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You never know quite what you’re going to get when you Couchsurf, and in my latest CS stay, I really wasn’t sure what to expect as I was to stay with the parents of a member of CS and not the CSer himself.
A couple of weeks ago, I’d written to Alexander in Cartagena seeking a couch, and he’d responded that although he was studying in Germany, he was sure his parents would love to have me. His mother was waiting for my call.
And so it was that I ended up in la casa de Gloria y Albero, the best people I’ve met in Colombia–and, in fact, maybe in all of South America, with a few exceptions.
The sweet, happy couple welcomed me into their home, the first morning following an overnight bus ride from Medellin, invited me to join them for el almuerzo (pescado frito, patacones, cerveza y gaseosa), and told me repeatedly that I was a part of their family during my stay. “Como una hija (like a daughter),” they said.
One day, Albero and I biked fifteen kilometers to Playa Blanca (where we met two vacationing Italian couples), a beach with blue, clear waters (much unlike the grey tones of Cartagena’s sea) and straw huts offering accommodations in hammocks and plates of fresh fish and arroz con coco, cold beer, and the opportunity to enjoy the freedom of doing not much at all.
And then after enjoying several days of Gloria and Albero’s hospitality (cafe tinto in the afternoons, ensalada de fruta one afternoon, almuerzos deliciosas, desayunos), and Spanish lessons (they corrected me often, and I embraced the corrections, intent upon learning the right way of speaking and not just speaking to be understood mas o menos), I said that I would like to prepare an almuerzo on my final day with them, and I said that I wanted to make pescado frito y patacone (a type of platano that is cooked in oil and then smashed and sprinkled with salt and lime juice before meeting the oil again) and a salad. The latter I had covered, but for the former two, I’d need Gloria’s assistance.
Gloria readily agreeing, we set out for la pescaderia en la manana (she said it was best to go in the morning, very early), and on our way we passed fish vendor after fish vendor, scraping scales, chopping heads off, calling out to potential buyers. But Gloria advised me that buying from these vendors was not a good idea, and she pointed out the pelicans that hovered above, waiting for a chance to descend. She always, she informed me, went to the same pescaderia, and so on we walked, past Colombianos selling papayas and yucas and bananas, past breakfast stands where I smelled fresh fried things like arepas con huevos (two maize tortillas filled with an egg and deep-fried to a golden perfection) and buneulos, another deep-fried delicious treat.
We hadn’t eaten yet, Gloria nor I. But when I suggested arepas con huevos, she made a little face, and I could see that eating in the market was not her thing (in spite of the fact that she enjoyed living with Albero simply, as she herself had told me, not having the taste for the expensive and often pretentious way of doing things). But the market in Cartagena was the most disorganized, dirty market in the whole country, she’d shared.
“Pero, siempre como en los mercados y nunca estoy enferma (But, I always eat in the markets, and I’m never sick),” I said, and after buying the fish, Gloria agreed to meet my desire and said that we would look for arepas con huevos. She walked past a couple of kiosks that looked acceptable to me and finally stopped at one, still looking skeptical but willing.
Moments later, as we walked through the disorganized, chaotic market with our bag of fish and a small bag of limes, Gloria confirmed what my taste buds were shouting, “Esta rico. Mmmm. Frescita y caliente.”
“Si, con carne!” I said.
Gloria and I cooked together and when Albero came home for lunch, he was pleased with our efforts, and I was happy to hear Gloria tell him about the arepas, even going so far as to recommend that he go the following morning!
Later, when I wanted to go to the market again to purchase fruit for my trip to Taganga, a small fishing village full of backpackers and, therefore, over-priced food, Gloria steered me in the direction of a grocery store. Because she needed cafe, I dutifully went, but as I found no fruit to my liking, I arrived back at the house, announcing that in the morning before my trip, I was going to go to the market.
By this time, Gloria was smiling, Albero was wanting to hear what I thought of the market, and I was hoping to explain clearly the pleasure I derive from my market visits.
Sure, we have farmers’ markets back in NYC, grand, open-air spaces touting fresh fruits and vegetables, homemade pies and breads and cakes, flowers and crafts too, but there’s nothing that can compare to the markets of South America. Nada.
And while in some places, notably Cartagena where the tourists all attach themselves to the old city and where I saw not a single extranjero in the market, I must call upon my courage to face the intense stares, the murmurs of appreciation (“Ah, mami. Mona. Que linda! Ay, hermosa), and the lingering glances of desire I meet as I walk purposefully looking for something to eat or searching for the fruit stand that has everything I want, it’s all worth it to experience the local flavor.
I should note that I am keen on heeding the advice of locals who steer me away from places that they consider unsafe (as in Pisco, Peru, where I was practically forbidden to go to the market by myself), but as Gloria’s reasons for directing me away from the market didn’t involve issues of security, I felt comfortable going on my own, satisfied in knowing that I was seeing the real Cartagena and not just the stuff in the movies or the guidebooks.
And in the end, after our arepa experience, I think Gloria was happy to have had a little taste of the Cartagena market as well. And maybe she’ll return and take a chance on another arepa.
I hope so.
It happened to my friend Ben in Mendoza, Argentina. And it happened to another traveler-friend, James, on the streets of Arequipa, Peru. And to another, Dan, it happened in a cab in Nicaragua. It even happened in Buenos Aires to my good friend Denise, who was only vacationing for a couple of weeks.
And then it happened to me. I got robbed, or, as my father unsympathetically said just after he sympathetically Western Unioned me $500, I put myself in a lion’s den, so how could I expect not to get eaten?
One moment I was eating jaune de pollo (a whole lot of rice with a tiny piece of chicken in the middle, typical Jungle food I’m told), drinking beer, and laughing at a restaurant in Trujillo, Peru, the next, I was minus a bag and reduced to tears and choppy English.
It took a while for the shock to wear off, and when it did, I felt defeated. Crushed. I’d made it so far: seven and a half months of travel with nothing much worth crying about, save for the beach cover-up/favorite sweltering -weather-going-out-top that I’d lost somewhere between Buenos Aires and Valporaiso.
What I lost (in no particular order of importance):
-sunglasses (an excellent boutique purchase in Santa Fe, Argentina)
-food: a mango, green apple, bag of trail mix
-Passport (full of brag-worthy stamps)
-NARS lipgloss (a recent Christmas present from my pal, Carolyn)
-two tarjetas de credito (credit cards)
-ATM card
-engraved journal (a recent gift from Denise, a fellow SA statistic)
-Louise Erdrich’s Love Medicine
-water purification tablets
-a tampon
-moleskin journal, about 1/8 full of my words, including contact information for Pisco Sin Fronteras’ volunteers
-bus ticket to Mancora
-credit card holder (purchased in China last year)
-$150 soles, roughly $48 USD
-$2 USD, which aren’t worth a damn thing here due to their wear and tear
Because I had myself and only myself (mas o menos) to move forward and deal with the situation, I turned my anger on Peru. All of Peru. And all of its people.
Heading back to Lima to obtain a new passport, etc., I went through the motions of traveling and picking up the pieces (bestowing any and every Peruvian that met my eyes with a withering look of hatred, even as I inwardly reprimanded myself for such obnoxious and immature behavior). Had I not learned anything thus far?
I had no one to blame but myself. And the thief, of course.
I thought about leaving, returning to the States, checking out of the lion’s den, until I realized that the hardest part–navigating my way around enormous Lima mostly by bus because taxis are a luxury (alone), waiting online at the US Embassy(alone), finding out the passport photos I’d had taken a day earlier were the wrong size (alone), vehemently pleading a case for my temporary passport to be good for three months instead of one (alone), filing a police report (alone), visiting the Immigration Office to obtain a stamp that would allow me to leave Peru (alone), trying to asses if the woman outside the Immigration building is telling me the truth about a form I need to buy from her or if she’s scamming me (alone)–would have to be done regardless of whether I cut my trip short or stayed on.
Getting robbed, at the end of the day, or at the end or in the middle of a journey across South America, wasn’t that big of a deal. I know this. It’s almost like a rite of passage. Through my misery, I joked with my friend Rachel, who was relating her story of being mugged in Bali, that maybe you hadn’t really lived unless you’d been robbed.
But did it really have to happen four days before my birthday?
I think I would have cried a little less if I’d had someone to lean on physically, if I’d had, as my dearest friend Eileen put it, someone to rub my shoulders, make a list of the things I needed to do and suggested we sit down for a beer and take a deep breath before moving on to the next thing. Just someone to tell me in my own language, in person, that everything was going to be ok.
But though I’ve done it alone, turns out everything is ok. Ahora (now).
No doubt in part because of the oodles of support I received from concerned friends and family back home, support which often had me walking down the streets of Lima with a fresh face of tears.
And so I soldier on, much to my mother’s chagrin, my Peruvian grudge no longer, thanks to a flirtatious cab driver, who lowered his fare and then lowered it again after he listened to my speech (in Castellano so good he thought I was from Argentina!) about how it was wrong to charge extranjeros more than locals, until finally he gave me his number and offered to take me to the bus station free of charge when I was ready to leave Lima, a birthday gift he said.
And of course, there is the family who welcomed me into their clean, sweet-smelling home with a fridge full of food and hot showers, based on nothing but the recommendation of their Couchsurfing daughter, who is currently studying in Paris, and who, apparently, read my grieving request for a couch and contacted her family in minutes.
Asi que (So) Salud (cheers) to ten more weeks on foreign soil.
I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the flaming balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.
Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a practical performance. His attempts at earning handouts were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.
“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.
I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.
Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily and when he kissed me, I tasted smoke and extinguished fire in his mouth.
“No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?
Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.
I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.
This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.
About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.
They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.
Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.
I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the hip, young couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?
No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.
Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.
I’ve been a pretty big advocate of couchsurfing ever since my first flawless experience surfing in San Francisco in October 2008. Although I wasn’t an active member in NYC (only attending a bar gathering here and there and hosting just twice), I was looking forward to surfing throughout South America as nothing beats getting to know a place with a local, who knows the ins and outs (and speaks the language), or so I thought.
If you’ve been following my journey thus far, you know that I had an excellent beginning to the trip in Sao Paolo, where I was fortunate to be surfing in the city’s nicest and safest neighborhood. The experience in Rio was also pleasant–for the most part. There was the briefest awkward exchange between my host and me, wherein he asked me if he should have kissed me the night before. I explained that it was best that we just stay friends, and although he seemed to accept my statement, if I’m being completely honest, the vibe between us was irrevocably changed from that point forward.
When no one in Salvador was able to host me, I looked forward to hooking up with some fellow travelers and staying in a hostel. Meeting and discovering a city with other backpackers can be just as rewarding as getting to know a place with a resident, albeit in a different way. Additionally, oftentimes, hostel owners are keen on getting to know their guests and will go out of their way to offer travel advice, tips, restaurant suggestions.
Owner Russ of Barra Guest House in Salvador, Brazil was one of those owners. (The free breakfast–pancakes and eggs on order, plus a spread of fresh fruit, cheeses and ham, coffee and tea–wasn’t half-bad either!) While the hostel could have used some sprucing up (the bed linens were so worn that it was impossible to make it through an hour’s sleep without the fitted sheet coming undone on all four corners), I had a fine time exploring the city and just chilling on the beach with the other travelers I met. Iquazu Falls entered my radar, and I gained advice on the best places to see in Chile.
Because it is easier to couchsurf in large cities where there are more members, Bolivia meant staying in hostels until La Paz. That is until I found myself poking around on the site one day and randomly decided to contact one of the four available hosts in Tarija, Bolivia. Overall, the good reaped from my stay in Tarija far outweighed the bad, but I will think again before I even so much as contact a member of the opposite sex with a request to surf.
After speaking with a friend and couchsurfer, I know that my story is common. Common but unfortunate given the wonderful possibilities that a community like couchsurfing promises.
Arriving by overnight bus at 3:30 in the morning, I was quite grateful that my host Jose, who’d given me his address, answered my desperate buzz and showed me inside to a mattress in the middle of the dining room floor. After the vacant house in Salvador, Brazil where I stayed when I had the mumps, the heavily blanketed mattress in front of me looked welcoming and appealing. Before allowing me to nod off, Jose demonstrated how to make (real) coffee in the morning–a pretty big deal for a coffee-lover like myself as most of the good beans in SA are exported–and we talked about having lunch near a winery the next day.
Over our lunch, Jose and I got to talking about couchsurfing, and he told me that most people that he knows do it for sex. Um, excuse me? We were drinking wine and I didn’t want to make an issue of it, but I assume he meant the hope–as opposed to the expectation, a much stronger word–of sexual contact, which I still found appalling.
Our lunch was delicious and varied from the standard almuerzos I’d been eating. Speaking of expectations, Jose expected me to pay for the majority of our meal, and while I was happy to offer him some form of gratitude for allowing me to stay with him (and his mother, a former cocaine addict, who woke up screaming each night), I didn’t appreciate the implication that I owed him. That’s not what couchsurfing is about. Aside from “Is it safe?” the second most popular question I’m asked regarding couchsurfing is if it is free. My reply is always that, yes, it’s free, but it’s common to reciprocate in some way: a beer, a home-cooked meal, baked goods purchased on your morning stroll through the market. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jose expected plenty from me, monetarily at least, and while I value generosity and the ability to be generous, I resent the way Jose expected me to pay for our not inexpensive meal that day, a spare set of keys for his apartment later that afternoon, and a bottle of wine in the evening.
Still, he wasn’t hitting on me, and he seemed decent, if a bit insecure , so what was another few dollars? It wasn’t until late Monday night, on our walk home after hanging in the plaza, drinking and partying with some awesome guys from Argentina that Jose made his first move. The casual arm slung over the shoulder, the attempt to pull me close and then the comment that “we could do so much together,” and I started to grow uncomfortable. I walked on ahead, letting his arm drop and making it clear that his tentative advances were unwanted.
The following day, Jose’s bright and cheery attitude toward me had darkened somewhat, and suddenly, he went from being my personal tour guide to being completely swamped with work. In truth, I was grateful and went on with my business, which included meeting up with the Argentina crew later that afternoon.
“Watch yourself around those guys,” Jose said. “Maybe don’t bring your camera out,” he went on. “You can’t trust them.”
My instincts are strong and my ability to read a situation is powerful. My sense of when to trust and when not to trust is one of my greatest strengths, and I wasn’t worried about my safety with my new friends. Jose stayed in (after instructing me not to come home too late and not to be loud when I returned), and I hung out for hours, practicing my Spanish in a social, relaxed setting, and comprehending as much as I could with a group that spoke only their native language.
Sitting around Plaza Sucre, we passed a jug of cheap red wine around and took turns consulting my phrasebook when the language barrier became problematic. Even though I was understanding about a fifth of what was spoken, I felt like I was learning in the best way possible, and it made me excited to think about hunkering down somewhere to take some classes.
Hugo, one of the Argentinian backpackers, walked me back to Jose’s at the end of the night, offering me his jacket and protection. We agreed to meet the following day to go on to Tupiza together, and while I knew communication would be difficult, I was psyched for the challenge the journey posed.
I fell asleep fast and slept deeply but awoke with a start at around 3:30 in the morning when I heard mumbling. My couchsurfing host, Jose, was standin by my bed–naked– asking me if he could lie down with me because he couldn’t sleep.
I was frightened and backed away from his advancing form. “No, No! Jose, No!” is all I remember saying, and then he was gone, back to bed. Perhaps he’d been sleepwalking. I’ll never know. He acted normal the following morning, and because my bus for Tupiza didn’t leave until 8 PM, I chose not to call him out on his inappropriate actions. Instead I locked my small backpack and went out for the day.
Still, I was undoubtedly shaken up, somewhat traumatized, exhausted and frustrated. My distrust in Jose made me wonder for a brief moment if traveling with Hugo was a sound idea after all, but I turned back to my gut and knew it would be fine.
As it turns out, the three days in Tupiza with Hugo were some of my best days thus far. Instead of paying $100 or more Bolivianos for a trekking tour, we found our own way up into the mountains. Rather than getting sucked into one of the many tourist haunts during the three hour siesta where every authentic Bolivian restaurant shuts down, we purchased pan (bread), and queso (cheese) and made sandwiches in the plaza. Unlike Jose, who showed little patience for my fumbling language skills, Hugo listened and waited for me to get to a place where he could understand me. He repeated himself again and again, changing his way of speaking, and offered me an impromptu lesson on the presente, pasado, and futuro uses of some common verbs when I expressed interest.
I told him I was going to take a class in La Paz and promised that my Spanish would be greatly improved when we met in his hometown of Mendoza in October.
Moving on, preparing for the next destination means saying goodbye. I feel like I am always leaving someone or someplace. I’m just getting to know a town or a city, finding my favorite breakfast stall in the market, and the fastest Internet cafe, and then it’s time to go.
While I am leaving by my own accord (and skipping much-vaunted tours like the Salar de Uyuni), I still struggle with embracing the new, though I almost always do.
If I trusted my gut before this trip (in deciding to do this trip, no less!), I am learning to value it more and more each day. My negative couchsurfing experience still led me to experience Tupiza apart from the other backpackers, and for that, I am grateful. Of course, I will continue to proceed with caution in all that I do, and I will guard my safety, but I will rely on myself. Because I have to. Because I said go.
I’ve had quite the easy time so far: ride from the airport in Sao Paolo, maid service upon arrival, my own bedroom and private bathroom, the father of my couchsurfing host refusing to accept any money for shipping my laptop to NYC, ride from the bus station in Rio with help from friendly Brazilian I met while en route to Rio, assistance from current couchsurfing host, Marcelo, with purchasing bus tickets, booking accommodations and offering pleasant company for various things to do and see (read: everything).
I haven’t had any truly challenging days (unless you consider underestimating the strength of the bottomless caipirinha while on a boat in the middle of the sea a challenge), only a couple of snags along the way, but as a foreign female traveling by herself, I think I may even be at an advantage at times. Recently, my friend Paula sent me an excellent (and brief) link to both the male and female perspective on the solo female traveler: does she have it easier than the solo male?
As Paula and I once backpacked together through Greece, Italy, and Spain for five weeks the summer after we graduated college (yes, we were overnight ferrying it to the pristine but festive island of Mykonos while the majority of our friends became acquainted with the cubicle), I can attest to the luxury of leaving my bag with a friend while I hopped on over to the restroom before the train’s (or ferry’s) departure.
However, safety and, ahem, pee issues aside, I think traveling alone is empowering, liberating, and thrilling. While I don’t know if I’m ready after only a week and a half to conclude that we solo ladies have it easier than the solo guys, I am happy to share a couple of my positive solo travel experiences. Social interaction, for example, Dave’s (aka the male perspective’s) first point, is not difficult for the woman by her lonesome; I’ve found myself bonding easily with foreign women who don’t speak a word of my language. It’s not the kind of bonding that leads to a best friendship, mind you, but it’s the small connection that warms the soul and reminds me that words aren’t always necessary. (And, of course, it’s not all that hard following a little eye contact to make friends of the opposite sex either!)
Nilda (prnounced New-duh), the maid in the Patrick household, took a liking to me and I to her. Though verbal communication was difficult, we had our moments. One evening when I was leaving the townhouse, Nilda rushed to the door to ask me if I was staying for dinner. I understood as much from her gesturing towards the set table and the smells of food cooking in the kitchen. What I wasn’t sure was how to ask her what time dinner was so that I could make an informed decision. I struggled with trying to get her to uderstand me, and eventually I just took out my watch and pointed to the time (7 PM), which is when Nilda said “oito” for 8 PM.
“Ate mais tarde (see you later)”, I said, and when I returned with a bottle of wine and showed it to Nilda, she nodded, opened it and placed it on the table with the other dinner beverages.
In the afternoons, unable to tear myself away from my twice-daily caffeine habit, I’d timidly (still completely unaccustomed to havig a live-in maid) seek Nilda’s help with making the coffee. Each time, she seemed to do it happily but not without looking at me in my tank top and bare arms and asking me if I was cold (frio?). Once I put a sweater on, Nilda seemed content.
The day before I left, I took out my camera and indicated to Nilda that I wanted to take a picture of us. Even though she wasn’t pleased with her appearance (something I figured out by her expression and quick removal of her hat) we smiled for the camera. And when I left, she came over to say goodbye, and I asked Patrick to thank her for me and tell her I enjoyed meeting her.
When I was in China, I had similar bonding experiences in spite of the impossible language barrier. There was the woman who owned the hostel in Yangshuo who gave me breakfast porridge and laughed when her daughters translated that iId named the kitten that lived with them. We say together and drank tea, but we did not speak. And then there was the old and sage Great Wall tour guide who looked out for me as I was the only one among the group traveling by myself. When I showed her the picture taken of us, she smiled her big, toothless grin again.
Earlier today, an Argentine woman started began speaking to me. She had somewhat of an ulterior (but harmless) motive, for she was practiing English, doing her homework as she told me. A lovely woman, she stressed the importance of my safety, told me to be very careful in Argentina. Certainly, we were in a safe and relaxing environment, on a boat in Arraial do Cabo, a small, sleepy (at this time of year, anyway) beach village a few hours from Rio. (Next to Sao Paolo and Rio, it felt like an oasis of safety, but I was grateful for her insight.)
There are, undoubtedly, plenty of obstacles I’ll face by myself on my journey, feelings of homesickness notwithstanding, but I hope none of them will be serious or detrimental. For now, I am mixing it up a little actually and will be traveling with a friend from college for a few weeks in Brazil. I excaped on my own yesterday to Arraial do Cabo, and not without some minor scrapes and bruises either (story to come), but Erin and I will say goodbye to Marcelo on Monday and bid him billions of thanks for his incredible hospitality before we head to Salvador, which is, according to Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring, *the* place travelers are most likely to get mugged. They say there’s safety in numbers, so perhaps this junction of my solo travels is best interrupted.
After only three days in Sao Paolo, I’ve learned that enjoying Brazil on a budget is not so easy. Obviously, I am saving money on accommodations by couchsurfing; furthermore, the family that is hosting me has invited me to consume any food I find in the house.
Last night, Patrick was working late, so I enjoyed dinner with Sylvia and Mark, his lovely parents. My contribution was a bottle of Malbec that ran me about $8 USD. I realize that I am in a fortunate situation. Jardins is, indeed, a ritzy area, much like the upper east side near Central Park, I imagine. All of the buildings are highly secured and gated. I am buzzed in and out every time I come and go, and it feels safe walking around during the day. It is questionable at night, which helps with staying on a budget because I won’t venture out and about by myself, but as I’m sure all of you know, it doesn’t take much time to spend a lot of money.
On my first night, I attended the couchsurfing meeting. They call it a meeting, but it’s really a bar gathering. I am happy to confirm that Brazilians are as nice as everyone says. Aside from a Greece couchsurfer and a guy from Westchester who was doing what I’m doing until he landed a job editing a Web site for an American company based in Buenos Aires (I know, pretty sweet, right?), the group consisted of Sao Paolo folks. I ended up staying for several hours and spent about $30 USD, which I understand is not terribly expensive for a Tuesday night out, but the caipirhinha deal didn’t apply to me because I ordered it with the Brazilian liquor. (Patrick would later tell me I was overcharged.)
I met some of the couchsurfing people for lunch today and ate a pastel de baccalau, a fried rectangular pie filled with dried, salted cod, onion, and plump green olives. At about $5 USD, it wasn’t exactly as inexpensive as I’d have liked. A filling slice of pizza in New York City, after all, will run you about $2-3 USD.
Food and drink aside, the main cost is proving to be travel within Brazil’s borders. For example, bus rides are pricey and pricier depending on the amount of luxury one chooses. I’ve decided to fly from Rio to Salvador because I found a flight for only $82 USD, whereas a bus ticket would have been close to $100 USD. At this point, I have little idea of where I’ll go from Salvador, but I’ll probably end up spending a pretty penny to fly to Central West Brazil. Fortunately, all of my couchsurfing requests have been accepted, and before I meet up with a friend from the states in Rio on Monday, I’ll be staying with Marcelo, who lives in Ipanema Beach. Gabriel, a resident in Salvador, an African-influenced area, has agreed to host me for a couple of nights. I’d couchsurf in every city if I could, but the problem is that only the big cities have a lot of CS hosts. Outside the Pantanal, where I’d like to do an ecological expedition, there are few, if any CS hosts.
After Brazil, I’ll be in Bolivia, which *should* help me stay on budget. My budget, in case you are curious, is about $25-30 a day, not including tours or excursions or flights. What I need to do is sit down and do some math.
Not everything in Brazil is as expensive as it is in New York, however. This afternoon I got a bikini wax for only $7 USD. That’s unbelievably cheap! Tomorrow I need to purchase a Brazilian bikini, something I’m not looking forward to donning.
When in Brazil…
Definition couchsurfing: staying on a stranger’s couch free of charge, moving from one couch to the next over the course of travel, surfing as in sleeping or crashing when one needs a place to stay, that which provides budget accommodations, community-forming.
I’m not quite a newbie when it comes to couchsurfing–my first time surfing as we CSers fondly call it was in San Francisco in October 2008, and my second (albeit failed) attempt was in Shanghai in January 2009, and I’ve hosted surfers twice–but I’m no veteran either.
I’ve gone to exactly one CS event in NYC, and these types of events–bar parties, potluck dinners, picnics in the park, Bryant Park movie nights, RSVP-required shindigs, comedy club outings–occur frequently in the city and in its best borough, Brooklyn.
But I’m trying to get more involved. I’m trying to be a regular surfer throughout South America. Last night I quickly browsed the site for available couches, and if you’re interested in reading more about how this all works, check out Nomadic Matt’s excellent post on the subject. I dashed off three brief but (I hoped) charming messages to potential hosts and changed my “availability” to “traveling at the moment” as the surfing requests had been inundating my inbox lately.
I woke up this morning to three positive replies: “Sure, Stacey, you can stay with me during those dates…” “I can host you, Stacey. Please confirm… ” “What time do you get in, Stacey? I can probably pick you up from the airport…”
I read the entirety of the last reply to my sister, who also has a couchsurfing profile and good experiences to speak of, especially with the “meet for coffee or a drink” option that the site offers interested members who choose not to offer an actual couch.
“Go with Patrick,” Stephanie encouraged once I’d revealed the name of the possible airport pickup.
Now I’d been intending to take public transportation to my first in-city destination, be it a hostel or host’s place. Budget travel doesn’t allow for cab rides just because they’re the easier option(at least not often, anyway). Budget travel generally means opting for the more difficult option, which, in my past experiences, ends up becoming the story you tell over and over again, making it ironically the best option.
But this offer for the airport pickup was too much to refuse. Plus, if I recalled correctly from my Sao Paolo couchsurfing profile-browsing, Patrick lived with his parents and siblings, which at least *sounded* safe. I’d accept his offer and politely thanks but no thanks the others.
Initially, I was planning on staying in a hostel my first few nights. Figuring it would be a good idea to give myself some time to get adjusted to the whole OMG-I’m-traveling-for-9-12-months-what-the-hell-am-I-doing? thing, a hostel, where I’d hook up with other like-minded travelers seemed like a wise first move. Yet no one seems to embrace fully Sao Paolo as they do Rio di Janeiro or Salvador or Buenos Aires. From what I’ve read, Sao Paolo is a huge metropolis, difficult to navigate, and not all that pretty. Supposedly the nightlife scene was hopping, and it’s common to stay out until 6 AM no matter the night of the week, but I might want to ease into that lively scene. Maybe with a local guide of some sort then, like a fellow CS member.
Cat, a lovely Canadian couchsurfer who stayed with me in early May, had just completed nearly a year of couchsurfing throughout South America, and she spoke highly of her stays, claiming that in South America the hosts were excited about taking you out and showing you around. There’s no guarantee that a host will have time to point you to the cloest bus let alone take you clubbing.
Sure, couchsurfing is nice because at its most basic function, it provides you with a place to sleep; it saves you money. But that’s not its purpose. And it’s not what it’s all about. When I hosted, although I had little time to entertain, I delighted in the giving. Here I was, a person of little means financially, able to provide a towel, blankets, fresh, clean water, a rich cup of coffee in the morning, conversation, and a place to rest for a perfectly trustworthy stranger from a different city, country, or continent.
The community is growing in popularity, judging from the number of members–over one million–and it’s an excellent travel option for the backpacker. Like most of my trip, I’m not sure when or where I’ll surf. I don’t know when I’ll choose a hostel over a host, or why–until I’m in the decision-making moment, I assume–but that’s the idea, if you haven’t picked up on it yet. I’ll go when I go. Because I said go.
Because I Said Go 
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