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]

So the Uighurs (pronouned ‘weeghurs’) - with about 40% of them in
Turpan, the local flavour is even more strongly theirs than in Urumqi
(where the population is more like 20%). Think snake-charmer pipe
music, distant drums, sequinned headscarves on the women, gambling in
the streets, chickens squawking, donkeys for transport (yes,
Hitchhiking on a Donkey: Novel Experience # 2381), bazaar life - with
the sandy tones of mud and straw-built houses and mosques in a dust
bowl town, one could even think for a moment that you were in Morocco.
Except for the state advertising in Chinese (as well as Arabic). And
of course, the dominant gene of Chinese cheekbones.

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

The Inpenetrable Pumpkin

And so onto dinner, where I was guest of honour (the name of the
restaurant? Fabulous Guest!). No speeches – just 10 dishes including
my first Peking Duck, all for just £2.30 each. As guest of honour,
the dishes arrive in front of you before anyone else. It totally foils
me – previously I’ve slyly waited for others to start strange dishes
to see quite how they negotiate them. Here I had to work out for
myself how to tackle a closed pumpkin with just a pair of chopsticks,
for example. And then onto the Irish/Kiwi bar again for me to be
handed over like an unwanted orphan from the old people into the fresh
hands of the young. And then onto a club called Armani – sadly this
one had to be a private joke between me and me, but what a joke it
was: Scottish whisky made in China mixed with green tea that was
downed in one, which had the curious effect of transforming my
chaperones into jiggling, shimmying, routine-loving boyband dancers.
And then, finally, exhaustedly (having arrived in Urumqi at 7am that
morning), I was dropped home by “Mr BMW” (for obvious reasons), to a
blow-up mattress in the living room and a date the next day to be
escorted to the oasis of Turpan, a historic Silk Road town and nearest
drop-off to the desert city ruins of Jiaohe. And so to sleep? Not
likely when there are days like these to process through in my mind
(so let me get this straight: I arrived, I couldn’t make my host
smile, he left me, I had to make this speech…). It takes hours to
unwind, and just as I do it’s time to wake up. And for some reason,
every day seems to be a day like this.

Amarni

And suddenly, I heard those words: “Fleur, we would like you to make a
speech.” It was “Luther”, one of the Chinese regulars. A speech?!
What about?! How very 39 Steps, I thought to myself. “Yes, yes, please
stand – yes, stand here, that’s right. Thank you very much. Ladies and
gentlemen, we are very lucky today…” Ah, how I would have howled
with hysteria had anyone I knew – even Number 11 – been witness to
this. Thank God – or thank couchsurfing – I had a readymade story. And
so I gabbled on about couchsurfing through Russia, Mongolia and China
for as few seconds as I could get away with, and quickly took my bow
and sat down. Only to be surrounded by as many as could fit round a
table all asking me questions. “Excuse me, may I ask a question
please” - that kind of thing. Actually it was extremely interesting –
I heard the truth about China’s only children (”They are too
dominant,” says one of the few older ones with a brother. “They are
selfish,” says another…”Tsk, be careful what you say,” says an
overly made-up female teacher). And I heard so, so much more besides,
but the shaggy dog is growing … Many had excellent English, many
self-taught – although when I explained, for the nth time, that I was
going to couchsurf in Bahrain on my stopover to London, and one said,
“Ah yes, the bank in Asia the British man bring down,” I didn’t have
the heart to set him straight.

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.

Just thought I’d chuck on this photo that illustrates (I hope) the
terrifying gradient that had me wobbling like a wet jelly (the other
side was equally steep – think rock tightrope). And this little friend
in the foreground is a porter who canters up and down the mountain to
deliver provisions to the top. In flipflops, of course. Chinese
proverb: wherever there is demand, there is supply.

Dragon Ridge, Xi'an

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).

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