg. Well, when you’re on and off the rails, sometimes it just happens that way round! Gawd I wish I was still out there. But Fleur is in touch regularly and it sounds like she’s definitely sofasurfer-ambassader-ing for the both of us Go Fleur!

The photos try to tell the story of our journey into, around and about Yekaterinberg. And it’s gargantuan Godly glinting golden globules. With perky Polly and her friends. (It’s a Russian tongue twister I made up, to make sure you’ve not had too much vodka with breakfast). And then of course, there’s the inevitable farewell that takes place all too often on a 12,000 km overland sofa-surf in less than 12 weeks. As Fleur wrote previously - there was quite a build-up waiting for Polly to arrive…as she was abroad in Turkey for the first day and night that we stayed at her house. (That’s the ultimate gesture in sofarific-philanthropy for you.) I look forward to the build up of her arrival again - when Polly hopefully comes to couch in London in 2009. (We’ll try not to be away when she does ;-))

Moscow pictures to follow shortly too, as well as a set on Flickr.com.

And so…Enjoy! Click here!

http://www.digitoli.com/sofasurfers/on-and-off-the-rails/

(There’s a slideshow, with captions, if you press the ‘ > ‘ play button that loads. It takes about 5 minutes to watch, so brew a cuppa, sit forward, and as they say in Russia … “dos vidania”

Ollie

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.