The Kindness of Strangers

I was talking to some friends last night about solo travel and the enormous benefits bestowed on people who are brave or adventurous enough to set off on their travels alone. I thought I could use my blog to share some positive experiences I have encountered with total strangers but mainly I wanted to use this post to hear your stories!

Have you ever experienced the kindness of strangers while on your travels??

Be it someone who helped fix your puncture in the Australian Outback or a young kid who helped you find your hotel through the winding streets of Venice??

On my way to Australia last November I had a great experience where I befriended a stranger on the plane from Cork, who turned out to be an extremely well off but more importantly very inspirational business man who employed over 800 people in a Tech company in China. He taught me many a thing that I still keep with me today, and also treated me to a delicious meal while waiting for my nest flight. An experience that can be read about here.

Almost a year later and as my trip to South Korea began, I found another stranger putting a smile on my face. After a short flight from Cork to London Heathrow, I had another dreaded 5 hour stopover. As all the restaurants were super busy I was asked to share a table with a few other travellers. No problem. I got talking to the guy opposite me, mainly because the cocktail he was drinking looked interesting so I decided to order the same(!), and he turned out to be a very good-looking and interesting Irish guy (if you are reading this…HELLO!).

We had a great conversation about work, travel and life, as he asked me why I had decided to jet off to Korea for a year. We chatted for a while and then he bid me farewell as he had to run to catch his flight. As he stood up to leave, he informed that he had been so intrigued listening to me talk and was so sad that he had to depart that he had paid for my meal and drink as a farewell gift. I was actually speechless but secretly delighted.

I’m sure we have all been that kind stranger too, at one stage or another. One memory I have, which while not entirely a ‘kind’ gesture, is certainly something that put a smile on the face of many strangers.

It was a day I will never forget…the day I got naked with a few thousand other brave souls in Dublin harbour as part of a Spencer Tunick Art Installation!

Standing knee-deep in the freezing, Irish sea or laying down on the hard, cold rocky pier back to back with naked strangers, as a ship sails in from England (no doubt full of puzzled passengers!) was a morning I’m not going to forget anytime soon! I can’t begin to imagine what was going through those passengers minds as they saw a few thousand naked Irish people welcoming them into Dublin Port at 5 o’clock in the morning! “Welcome to Ireland, the friendliest nation on Earth!”

Giving out FREE HUGS to bewildered students in a trendy shopping area in Seoul, South Korea was also a great way of spreading job to strangers! That, and the day I spent dressed as a clown and face painting kids for free in Dublin, Ireland.

Nothing can put a smile on your face like the kindness of strangers.

Please share your stories in the comments below! x

Dear Diary- Hello Kitale

Dear Diary,

Day of luxury-if the people back home saw us now they would laugh so hard! Taken straight out of a holiday brochure for spain- as one of the girls so nicely put it. We spent the day at the ‘Kitale Country Club’- swimming, sun bathing, chatting and laughing. Gazing up at a cloud covered Mount over the vast, beautiful golf course, spotting our first monkeys- over 30 of them!

As Lowdar was ‘out of water’-whatever that means- we have to stay  put here in Kitale until we are given the green light to continue the journey North towards Sudan. Fine with us if it involves lounging in the sun, getting a tan!

After 2 hours at the club and one very burnt Beth, we headed into town- a short 2km walk away. Greeted my endless children shouting ‘how are you FINE, how are you FINE?!’- I guess no matter where you go in Africa the children are the same friendly selves!

We found an internet cafe, checked our mail, bebo, the news and 1 hour only cost 60 cent! Brilliant!! After some shopping, befriending a local boy- ’david’- whom we discussed Roy Keane, Ronaldo, Beckham and….Bosco with, we found a busy, wooden interior and exterior restaurant opposite the bus stop.

The menu confused us as everything was converted in cents. E.g Chips-30cent, Coca-Cola 20 cent. Were the exchange rates different here? NO! We got a drink each and chicken stew and pilau rice with beef (3 meals!) all for 4.40 euro! PLUS a complementary tossed salad from the owner-man was happy to see us I guess!

Back to the club for an afternoon tea (cough white wine!) for only 65 cent-it tasted kinda like banana-very weird- but I drank it anyway! Sister Geraldine (name changed for privacy reasons!) collected us and brought us home. Then the bishop collected her – off to watch the French Open- Oh how could she miss such a spectacle! She is some character it must be said! So straight forward and direct. “HAVE SOME TOAST GIRLS!” “GODFREY- GET SOME TEA!!” Right little gossiper she is too- always giving out about her italian friends drinking habits, other people stealing habits and how children are ‘forced’ into the catholic church even though they aren’t even Christian- SCANDALOUS!

We played with Margaret, little girl named after Sister Margaret who delivered her to the hospital on day of her birth. We finished the day by watching Wimbledon and Bridget Jones Diary- jeez we are living the life of luxury!

Finally after 2 days in Kitale we have Sister Kathleen said we can go to Lodwar tomorrow. They have no running water at all but now have jerry cans to transport it around so we can survive with those. No showers for us for 2 months..this should be interesting! As weird as it sounds to be happy about no running water, it will be an experience of a lifetime and we are kind of sick of being pampered at this stage-we are ready to get down to work!

Even people here laugh at the mention of Lodwar…’it’s hot there you know, way hotter than here’, our waiter informed us today. Eeekkk Why do so many people seem to think we are crazy going to Lodwar? What is it going to be like…hot, we know that! No idea what to expect tomorrow- a bus or a matatu, a house or a hut, a town or a village?! Whatever comes,we’ll be ready.

When in Rome….I mean Kenya!

 

Bye Bye Kitale!

Surfing Adventure in Scotland

Travel article I wrote that was published in Backpacker Europe Magazine 

Escaping the monotony of city life, I visited the Island of Tiree, in Scotland on a press run for Backpacker Magazine. The island is tranquil, plenty of space and clean air and a little bit of insanity thrown in. The PWA tour visited the Island of Tiree in Scotland to settle the Wave Sailing World title and conclude an astonishing season of competition.

Getting to the island was all part of the adventure. Arriving at the airport in Glasgow we were in for a little shock; the plane that awaited us was a 15 seater Loganair aircraft. Squashed into our little seats the Co-pilot briefed us on safety and we took off.

The plane, it emerged, wasn’t to be the last of Tiree’s authentic takes on transport! From the taxi service that needs to be booked a day in advance, to bicycles that can pull buggies in tow. With only one road circumnavigating the island, taking the “coast road” was not only the most scenic route, it was the only route!

Arriving at our B&B, Balephetrish House, we were welcomed with an open door. We found a lovely note telling us to make ourselves at home. With stunning views over Balephetrish Bay from our bedroom window, a big hearty fry-up every morning served with a smile and a chat, our host, Iain went out of his way to ensure our stay was enjoyable.

Our ride to Tiree

Beach on Isle of Tiree

We checked in to the event HQ in Crossapol, and discovered plenty of bleached blondies registering for the tournament, we decided to explore the island on foot and leave the bronzed beauties to do what they do best…chill! With a little of map of the island in hand, we made our way around to all the cute little gift shops and purchased some scrumptious homemade chocolate in “Chocolates and Charms” in Heylipol!

We were invited back to HQ for the opening dinner ceremony that night. It was quite a surreal experience mingling with the top 50 surfers in the world. We were entertained by two contrasting locals. Colin pleased the crowd by belting out tunes on the bagpipes, while Bob who had been growing his dreadlocks for a mind boggling 13 years was our DJ for the night! The night continued into the wee hours in the islands most frequented pub, The Lodge.

Thatched Cottage

Beautiful Scotland

Due to “poor” surfing conditions the next day (beautiful calm water, sunshine and a light breeze), no windsurfing was to take place so we set out to explore the island. However, every time we set foot on the road, a local resident would insist on picking us up. It was during these miniscule journeys away from the magnificent beaches, mouth watering sea food and peaceful walks where I discovered the true beauty of Tiree; its people. While meandering along the well trodden country roads and not knowing a soul, everyone kept smiling at us and waving. The odd van full of guys honked their horn in our direction. Happy days!

Jump!

Sunset on Tiree

With the wind picking up slightly on Monday, Go Fast energy drinks gave $750 to an unofficial freestyle super session to entice all the surfers back into the water. Not to be left out, we hit the water too, but on the other side of the island. Our morning was dedicated to Coasteering which up until this point was a sport I had never heard of. This involves scrambling along the rocks, jumping into the water, been bashed around and pounded back onto the rocks, climbing through caves and up through holes. As bizarre as this may sound it was unbelievable fun.

The highlight of day was cliff jumping. Perching ourselves at the cliff edge, shivering from both the cold and the nerves, we plunged into the water. The next time we went much higher. At 30 feet above the water, my stomach was churning at the thought of the fall and my mind spinning at the thought of whacking my head off the rocks at the other side. I knew I would hate myself for not doing it so I plumped up the courage and down I went along with a little bit of my sanity!

Ready to climb out of the cave

Orla and I : delighted after cliff jumping!

 That evening we got to see first hand the amazing talents of these windsurfers. As the sun set below the lodge creating this delightful orange glow across the water, we sat on the beach for almost two hours mesmerized by the speed they were gliding across the water, the tricky jumps and one handed back loops they were pulling out of nowhere. The whole setting was utterly beautiful.

Chatting to them afterwards on the beach, I loved how down to earth they all are. Although he missed out on the overall world title to Kauli Seadi, Josh Angulo from Cape Verde will remain a champion in my eyes. In the many times we talked, he was charming and charismatic, and talking to other surfers, it appeared he had left a lasting impression on them too.

I returned home with a smile on my face; praise for Scottish hospitality and without doubt a new found passion for windsurfing!

Surfing at sunset

Guest Post 3: “What a life!”

This is part 3 of a 3 part guest post series by Samy Amanatullah.

Find Post 1 HERE and Post 2 HERE.

“What a life” was something we’d say when there didn’t seem like anything else to say.

“What a life” was something we’d say when there didn’t seem like anything else to say.

The first time I thought this phrase the way I’d think it for the next few months, I was sitting across from a Thai cowboy. He wasn’t a real cowboy though he wore the hat. Cowboy is the name of his bar.

He sat with his wife, sipping and constantly refilling a glass of whiskey and soda, his wife sometimes going for more ice.

He left home at a young age and found work as a chef for theU.S.army, where he’d learned to speak English and cook western. Decades later, he opened a bar tucked into one of those smaller passageways that fit into the streets of Chang Mai.

It wasn’t the travel or the family or the decades of stories that put a “What a life” under my breath. It was his daily schedule. He woke up, cooked for the kids, opened the bar, closed it when he was tired, got drunk in the in-between. He considered himself a content man.

What a life.

The only other person in there was an old friend of the Cowboy’s—English, old and bald, speaking nonsense. He’d come to the table where we were sitting, try to speak, and be shooed away by Cowboy who was having none of it. He cleaned furniture for a living, and even if the booze hadn’t done him in that night, the decades working with chemicals had mushed his mind. He visitedThailanda few months every year. He didn’t have anyone back home. What a life. In a different way.

There’s a tendency to be shocked by what you see and also by what you don’t notice anymore. “What a life” was a recurring thought, a response to the incredulous. The kids on the beach who build a bracelet on your wrist on the spot? What a life. The tour guide who points out his house and, without skipping a beat, points out the adjacent killing field where his family died? What a life. The tuk-tuk drivers, men in as many industries as they have fingers—pimps, drug dealers, tour guides, drivers, police informants, whatever else might be paying at the moment; the motobike taxis, who take the tuk-tuk drivers’ ambitions and prop it on a suicidal weave through big city traffic; their counterparts on trishaws, motos, and cyclos. The bar girls, young and thin and glossed with make up, looking for sugar daddies. The old men, fat and pasty and tall, looking for Thai “wives”. The women dressed to find a john. The men dressed as the women. The guys they let screw them and then rob. What a life.

The old man in the sleepy tourist attraction town in Myanmar whose job it is to unclog my friend’s toilet, whose age suggests he’s lived through not just Cyclone Nargis, the riots and shootings of his country’s recent history, the release and many arrests of Aung Sang Suu Kyi, but also the inception of his country, its partition from India, even World War 2, who walks into my friend’s room, bucket in hand, ready for shit duty, and smiles. What a life.

The old toothless woman who distills rice moonshine out of a shack and sells it for 50 cents a bottle. The Lebanese painter who describes this jetset “as his life” and then tells me about places I saw as a child and will never go back to. The journalists dancing on the riverside, on a brief vacation laughing, dancing, tripping when a few days ago they were inEgyptwhenEgyptwas ousting its president. Mr. Lao Lao’s son, serving the hard drink on the river, his entire body drawn on with magic marker and dancing around the dock as the water rises, intoxicated foreigners all around him. What a life.

The Mustache Brothers (deserving of a blog post of their own), resigned to house arrest, performing the same show every night, its host smiling on cue, looking tired and weary when the spotlight’s on his brothers, who spent seven years in work camps doing hard labor for telling jokes (“Do you think,” my friend asks later, “that they ever just get the urge to go outside and dig a ditch?”), and the people you see from your bus window as you leave building a new pagoda in a country that uses forced labor and believes that building pagodas can offset bad karma. What a fucking life (apparently to be reincarnated in).

The crap police informants you notice following you, and the better ones you don’t notice. The kids hawking cheap wares and making rational arguments in your language as to why you should buy. The girls learning to balance baskets on their heads by practicing with bricks. The makeshift family that doesn’t sell anything and lives in a shack and plays their music on the beach. What a life.

There’s the foreigner at a random train station. A volunteer English teacher in smalltown Thailand, younger than me, who’s almost on his way out, who will next walk the Camino de Santiago and follow that up with Burning Man, who admits that while it’s awesome that he’s based the rest of his year around festivals, what’s seems most important, most exciting is doing things with the people in his life he’s been off from.

And let’s not forget the animals: the monkeys and birds in cages and chains, doing the dance so their owners get money and they get snacks; the stray dogs wandering in packs, begging, roaming the car parks, the sole thing you see against the moon on the streets at night, battling amongst each other for turf, for fun, for a stick; the horses—the poor horses—marching through the heat, carrying at least two fat foreigners and the driver, in some towns the main source of transport and no other way about it but miserable. “What does the horse get out of it?” my friend asks as it steers us towards a semi-famous ruins site. Maybe something at the end. Maybe some sweet, sweet hay.

Then again, as someone suggests after a day spent wandering a village and drinking a tea-whiskey concoction that’s supposed to make us tired and healthy, what about us? What about we who go from place to place without any particular reason, acclimated to the long bus rides, the winding roads, the stenches and bathrooms that will never see porcelain? A little thing I found out was that almost every foreigner I met going through SoutheastAsiakept with them sleeping pills for the long bus rides. So much so that in conversation it stopped being a question and became more of an assumption, something you’d compare or share as the novelty of going somewhere else faded into the reality of a bumpy, disorienting ride.

There are people who live in countries of tremendous beauty who have never gone the50 milesbetween their home and that incredible beach or mountain because they can’t afford to, and we do it in a single run and we tell them about it and ask questions, and they smile and at least act like they’re happy for us. We who go just because we can, spoiled for travel, eating and drinking whatever and whenever we want, jumping out of planes and onto buses, living lives that are equally strange and infinitely more charmed, doing nothing as people ask, incredulously, as if they don’t understand, if we’re actually just going until we run out of whatever, no phone, no travel insurance, no plan. What a life.

But, of course, it can’t last, and a little later, I can’t help but ask my friend if, when he returns to the states, he’ll just get the urge to go off and take a 14 hour bus ride. Imagine him seeking out the shittest bathrooms and the worst bus seat and soaking in the smells of being sandwiched between someone throwing up into a bottle on one side and someone spitting betel nut out the window on the other, thinking contently before the sleeping pills kick in that this, indeed, is the life.

The old Lady who makes Moonshine Whiskey in a shack in Myanmar

One of the Moustache Brothers

A horse pick

Guest Post 2: Notes from the Random

The mystery of the missing popcorn factory was hell on my feet.

Full Moon Festival by Day

The town of Hsipaw (pronounced See-paw) isn’t known for attractions. Mainly a starting point for trekkers, we’d gone there just to go. The popcorn factory stuck from a list of attractions that ranged from interesting to time killing, so it was on the road leading out of town, the temperature nearing 40 Celsius, when I began walking toward hell.

We’d inadvertently arrived the day of the Full Moon Ceremony, and after a night sleeping under our guesthouse stairs (the last affordable accommodation), we’d found transportation (a cross between a jeepney and a tuk-tuk), made it to a field massed with merchants and tents and a temple, ridden the one ride, toasted with rice wine, and, in my case, wandered off into a temple for some “peace of mind.”

Excluding the tastes of trekkers, who eventually don socks, flip flops are as much a part of the backpacker uniform as could be said to exist. They accommodate the Southeast Asian heat and cluster wherever there’s comfort—the legs of veranda tables, hostel entrances, beach eateries and bars.

For the past months, I’d sported a slick pair of flip flops I’d bought the first summer in Korea. Cloth-thonged with smooth black soles and an imprint of Africa (a reminder, I told myself when I overpaid for them, of where not to forget to go), they marked the rare occurrence of successful shoe-shopping in Asia, particularly for someone whose feet have been compared to those of clowns.

They were also the only pair of flip flops I’d ever owned, despite living in Southern California, where flip flops aren’t so much a uniform as the symbol of a state of mind, one I’d never been able to share (what with the Thursday to Sunday jaunts to another city or campus to see someone, some band, something, crashing on random floors, leaving before the sun came up or way too long after, or, later, splitting class with two jobs and always being on the way to somewhere else—a lifestyle accommodated by the close-toed and laced, forget slipping shoes on and off, I slept with them on), so my buy brought with it the lame feeling of late acceptance. Anyone who knows me (or read the other guest blog post) knows that stuff isn’t a big part of my life, but the right stuff can make a big difference.

—-

Back in Hsipaw, someone stole my shoes at the temple while I watched people lather Buddha with gold. You leave your shoes at one of the entrances of the temple, and I circled every one looking for the only pair of over-sized, black and red flip flops that could be at the festival. Then I walked back through the festival, hailed a jeepney/tuk-tuk, made my way through town, found my friends, had dinner, and retreated up the stairs into my room, barefoot.

I had, of course, been lucky till then. Four countries, and I’d not lost my shoes or had them stolen. This was uncommon. The fucking things are so popular because they’re so cheap, dispensable, replaceable. Drunk people confuse their shoes and take the wrong pair. I’d sat with people while their flip flops were literally taken from under, swiped from the pools of shoes at restaurant entrances.

Most Westerners shoe-shopping in Asia run into a problem at some point. If you’re in a small town, you might be out of luck finding your size. People have this problem in Korea, in China, in Taiwan, and I was in Myanmar, whose imports seemed to come mainly from Thailand and China. The biggest shoes were too small, and so began not only the hell but a cycle of loss and compensation constantly falling short.

—-

The popcorn factory had apparently shuttered for good. The only person who knew this and spoke English was a local monk. In consolation, he said that it had been a small operation and not much to see.

A couple weeks later, I left Myanmar. By then, the cheap plastic of the thongs had steadily and surely gashed my feet, scabbing the sides and the space between the big toe and its neighbor, red and blood melting with sweat and dirt air, and they continued to gash and tear at the scabs, reopening and gashing again and again.

That pair was stolen in a hostel in Taiwan the night before my flight. Broke and needing to compensate, I stole (or, karmically, traded for) a sleek black pair from the rack that turned out to be smaller and older. It not only continued the work of its predecessor but was also too short at the back and scratched the soles of my feet on the rough streets.

That pair made it through Songkran, the Thai New Year, where the streets flowed with water and clay washed off peoples’ faces and where this mud washed over the scab and gash (I thought of a friend who’d almost had her foot amputated when a foot wound set dirt into her blood). They were stolen from the pool of flip flops by the guesthouse door a few hours before my flight home.

So I compensated yet again, the same way I’m sure people are still compensating and have been and will continue to. After three flights and 13 hours or so of planes, the immigration officer’s “Welcome back” was a nicety paled by the pair of over-sized, almost comically large flip flops my ride put before me. There is some truth when people say that the little things are what matter in life. In my case, they scarred my feet.

If you’re hard-pressed to find my point, it might be because there isn’t one or because shoes and, more to the point, feet aren’t the stuff of stories. Over a fairly short period (4 months), I used various transport, and what stayed with me most was the feeling whenever you disembarked whatever plane, ferry, riverboat, skiff, random chunk of metal/wood with motor attached, bus, minivan, jeepney, taxi, tuk-tuk, motobike, elephant or horse-cart. In the end, you’re back to just standing there, knowing that you have to choose a direction and walk.

Guest Post 1: “How much does your life weigh?”

Thanks to Samy Amanatullah, for this great guest post!

How much does your life weigh?

“How much does your life weigh?” is the staple question of George Clooney’s motivational speech in Up in the Air. It’s a springboard for inviting his audience of slack-jawed hangers-on to try and fit all their STUFF–their possessions, their fixtures, their relationships—into a backpack. And its end result is the condemnation of long-term relationships (girlfriends, mortgages) and, for our purposes, STUFF.

Go look in the mirror, take a look that can be short but make it hard. There is either some part of you that agrees with this statement, that has contemplated dumping everything, walking away, or you just don’t dig it. Anyone who’s been backpacking has answered this question at some point, even if they don’t realize it. STUFF, if we’re being honest, is a pain in the ass. When I said goodbye to South Korea (as well as the lovely and gorgeous host of this blog) to travel around Southeast Asia, everything I thought I’d need had been (over)stuffed into a bag. 

My plan was to travel for a little, celebrate the solar new year, then look for work in Cambodia, maybe Thailand, possibly Laos—someplace where snow wouldn’t be an issue and I could get a decent sandwich (Full disclosure: this plan was amended from an earlier plan). Everything went into that travel bag—warm weather clothes, two sweatshirts, two flasks, underwear abundant, socks, clothes that could be worn for job business, a pair of sports shoes—clunky clunky sports shoes. This thing was overpacked, bursting. I got it closed, but opening it again, as the dicks at airport security made me do was the least pleasant thing in the world. Turning up nothing of concern and seeing that they’d opened a storm, security personnel pushed the bag towards me and looked towards the line that wasn’t behind me or anywhere. Deal with it. 

The next day, I bought a $7 backpack off the street to split the load. I still felt conspicuous. Jam-packed, but with what? I described my load earlier, and I’m still not sure. So it was that as I got further from my plan, I shed.

In Up in the Air, Clooney is a frequent flying loaner, gleefully forsaking conventional relationships to jet set around America, proudly living out of a backpack the whole while. Desert island questions (as in, If you were stuck on a desert island and could only take 5 books/items/etc…) are designed to gauge one’s personality via their possessions. Forsaking the comfort of STUFF, paring down your possessions, evokes a simplicity associated with Buddhism or Zen. 

At the very least, it impresses people. “I quite admirable that he travel with simple luggage,” my couchsurfing host in Taipei wrote of me (this was much later). A Swedish guy I met in Myanmar remarked at how little my friend and I were carrying. His pack had room for a midget and a half, and when it unzipped, spilling out over the usual suspects was the useless—a mug, a cup, a bottle of whiskey nearly empty but tiny enough to leave a titmouse or Mormon sober, a sleeping bag and a hammock, a drum, a book (Burmese Days) among many others that he bought not out of interest but because that’s what people read when they go to the country formerly known as Burma. It sometimes becomes a thing to judge people by what they’re unwilling to do without. We are what we think we need. 

It was before dawn on the Mekong. At one of those stops that exist only to sell foreigners crap breakfast while the border opens, the bus from Bangkok to Vientiane unloaded its cargo (older men getting away from their Thai “wives”, itinerant trekkers going north, farangs working in Thailand on visa runs, backpackers, tubers-in-waiting and a small group looking for work at the tubing bars, Travelers i.e. people for whom travel has ceased to be a vacation and is now a way of life) who then lined up for coffee and toast. 

Between wafts of cigarette smoke, steam pouring off coffee, and the hazing pre-dawn, they compared bags. An older English guy who’d traveled Laos before and with whom I’d end up spending much of my time there carried with him a square pack, adorned with patches of countries visited, consisting of about four shirts, two shorts, a pair of trousers, underwear (‘pants’ as the English say,), and shoes on his feet. Books weren’t an issue because he had an iphone with the Millennium Trilogy on audio. No jacket. No sweatshirt taking up half his bag. When people asked what he did on bus rides when the air-condition blasted, his response was, “Oh, it’s not that cold.” His country count was in the fifties.

A middle-aged Irishman showed off his bag, also with flag patches and not much bigger than my laptop. By his standards, that bag was large. His friend, he said, who’d made a mission of going to every country or territory and had pretty much succeeded had two shirts, two pants, a pair of shoes, socks, and no underwear. Later, when I told a travel companion about that last bit, he took it to heart and went commando, an unfortunate move as the waistband to his shorts bulged in the back, leaving a view to his crack. I was taller than he, so I made a point of not walking behind him.

As they talked, I thought of my bags. I was glad that they weren’t with me at the time, but I didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Yeah, they were clunky mothers—the red mingled with dirt that would cling to my black, the strip of blue drooped over my shoulder making every narrow crossing a bit awkward. They were more than I needed. But I wondered why it was that these older people could get by with less while these teenagers and twentysomethings lug 50 or 70 pounds behind them. What’s the point? What’re we preparing for? When we think travel, we tend to think of freedom, the open road, adventure, but when I see travelers I think turtle, snail, crustacean laboring over the dunes, trying in vain to keep its home on its back. We are what we think we need? Maybe.

“It’s hard for girls. Girls are expected to dress for every occasion,” says a Belgian woman as we discussed this very topic at a bar overlooking the river. And it’s true, especially in the age of social networking, traveling is so many things—tourism, party, adventure, cultural exchange, culture shock, status update, profile picture—that we get caught up in being prepared for anything instead of what we’re facing.

No one wants to find themselves at the top of the mountain with a dead camera, or in an excrement-floored squat bursting out the behind and suddenly without toilet paper. On the other end, you don’t need a cocktail dress to go out for drinks. A hammock and a sleeping bag is probably over-doing it. It’s easy to judge, so I had to wise up. That’s why in some bungalow on the 4,000 Islands, there’s a blue travel bag filled with all the STUFF (shoes, socks, pants, dead camera, wires, water bottles warm and plastic-tasting) I didn’t need.

That’s why 2 months later wandering round Taipei, my STUFF collection was a passport, carton of Bamar (i.e. Burmese) cigarettes, a fifth of apple vodka, two MP3 players, 4 books (3 for trading, 1 used tour guide), three pairs of pants (one of which was always worn), 5 shirts doing double duty as towels, board shorts, a lucky pair of Obama socks that I’d kept because they were a gift (from the lovely and gorgeous host of this blog) and because wearing them at night stopped me from scratching the mosquito feeding farm, and sweatshirt that took up half my bag, because my Southern Californian ass doesn’t handle the cold well. Also, toilet paper, though that had also been a gift from a Bamar guesthouse. My STUFF was like my trip—random, disorganized, endearingly chaotic, and indulgent. 

But most importantly, my STUFF was disposable. I could dump it wherever. I’ve left and lost and broke things in every country to which I’ve been. If you look in Janet’s apartment, you’ll find the random remainders of my life in Korea. Some Thai guesthouse has that lime orange sweatshirt that made me stick out wherever I went. In Laos, there’s a pair of shoes that climbed mountains, hiked jungles, forests, and walked through some of the biggest cities on either side of the world. The time came for my grey cargo pants twice burnt-on-the-crotch and mysteriously stained with Full Moon party paint to make someone else look like a chic hobo. 

My relationship with STUFF has always been strained as an adult. Moving from house to house every year in university, I came to hate it. STUFF was a symbol of oppression, of being unable to just get up and go, of being tied to one place or thing. The people I lived with swore by STUFF in one way or another. But it’s different when you’re traveling, the temptation for STUFF comes in many forms, but souvenirs are the best way to hemorrhage space and money. Obviously, what we need is defined by where we’re to end up and how long we have till we get there, but souvenirs are for Mantle Place People, folk who have a mantle on which to put their souvenirs. I met one person whose philosophy towards souvenirs was the most agreeable I’d heard. He went by a get one/toss one rule. Every time he bought a t-shirt, he threw one out.

“How did you know you didn’t need a bigger bag?” a travel companion asked me. He wasn’t a Mantle Place Person either, maybe less of one than I am. When we met up in Bangkok, he looked at my knock-off Lowe Alpine bag, limit 50 pounds. How did I know? I didn’t. I assumed my life would shrink or grow with the backpack, kind of like a goldfish. How much does your life weigh? It doesn’t. It depends.

Couchsurfing changed my life

A friend recently alerted me to an article about Couchsurfing that, in my opinion, is very biased and one-sided, and does not portray couchsurfing as the positive and life changing community it really is. Although I will admit what she was submitted to was awful and I hope she goes about the right legal channels to pursue her complaint, I personally feel her reasons for going couchsurfing were wrong (to save money rather than to make a new friend) and feel the article in question is extremely one-sided and a little farfetched. You can read the article  here and make up your own mind.

This post is not going to be one full of snide remarks damning the author (although that does sound like fun) writing paragraph after paragraph about how wrong they are and how their attempt to campaign for the closure of an active and positive community is both naive and a leap too far. Instead I would like to spread some positive energy about couchsurfing and tell you my story; HOW COUCHSURFING CHANGED MY LIFE (and the lives of many of my closest friends!)

Most articles you read about couchsurfing describe a single persons adventure surfing a strangers couch in a foreign city, a reporter trying it out for the first time, or seeing it from the eyes of a host describing what crazy and amazing characters have surfed their couch over the years. This post is more about the couchsurfing community and how it has made such an impact on my life, encouraging me to be more outgoing, more open minded and to have nothing but positive thoughts for everyone that I meet, whether I know them or not.

Since joining couchsurfing I have done some whacky things. Things I NEVER thought I would do. I posed butt naked with 300 others for a Spencer Tunick installation in Dublin. With the help of 5 loyal friends, I spent over a week making over 300 handmade Valentines cards which we later handed out in local hospitals and on Grafton street in Dublin to unsuspecting passers-by. We also spent the afternoon (about 30 of us) giving out free hugs to share the love. These FREE HUGS days tradition with a group of us hitting the streets in the summer, in the spring and even at Christmas time to spread some Christmas joy to shoppers.

Clowning around Dublin

Thanks to couchsurfing I have spent many a night dressed as a Zombie, or at an 80′s party or wearing a crazy wig or dressed like an absolute chav. (Yes these are good things!!) I have spent a day face painting for free while dressed as a clown. I have made a human pyramid in central Edinburgh and re-enacted scenes from Braveheart!! I have been proposed to at 8am in the morning in the middle of Dublin city. I have gone surfing, camping, singing, drinking and dancing in parts of Ireland I would never have seen had it not been for my couchsurfing buddies.

Thanks to couchsurfing I have met some of my best friends. I would have been an absolute loner in Sydney with the help of CS. Many times on my travels I have fallen back on CS to keep me entertained, to look for help to find a friend. My best friend here in Korea, Brittany, is a fellow CSer I met on a night out. Heck I even moved into a couchsurfing house in Dublin one summer with 4 other couchsurfers and we were dubbed ‘The House of the People’, and that was exactly what we were.

Hosting 10 people in Baltimore, West Cork

We have organized random ‘surprise birthdays’ on the dart train, improv Pillow fights in Iveagh Gradens and St. Stephens green, I played Urban Golf (where you dress up in random mis fitted clothes and hit a tennis ball around derelict buildings with broken planks of wood..!) with a group of wacky CSers in Toronto and again a few weeks later in Detroit. (In that same weekend we went Urban spelunking, cycled around ghetto areas of D-town and even gave free hugs to homeless people. IN DETROIT.

Despite Couchsurfing strictly NOT been a dating website, a lot of people do meet their other halves through couch surfing. I have dated many wonderful people through this site and probably will in the future. Some of my friends (Elly and Eddie) met through CS and our now engaged. Two others recently got married (congrats Cristof and Marianna) and two others are living in Oz together as happy as can be (Sophie and Simon!) It is inevitable that in a community of 2 million that you won’t meet people you simply click with in everyway. We are all such like minded people, open to adventure, and travelling the world.

Me and recently engaged Elly at an 80s CS party!

Beautiful newly weds Mariana and Christof

I have been to many ‘COUCHSURFING FESTIVALS’ including a weekend camping in the Wicklow mountains, a weekend of singing and dancing in Scotland, a weekend of craziness in Detroit, ultimate frisbee and picnics on Bondi beach in Australia (and an all day all night St Patrick’s day Pub crawl). CSers introduced me to my first ‘Korean Noraebang’ Karaoke room experience which was something I will surely never forget.

Csers taught me Scottish dancing, golfing, how to hug, how to smile, how to be a zombie but most of all..HOW TO BE A GOOD FRIEND. And that is now something there seems to be no shortage of in the CS community. In fact I would go as far to say that far from being a social network connecting strangers and turning them into friends Couchsurfing is more like one big FAMILY and I love all my brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles very, very much!!

Couchsurfers are some of the coolest people I have ever met. The CS community has challenged me to think outside the box, to never judge a book by its cover and to live life to the full. I have stayed on people’s couches on 5 continents (Africa, Asia, Australia, Europe and North America) and have hosted over 300 people back in Ireland. How  many truly negative experiences have I had which would make me want to leave the site or spread bad publicity? NIL.NADA. NONE. That has to be some sort of impressive record for mad kind and the awesomeness of putting your trust in strangers (who, I’m happy to say are now friends!)

Couchsurfing buddies: Friends Forever (Mexico, Ireland, USA, Canada)

The start of a new adventure…

I have been meaning to set up a blog for ages now but finally I have the perfect excuse. Tomorrow I am off to New Zealand on a whole new adventure. The aim of this blog is a place to document my experiences, the various people encounter, the places a stay and the adventures I have. I hope it will act as a way of keeping in contact with my friends, family and all the amazing people I meet along the way. With any luck I can entertain and share my journey with you as I go.