What do you get when cross 1.4 million wanderlustful twenty-somethings with a social networking phenomenon, then smother the whole thing in DIY culture? A: Couchsurfing.com. It was inevitable really, and undoubtedly the best thing to come out of the online networking boom we’ve witnessed over the past half-decade. Couchsurfing bears all the hallmarks of a normal networking site - profile pages, flash-bleached party pics, dubious friend requests – but they belie a premise so unique and beautiful the site has reached legendary cult status in the backpacker community and its services are coveted by travellers worldwide. Couchsurfing is a ‘hospitality exchange network’. In other words, as a member you can arrange to stay pretty much anywhere in the world absolutely free of charge. Not only is this perfect for travelling on the cheap, it offers instant cultural immersion. Fancy hanging with Omar Mohammed (‘Male, 23, social activist and youth worker, Definitely Has Couch!’) in the Gaza Strip? Knock yourself out. Or maybe you would prefer a jaunt to the tiny Pacific island state of Nauru to kick it with Ebol Ohirozetn, a man who claims: ‘for diet, I'm particularly interested in trying a beer, I heard it is very tasty. I also like to eat eggs of the most varied types of birds.’ This meeting and befriending of locals is couchsurfing’s major hook – your host is your personal guide, your translator, your new best friend. He or she may ask for something in return, a bar of chocolate, some beers, an authentic cooked meal of your country, or maybe just a hug and a promise that the favour will be returned.
In an attempt to paint a fair picture of the couchsurfing experience I will give two personal accounts, one good and one not so good. Let’s start with the good. Having driven as quickly as possible through the orange dust and army checkpoints of Tijuana, my friend and I arrived in Ensenada where we had arranged to meet one Nancy Salgado, our couchsurfing host. After much confused peering at peeling signs and avoiding giant potholes we finally reached the place: a squat tiled bungalow on a dark street. Dogs were barking everywhere. We knocked on the door and were met by a short man with a moustache wearing a grey t-shirt who looked at us quizzically. Suddenly a wave of recognition came across his face. ‘Nancy!’ he exclaimed and ushered us inside, introducing himself in broken English as Luis. The air was cool inside and there was a leather sofa. We sat on the leather sofa. Luis sat across from us and a small orange Chihuahua with bulging eyes regarded us from the tiled floor. ‘This’, said Luis, holding a hand out to the Chihuahua, ‘is my dog. Polly.’ We acknowledged and smiled. It didn’t seem Nancy was anywhere. After more awkwardness she finally arrived with her mum Carmen, and it transpired Luis was her dad. She admitted it was her first time hosting, and that she didn’t think we would actually show up. We are given our own room, stuffed with burritos, and our clothes washed. Over the next few days Luis chauffeured us to sea caves, secluded beaches and a winery in his little white Suzuki 4x4. After the wine tasting we found a baby bird that had fallen from the nest. Any preconception of Mexican machismo was turned on its head at the sight of Luis cradling the tiny bird and feeding it flour and water with a toothpick. It died later.
On to the bad. I arrive in Salt Lake City with my girlfriend. We set about locating the address of our next host, a guy called James that lives in an anarchist collective calling itself Boing! It’s baking hot in SLC. I sit under a tree to call James and get through to a girl claiming to live at Boing! Our conversation is very stilted. ‘Does a guy called James live with you?’ I venture. ‘Uhh, sometimes,’ comes the reply. After some cajoling we ascertain the whereabouts of this joint and set off. Man it was hot. As we arrive we see this is really an anarchist collective spot. Crust punks sit on the porch, the door hangs permanently open and people mill in and out. Inside is filled with detritus: pieces of bike, random furniture, a mountain of dishes in the sink. Anti capitalist slogans plaster the walls. The lounge has been cleared and the sofas – our likely beds – pushed to the sides of the room. We discover a punk band will be playing a gig there tonight, in between the sofas. I imagine trying to sleep while some guy executes wild guitar chops next to my head, the rest of my body trampled underneath the sleeping bag by nihilistic freeform dancers. We drift away in the direction of the nearest hotel.
That was quite an unusual example of how couchsurfing can go wrong. More typical gripes include breakdowns in communication between host and surfer that can lead to annoying standing around, or even a complete fall-through. The other end of the spectrum is equally unappealing - Stuart, my loveable host in San Francisco, estimated his previous surfer clung on like an annoying barnacle for a month in his tiny bedsit, staking out a little corner of it and parrying any enquiries as to her departure. Sadly, the system is sometimes abused like this. Some attempt to use it as a kind of dating site, and increases in spam messages have raised concerns that the site may be slowly eating itself - becoming so awash with tripe and scammery it will grow too troublesome to use. But something tells me the couchsurfing community is too proud to let this happen. The reference and verification system is so polished that common sense is the only tool you need to conduct safe meet-ups. But it will always remain slightly niche, too unreliable for some, an exciting gamble and cultural eye-opener for the rest.
