Couchsurfing Interview: Transnistria

During my travels, I make many ridiculously bad decisions that cause me to either: a.) waste money b.) offend foreigners or c.) inflict bodily and potentially life-threatening harm on myself.  As you can probably guess, c.) is usually a result of b.), which always comes after a lot of a.) in a local bar.  If not for the helpful people I have meet through Couchsurfing, I would end up broke and dead from trying to display my knowledge of Russian dirty words to the wrong person.

Speaking of Russian, I had an interview in Russian about Couchsurfing in Tiraspol, Transnistria.  Huh?  Transnistria is a country in Moldova -wait, so it's not really a country- but two other countries, South Otessia and Abkhazia, recognize it, but those are not really countries either, however according to the European Court of Human Rights, Russia has "effective authority or at least decisive influence" there, and in fact if we now consider Crimea then...well, fuck, I just went cross-eyed.  Sufficient to say, Transnistria doesn't come up in the spell-check, so that should give you an idea of what we're dealing with here.

I will explain what, exactly, Transnistria is another time.

One of the Couchsurfers I contacted is a journalist.  The interview we had was part of a concert she arranged for me at a local cafe, Freedom Antikafe.  Since Couchsurfing is still a novelty in Transnistria (I can't imagine why), she wanted me to explain what it is, my advice and opinion on it, and what I have done as a part of it for the last 5 years.  Not much, I think.

I got through the interview without completely spazzing out, although after seeing myself on television, I understand now why so many of my friends say I look, and act, like Jim Carrey.  If you are one of the 260 million people who know Russian, great, you will have no problems.  If, like me, the only Russian you know is "vodka," there is a complete English transcript below the video, with my greatest thanks going out to another CS friend for the translation.  This is my live, unadulterated opinion on the Couchsurfing project that has helped me travel so much.

I consider it my greatest achievement that I have become famous in a country that, technically, doesn't exist.  This is far more important than being famous in an actual country, like France.

Let’s meet: this is Raleigh. He is a musician and Couchsurfer. He has traveled for 4 years using Couchsurfing.

Raleigh is not a millionaire, but in the last 2 months he has been to Sweden, France, Luxembourg, Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Moldova and now he is playing a short live concert in Transnistria.

{Interview #1}:

I only knew 3 things about Transnistria: troublesome border crossings, beautiful girls and everything being cheap. It’s all that I knew. And now I am here. I didn't have any problems at the border, I was welcomed at my host’s place, was eating and drinking a lot {in Russian it doesn't mean alcohol}. Also I was talking to a lot of people. I find people here very inquisitive.

Raleigh was welcomed, was feed and was shown around by Olga. They met through the CS website.

{Olga’s interview #1}:

On this website you can find notes and references about people you may host. Raleigh has a lot of positive references. I even remember the exact number - 62. For sure there is some risk...But I read his references and it showed that he is an interesting person. That’s why I decided to risk it and I don’t regret it.

Also on this website you need to point out your availability to host someone. If you have this opportunity, then write how many people you are able to host at once, preferred gender, sleeping place condition, how a surfer can reach your place and other important things.

But if you don’t have an opportunity to host, you can choose a status “meet for a walk\coffee”. Surfers do not have to ask about comfortable conditions. All they need is a place to sleep and someone to chat with.

This was the same situation with Raleigh {exact translation. Not correct even in Russian} when he hosted his first surfer in America [actually Slovakia].

{Interview #2}:

He was a Turkish student. He didn't have a place to stay. I told him: “I just moved into my new apartment, I don’t have furniture, not even a bed.”  So he stayed at my place for a weekend. It was a funny weekend.

The idea about CS came to Casey Fenton in 2000 when he bought a cheap ticket to Iceland but he didn't have a place to stay. So he mailed around 1500 Icelandic students asking if it was possible to stay at someone’s place. After his awesome weekend in Iceland he decided to stop using touristy stuff so he created this community. Now CS unites around 6 million people from 246 countries. They help each other, provide accommodation and it’s all for free. By the way, it is amazing language practice.

{Olga’s interview #2}

He speaks English. It is his native language. And I was interested in talking with someone in English. My son studies it at school, he was interested in it as well.

English is the most popular language in the CS community. But it is always better to know a few more languages because you never know where you might be and what might happen. In 4 years of traveling Raleigh once faced an unexpected situation in Hungary.

{Your interview #3}:

Two people offered me a place to stay. I got there around 9 pm. It was rainy there. I don’t speak Hungarian and most Hungarians don’t speak English. I was repeating one word “university”. Someone showed me the university. I tried to call the CS girl, but no answer. The guy didn't answer as well. I thought: I need to find an internet cafe to send requests. But everything was closed by 10 pm. Cold and rainy. I was scared. But eventually I found a girl who speaks Spanish. A student from Brazil, and she showed me a place to stay at the student’s dorm.

Raleigh says: The most important part of traveling is to think about even small things before and to learn as much as possible about a person who has accepted you.

{Interview #4}:

If a person has some information -read it! For example, I look for musicians. I look for guitars, music, photos with a guitar. I look for Spanish as well because I speak Spanish. Read profiles. It is personal. Don’t write “Hey, I need a place to stay. I will be tomorrow in Tiraspol”. No one going to read it. Everyone wants to know that you've read his profile.

So CS is not just cheap way to travel, but also a priceless experience of meeting with different people.

{End Interview}

If you are adept at video-editing thingies, contact me, please.  It would be awesome to add English subtitles to this video.  My attempts at this so far have resulted in beer-scented tears. 

I'm Going To Europe, If I Can Survive American Public Transportation

Americans get criticized for their limited knowledge of world geography, and rightfully so.  The average American, when asked to find the capitol of Europe, will point to France.  This is, of course, a gross mistake.  The capitol of Europe is Germany, which is located directly west of Czechoslovakia.

Why such epic geographical failure?  One major issue is that, without a car, traveling to international airports can be an expensive logistic nightmare if you are not from a US state named New York or California.  The United States gives public transportation the same priority as cleaning toilets, since using it means having to share personal space with strangers of questionable psychological stability, legal status and body odor.  There are not many options for public transportation in major cities, and choices become non-existent when you live in the middle of nowhere, like me.

I grew up in Alton, Illinois, a redneck and ghetto river town which is located close to absolutely nothing.  A one hour drive will get me to St. Louis Lambert International Airport.  St. Louis is a notable city, but it is not quite an international travel destination, which means there's few affordable flight options for leaving the North American continent.  The next closet option: an incredibly boring, cornfield-and-cow filled drive 5 hours north to Chicago O'Hare International Airport.  After years of desperately trying to leave the Midwest, I've discovered that even after adding transportation costs -be they gas, train or bus- flying out of Chicago is often still cheaper than leaving from nearby St. Louis.

This is my second attempt at trying to achieve permanent employment on the European continent.  I hope to get something better than the low income, soul-sucking work of a generic English-As-A-Foreign-Language teacher.  This job works fine when you are young, hopeful and speak English by possessing the highly-trained skill of being born in the USA, England or Canada.  After a few years of teaching English abroad; however, you realize that you are simply a trained monkey with a "Native Speaker" sign on your head whose principal purpose is explaining your countries' pop culture references (which you hate) to your students.  Please, non-Americanos, no one says, "How YOU doin?" anymore...

Notice I did not mention Ireland, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa.  I have yet to actually understand what people from these countries are saying to me, other than "Fuck off, Yank."

Amtrak is the USA's only national passenger train line, and it appears to survive solely on dwindling government subsidies.  My city's lone Amtrak train station has infrequent trains to Chicago.  I considered the megacheap Megabus, but they only have nonstop lines direct from downtown St. Louis.

With my flight already confirmed, I booked an Amtrak train a few days ahead of my departure.  I was dismayed to find out that my train was...a bus.  There is one train line to Chicago, and it was under "unexpected" repairs.  The bus was from Greyhound, which only made the situation worse.  Remember in all dog races there is only one winner; Greyhound is not that dog.  I had the option to take the bus to Joilet, a city approximately an hour south of Chicago, and transfer to the train there.  But this was more than twice as expensive and required waiting in Joilet for an additional 2 hours.

Why pay someone $500 to punch you in the face, when you can get the same thing by paying $10 to enter a club and call the bouncer's mother a slut??

Taking public buses and trains long distance through America allows you to see interesting small towns where the city center is the local Walmart™®©☹ and farm equipment is the principle form of artistic expression.  I planned to sleep the entire 5 hour trip.  I stowed my large backpack and guitar in the luggage compartment below and took my small bag with me on the bus.  This bag easily allows me to access my toiletries, books, music, porn, etc..., but more importantly, I can place on it the seat next to me so I can avoid sharing personal space with other, often foul-smelling, people.

This technique works as long as the bus or train doesn't fill up completely.  Whenever we approach a stop, I place my bag on the adjacent seat and pretend to be asleep.  Most people are more polite than I am, and find another empty seat so that they don't disturb my slumber.  On my Alton-Chicago bus trip, this technique proved to be a wise choice.  At the first stop in Lincoln, a large cowish black lady weighing in at around 300 pounds entered the bus and lumbered her way down the aisle while apologizing to the smaller passengers who were fleeing from her path.

I silently prayed to myself.  After staring at my bag for a minute, she squeezed into the seat behind me.  When the bus started up again, she started a loud conversation with someone on her phone:

"You're starting high school today? Where you going...Lincoln High? Yeah, I used to go there myself.  It's gone downhill, really...  Yeah, yeah, lots of black people going there now."

She continued talking about how black people were fucking up the educational system, until she -saint that she was- gave up her seat to a Hispanic mother and her son.  I would have preferred she stay there bellowing on the phone.  Within minutes the little kid began to kick my seat from behind and laugh like it was the best entertainment in the world.  Her mother was yelling in Spanish on her phone, but switched to English in a vain attempt to make her niño stop being an annoying little prick:

Mama: "Vamos a estar in Chicago...Stop kicking the seat!  Vamos a llegar muy pronto, no se como...stop kicking the seat!

Kid: "Hahahahahaha, whatever, Mom."

Mama: Si, claro claro....I told you. OK, leave the nice man alone. Disculpe, vamos como a las 10...I told you STOPKICKINGNOW! NOW NOW DAMMIT!"

I would be unhappy, but a Latina chick could be telling me she's putting a restraining order on me and I would still be horny.  This is why I studied Spanish.

The bus stopped in Champaign-Urbana, home of the University of Illinois, one of the few towns on the way with a collective IQ above 100.  However no sexy college girls get on the bus, because any attractive, well-dressed college girls already have their own car that daddy has paid for, along with their education and allowance they spend on drinking Jager Bombs, having sex with random frat boys and buying the latest smartphone for #omg #selfie #wishyouwereme Instagram pics.  Instead the bus fills up with Asian exchange students, black inner-city Chicago guys and trailer park white trash.  One of these inbreed country Mongoloids taps me on the shoulder: "Excuse me, sir, may I sit down?"

I tell him yes, and quickly avoid a boring conversation by pulling out my Samsung Galaxy to check my flight information and search Chicago hotels.  He in turns pulls out his iPhone and instantly gets engrossed in the latest version of "Super Fucking Really Angry Birds."  Although we don't talk, he communicates with me by emitting a potent odor of cigarette smoke, marijuana and bacon cheeseburgers.  My eyes start to water.

He stares at his iPhone.  I stare at my Galaxy, and through the tears, finally booked a night at a cheap hotel in Rosemont where O'hare International Airport is located.  A quick look around the bus reminds me that I haven't left the USA; everyone is staring at their smartphones.  This is now a bus full of college guys.  Every phone screen has the familiar blue text, pop-up photo of some duck-facing college girl they are Facebook stalking.

The bus is silent, and after 20 minutes my nose is relieved when the country Mongoloid gets off the bus.  I enjoy the smartphone-induced silence and the fresh air.

It doesn't last long.  A ripple of noise begins from the back of the bus: "Uhhhh" "Awww man...." "Oh God!" It slowly grows, and suddenly one of the Asian students behind me yells: "OHMYGOD! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?!"  A smell far worse than Mongoloid Boy hits my face.  I start coughing, then scream: "THAT SMELLS HORRIBLE! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"  The guys around me start laughing between coughing spasms and shouts of: "HORRIBLE, WHAT DIED UP YOUR ASS, FUCK DUDE!"  We all share glances with each other, bonding for a moment in unity over the silent but incredibly noxious fart that no one will claim.

The fart clears eventually and the bus is silent again.  I figure it's time to listen to some music, but realize my headphones are in my big backpack, which is stored only 10 feet under my ass, but a world away.  I decide to read.  From years of living in Latin America, I now loathe people who don't bring headphones on public transportation and prefer to loudly share the latest Pitbull single ("Bon Bon Loca Culo Dale") on their phone with the other 50 people they are riding with on the bus.

One of these idiots is two seats in front of me.  The lyrics aren't clear, but the tish-tishatish high-hat beat marks it as rap music of the Dirty South persuasion.  The producer decided to use a particular keyboard sound which beeps at the same frequency as a hospital heart monitor for a patient in the final stages of terminal illness.  Unfortunately, this particular patient never dies.  It continues beeping for an infinite amount of time while the passenger occasionally repeats the lyrics.

"Beep...beep, beep (bitch I told ya...) Beep...beep, beep (you know I get money...) Beep (Uh, Uh, Yeah, out on these streets daaaily...) beep, beep...(bitch...) Beep...

Flatline, please.  My teeth start grinding, and continue until the songs stops approximately 10.78 hours later.  The wannabee rapper gets off in Summit, a town which in my 30 years in Illinois I have never heard of.  Looking out the window, I realize why.

When I reach the Chicago city limits, to my left I see the soaring Sears Tower illuminated in the night sky, and to my right an equally illuminated billboard reminding me:

WOW, YOUR WIFE IS HOT!!

Time for you to change your air conditioner.

Four Seasons Heating & Air Conditioner

Chicago, with a population of over 2.75 million, is the United States 3rd largest city.  Union Station is in the heart of downtown, and arriving there at 10pm at night after being in a small town for several months is overwhelming.  To get from Union Station to Chicago O'Hare International Airport, I have to walk to Clinton Street to take the Metro Blue Line.  Clinton Street is only 2 blocks away, but the underground station is spread out under about 8 city blocks which have 4 different exits.  I, true to form, chose the one farthest from the Blue Line station.

Unlike in foreign countries, I can speak English here, so I should have no problem asking someone for directions, right?  I didn't have to ask, because once I stepped on the sidewalk, several homeless men approached me to kindly offer their help.  I waved them away and asked a security guard for Clinton Street and the Blue Line.  He directed me back inside the station, where I questioned a well-informed Amtrak employee.  Her eyes searched the ceiling.  After a long minute, she sent me to the same exit where I had just entered.  When the security guard saw me leaving again, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away.  The Chicago winter suddenly felt very cold.

One of the more persistent homeless men saw his chance.  "Hey man, What you looking for?"  I told him the Blue Line, and he motioned me to follow.  I was too tired to argue, so I went with him, knowing where it would lead.  After walking a brief two blocks to the station, he began telling me, "Hey man, hey man, you know I'm out on the streets, the economy's not so good, it's cold and..."

I threw him a dollar fifty-three to make him shut up.  Enjoy that malt liquor, homeless man.

The Metro Blue Line clanked along for 30 minutes to the Rosemont station.  It was full of weird people, but at 11pm at night they were all sleeping.  At the station I grabbed a taxi from a man whose grasp of the English language was slim to say the most.  He did say I chose ("you chooose") a good hotel.  His name was Al-Sayyadd Malhalabaladurkala, and I suspected he had relatives who worked at the hotel where I was staying.

In fact, the hotel staff was from Pakistan, but I doubt they were terrorists.  They checked me in with a minimum amount of "Excuse me's?"  It was a challenging day, and I went to a nearby hotel bar to get my final taste of American microbrews.  After too many beers, and ouzo shots courtesy of the Greek bartender, I passed out thankful for having survived a day of American public transportation.

USA Interstate Public Transporation:

1. Amtrak Railways
2. Greyhound Buslines
3. Megabus Buslines

Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica

Some travel website thought my rants about Costa Rica were worth publishing, because I was writing something different from the usual happy, smiling green tree frogs, cute tree sloths, "Pura Vida" bullshit.  I submitted one blog post; they published it, paid me, and I spent the money on a bottle of Flor De Caña Rum to celebrate my success.  

Not surprisingly, the post comments were split 50/50 between: "You wrote a well-researched, informative AND funny article," and "You're an ignorant asshole, gringo."  I responded to the negative comments in Spanish.

Following this, the website requested a write-up to be titled, Things Nobody Ever Tells You About Costa Rica.  This is the result.  Even though this article is a series of true stories, it must have scared them off, since I haven't heard from them yet, but my irritated Tweets prompted them to finally publish it.

Maybe you won't be offended by my Five Reasons Costa Rica Sucks (the real title,) Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica, an even better title they chose.  After reading it again, I decided to edit it and add more information in order to shut down the haters I expected to get.

Too late.  It got published before the additional edits.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway.   People today have Internet ADHD and just have the patience to read 140 character Tweets before making a well-informed, "Y U SUK, LOLZ" opinion.  Judging by the posts, most readers got halfway through the first paragraph of the article before writing profanity-filled, misspelled, Wikipedia-researched comments.  They vehemently defended Costa Rica's rose-tinted tourist wonderland image, and most assumed I was an ignorant redneck who hadn't traveled anywhere outside of the "First World."  Apparently, clicking on my blog link with 2 years worth of travel posts was too much effort...

Enjoy the complete version, with further edits if I ever feel motivated.
   

Article For Matador Network:

Everyone told me I live in "The Happiest Country In The World."  So why after 2 years in Costa Rica am I paranoid, depressed, alcoholic and ready to shoot the next person who calls me, my friend?  My concerns started before my flight had even landed at the haphazard concrete and steel structure they call Juan Santamaria International Airport.

I thought I would have a nice, quiet flight with an empty seat next to me.  Not quite.  Right as the last boarding call was announced, a sweaty, extremely hairy kid sporting a tie-dyed shirt and Birkenstocks rushed into the plane and slumped down next to me.  He gave off an odor of marijuana-tainted apathy, and most likely planned to live in some organic commune in the middle of the jungle with a ragtag bunch of other idealistic hippies who hate "the system," but ironically made enough money from it to escape.  After we took off, he pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped package and asked me in a conspiratorial tone, "Do you eat brownies...Y'know, special ones?" 

Mmm, tasty.

Going through customs always makes me paranoid.  Doing it with weed-induced altitude sickness makes me want to lash out at first sight of the menacing, gun-toting customs officers who greet me at the airport.  This dirty hippie gave me a fitting introduction to the many problems I would encounter while living in paradise.

1. Naive Tourists: Tourists like my tie-dyed friend hear many anecdotes praising Costa Rica as the veritable utopia of Latin America, a part of the world known more for drug trafficking, violent crime, kidnapping, and poverty.  They assume that if the travel industry calls it "The Switzerland Of Central America," then surely it must function as efficiently and safely as that little quasi-neutral European country.  I stepped out of Juan Santamaria International Airport with a hopeful smile, thinking that at the terminal exit there might be an easily visible, well-marked bus stop with regular buses to the San Jose city center.

Nothing.  Smelling my gringo scent, I was greeted by 524,003 short men with comical English offering me "very good prices" to San Jose.

2. What Public Transportation?: The taxi drivers were telling me there was no bus, the station was far away, it was too late and other such fanciful lies.  Gracias a Dios, I speak Spanish.  I found an honest person who directed me to the bus stop, which is hidden on the opposite side of the large parking garage.  There was no schedule.  Buses come every "20 minutes or so."  Eventually a bus took me to the central Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station.  

Notice I said "Alajuela" Bus Station.  San Jose does not have one, or two or even three central bus stations.  At the time of this writing, there are about 25 different stations and stops to various locations around the country.  Efforts have been made to centralize the transportation, but the greedy bosses who own the individual bus companies are not ready to give up their control so easily.  This usually means having to take a taxi from the Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station to another station in order to transfer to that bus to beautiful sun-kissed Malpais.

3. Taxi Vultures: Taxis are a necessary evil for tourists.  You do not have to find one; they will find you.  You can have fun negotiating prices with illegal "pirate taxis" but, like pirates, they are bloodthirsty and will rape and pillage you.  If you prefer riding legally, find a taxi that is red and has a clearly marked, inverted yellow triangle with black call numbers.  In local slang, the taxi meter machine is called La Maria.  Be sure to tell the driver to turn it on.  He will smile and commend you on your knowledge of Costa Rican tiquisimos, and later complain to his colleagues that some gringo knew this code word.

Taxi drivers do not even know their way around the city, or they pretend not to know when a tourist gets in the vehicle.  One night I went with my lovely blond French friend to a club called Mas Tequila in the San Pedro neighborhood where I lived.  I told the driver the address in Spanish: "200 Meters Southeast of the Flag Rotunda, Boulevard Dent, Plaza Antares."  He drove around the Flag Rotunda to Boulevard Dent then...drove right past it on the same road we came from:

"Hey! We just drove past Mas Tequila."

"No, no, no. It is in Barrio Dent."

"What? Uh, no.  We just came from Barrio Dent. Turn around.  This shouldn't be more than 3000 Colones"

"You aren't from here.  You probably don't know."

"I've lived here for one year and I work in San Pedro neighborhood.  I eat lunch at Plaza Antares."

"What?  You don't believe me??"

He angrily pulled the vehicle over and stepped out.  He went back to the trunk, and reached in to get...something.  I doubt it was tequila.  At this point my blond French friend jumped out of the taxi and started apologizing to the driver.  Her sexy French-accented Spanish relaxed him for a moment.

Ooh la la.  I slammed a rojo (1000 Colones) on the passenger seat then walked away before it got complicated.

   

4. The "Green Season": Why take taxis?  Well, out of the 12 months of the year in Costa Rica, it's raining for approximately 15 of those months.  In the tourist industry, this period is called the "green season," because "never-ending-depressing-rainy-season" doesn't sell as well, and India already owns the legal copyright on "monsoon season."  Taxis are the best way to avoid getting soaked if you visit Costa Rica during any month that isn't named January.

On the plus side, hotel rates are cheaper during the "green season," which is great as you will be spending most of your vacation in them.

  

5. But There's No Military, People Are Peaceful?:  There's another good reason to take taxis.  It's safer than walking the streets after nightfall.  I come from St. Louis, an American city which twice won the dubious award for "Most Dangerous City In The USA," (We're #1!! Woo!!) and I have never been assaulted there.

Witnessed a murder scene in front of my apartment, yes.  Had my car broken into twice, yes.  Had a man offer to suck my dick for crack money - well, naturally.  But never physically assaulted.

During 2 years in happy Costa Rica, I was robbed twice: once with a knife, and another time with a gun.  The first time was expected, as it happened in San Jose, the urban capital city.  The second time was surprising, since it happened with another person on a road in the jungle on the outskirts of Puerto Viejo, a small, relaxed Caribbean coastal town - appropriately enough on my last night in Costa Rica.

This is nothing.  All my Costa Rican friends can outdo me with their own armed robbery stories.  They tell these stories as casually as the latest soccer scores between the big teams, Alajuelita and Saprissa.  One of my friends has been robbed 8 times in her brief 24 years.  This is why she buys the cheapest mobile phones; she expects them to disappear on a regular basis, like that left sock in the dryer.

Of course, nothing bad may happen to you in Costa Rica, especially if you take an all-inclusive, package tour where the worst thing that will happen is a wicked hangover due to an excess of poolside Piña Coladas.  For the rest of the normal backpackers without big expense accounts, good luck, and never-ending Pura Vida.