On The Couch. Fleur Britten
established himself an enviable modus vivendi. A freelance ad exec, he earned a handsome wedge for six to nine months of the year, and then travelled on a shoestring for the remainder, photographing his experiences. What he really wanted to do was find more, bigger, better Kodak moments and snap them all—couchsurfing was surely going to throw up some intriguing material for him. I, meanwhile, was a wage slave, a features writer for the Sunday Times, and in return for three years’ ‘good service’ I’d been granted a career break. I was desperate to escape the feeling that Planet London—and the Daily Planet—was closing in around me. For too long stifled by institution and constantly stressed by killer deadlines, I yearned to recover a sense of self. For a bit.
Ollie and I had had a few adventures together before: regular alpine appointments for pleasure-seeking skiing; Goan New Year raves with the heroin-addled old-timers; and the cosy thrill of living together (though not like that—‘that’ had fortunately never been relevant to us). Ollie—something of a kamikaze skier—had skied off a mountain early in the year, shattering his tibia and fibula so badly he’d had a Terminator-style titanium plate and six screws fitted. By September, he still needed a crutch, walked with a grievous limp, and was more familiar with the physio than with his own mother.
‘Are you really sure your leg isn’t going to drop off in Outer Mongolia or something?‘ I asked.
Despite his protestations to the contrary, I was sure I saw flashes of electric white pain behind the brave face. But Ollie got himself thoroughly vetted, and his consultant promised he’d be fine.
‘Perhaps we could have a sub-theme of communist swimming pools,’ Ollie suggested—it was critical that he kept up his physio.
I, too, was damaged—in the cardiac department. One day, eighteen months ago, I met The Emperor. Right then and there he impaled my heart and the rest of the world fell away. We were so high on each other, we’d stay up all night like one long waking dream, reluctant to miss a single second. But then a terrible and destructive war of the wills broke out. The Emperor was Serb—that came with insuperable Slavic pride; he had an artistic temperament—that came with extreme emotions.
Of course, I also had my complications. I was neurotic, sensitive, highly-strung and, like so many girls, prone to overthinking. Plus, I was possessed of a will that wouldn’t be broken. So, instead, it was us that broke up. Then, after not very long, we involuntarily gravitated back to each other; he still had my heart, while part of his soul, he said, had been left with me. And so began one very bipolar relationship, as we lurched across the emotionally exhausting canvas of love. He moved in, he moved out, he moved in…
‘Cut your losses,’ friends advised. ‘It’s too dramatic.’
At thirty-four I was getting to an age where I couldn’t afford to be trapped in this cycle. Ten weeks’ absence, I reflected, would have to decide it one way or the other.
So Ollie and I had a revolution to ride. ‘Participate in Creating a Better World, One Couch At A Time’ was couchsurfing’s endearingly cheesy motto. Couchsurfing wasn’t only about free accommodation; it had A Philosophy. Through conversation and understanding, it wanted to bridge cultures. What’s more, it was an invitation to step out of the monetary economy and into the gift economy, where things were just given, with no expectation of quid pro quo: what timing. Couchsurfing’s founding principle was Pay it Forward, a virtuous cycle of ‘give and ye might eventually receive’. But reciprocal altruism wouldn’t work without a community, and couchsurfing was all about enabling one big, happy community. The ultimate antidote to the West’s atomised society, its founders even called it a ’love-ocracy’. This was globalisation at its most benevolent.
Hold it!We were about to stay with weirdos that lurked online in a time when ‘trusting’ was a byword for stupid. How could we be sure it would be safe? Well, plenty of safety measures had been implemented, such as an eBay-style, meritocratic reference system where guests and hosts would write reports on their experiences, marking them positive, negative or neutral. Requesting a couch with lots of negative references would be very ‘trusting’ indeed…
But most of all there was faith. ‘Trust your instincts’ was the website’s advice. This was especially useful in the absence of choice: in Micronesia, with its one registered couch, there wasn’t much else to rely on. And yes, apparently there were those hosts who’d upgrade their guests from the couch to the bed. That couchsurfing was full of young, free travellers, and that the reproof ‘Couchsurfing is not a dating site’ was stamped all over its pages, made it obvious that plenty were at it. It sounded like one big party.
So who was waiting for us out there? Were couchsurfers enlightened new-age ideologues, Freecycling, foraging and living in perfect political correctness? Were they party hardies, hoping to corral all strays on their radar? Or were they, like Ollie and me, keen to reach into new frontiers? What would ‘make yourself at home’ really mean? Was this really pure altruism, or did they expect something—like sex, for example, in return? The lack of personal space concerned me. How did marathon couchsurfers nourish the complex requirements of the soul?
In addition, we’d be going cold turkey on choice, a luxury we had grown so used to in the Western world. How would we tolerate having to eat that Kazakh camel-cheek stew? What about varying attitudes to hygiene, to punctuality, to alcohol (Russian and Kazakh hospitality were notoriously spirited). And surely it was only a matter of time before we’d be embroiled in an excruciating domestic, faced with a malfunctioning toilet, or with intimate body bits we shouldn’t see.
And what about our Britishness? Hopeless at instant familiarity, we were the islanders who shook hands at arm’s length to avoid the Continent’s kiss. And now we thought it would be a good idea to sleep in strangers’ homes? What’s more, I had an overactive sense of British social protocol—I was obsessed with doing the right thing. We’d be constantly on the spot, always having to guess at other cultures’ codes of conduct. There was also a moral niggle—as wealthy Brits, we’d be freeloading off our less affluent hosts.
I felt an epiphany coming on—being so out of our comfort zones was going to be an adventure in self-development. We were all going to be on the metaphorical couch.
SEPTEMBER 2008
And so began that cringeworthy business of compiling our profile. As a travel networking site, couchsurfing worked along the same lines as Facebook or Myspace, requiring droll personal declarations, illusory photography and pretentious lists of recherché books, films and musical preferences. It asked for a personal description, a personal philosophy and our ‘mission’. I had a selfconscious bash:
Fleur and Ollie
Mission:
12,000 overland miles from Moscow to Mongolia to China to Kazakhstan to China again and then back to London in time for Christmas.
Personal Description:
Open-minded, easy-going and always up for new experiences, we’d like to think that we’re the kind of people you can take anywhere. Never say never is our mantra. Except to nuclear bombs, maybe. Left to our own devices, you might find us watching films, reading, gazing at art, walking in the wilderness, debating the issues of the world (in a polite British way, of course), and dancing and singing wildly to comedy pop (very Brits abroad). OH! And we are not boyfriend and girlfriend, but just great, old friends (much better that way, non?).
I uploaded a couple of ‘sweet’ photos of us and sent it into the ether. At least we didn’t have an empty profile any more—the mark of the much-loathed amateur.
1ST OCTOBER
Now we were ready for a little Russian roulette: Ollie and I must set up a series of these random acts of kindness across our Trans—Siberian route. We would meet during our lunch breaks and look at couches together—but Moscow’s 1,890 listed couchsurfers mysteriously scuttled into the darkness in the glare of our searchlight. Were they dormant? Dead? Or were we asking for too much?
We