By Gabi Logan

For travelers with itchy feet and empty pockets, WWOOFing sounds like the perfect opportunity. You can stay for free (with food included) amid such picturesque rural locations as olive orchards in Italy on cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean, rolling hills covered with lavender in the south of France, and blossoming cherry orchards in Japan.

“Sign me up!” you may be thinking, and while there are few drawbacks–you’ll even get a great tan–WWOOFing is not something you should rush into.

WWOOFing essentially means having your home, job, and social life all confined to one, often isolated, place and a handful of people. Wouldn’t you thoroughly check out the situation before accepting a job or signing a lease on an apartment?

Ask these key questions before confirming your WWOOFing stay to make sure that you–and your host–are happy with the arrangement.

What do you want to get out of the experience?

This is the only question to ask yourself and not your host, but it’s a biggie. Do you want to learn a skill like how to make cheese or garden organically or prepare artisanal marmalade? Or are you just looking for a new kind of work exchange experience or free room and board for a few months? 

The WWOOF organization is very staunch about the fact that WWOOFing is a knowledge and cultural exchange, not just a work for lodging quid pro quo. The President of the Italian WWOOF association, Claudio Pozzi, relayed to me that “if there is not sharing and exchange, the relationship becomes one of subordination, and that is the domain of other organizations. I want to reiterate that [for us] work is not a form of payment for hospitality.”

If you are not keen on learning something from your experience, whether it is specifically about organic farming or more generally about your host’s language, culture, or lifestyle, WWOOFing is probably not the best match for you. Look into a more general work exchange network like HelpX (http://www.helpx.net/).

What type of work goes on when you’ll be visiting?

Some WWOOF hosts are technically on top of things, providing a Google calendar outlining what type of work goes on each week or spelling out a rough overview of the main focus of each season in their WWOOF listing. Even in these cases, and especially when this information is not available, it’s worth discussing the planned projects with your host before confirming your stay. Otherwise you may find yourself sterilizing barrels and presses at a winery for a month instead of actually learning how to make wine, or bundling hay for three weeks instead of learning to make goat cheese as happened to a fellow WWOOFer.

When will you work?

Life in the countryside begins early. Whether there are animals that need to be fed, vegetables that need to be picked and packed for the market, or difficult labors to be finished before the midday heat sets in, you’ll probably be expected to start at 8 a.m. at the latest. Check on the typical morning hours with your host so you don’t find yourself in a place where work starts at 6 a.m. when you’ve never managed to get up before 8 or 9 in your entire life. Likewise, check which days your host expects you to work. A five day work week is not the norm on a farm, though religious households typically take a day off as a matter of course. Be clear up front if you expect to travel on the weekends.

How long will you be expected to work?

Before I embarked on my first WWOOFing experience, I was bewitched by a story in the Guardian in which the writer and her friend worked in the garden each morning, enjoyed a filling lunch made from local ingredients with their hosts, and set out each afternoon to explore the Tuscan countryside–even taking advantage of local thermal hot springs to nurse their sore muscles. Imagine my surprise when my host assumed I would work 8-10 hour days six or seven days a week! Setting (preferably in writing) an expected number of work hours before you arrive gives you something concrete to point to if you feel like you are being taken advantage of.

Will you be staying with other people?

For some travelers, meeting other adventurers is a big part of the experience. But if you’re not totally comfortable sharing close quarters with total strangers–a young female having to share a small room with a 40-year-old guy for two months for instance (true story)–ask your host about the situation in advance. They’ll probably already know who will be around during that time and may have a private or semi-private option if you ask far enough in advance. Watch how you ask though; I saw a WWOOF host laugh hysterically at the presumption of a couple who asked if they could stay in a private room.

Where will you stay?

As we covered in GoMad Nomad’s WWOOFing 101 guide, accommodations can vary from a private, self-service apartment with internet, full kitchen, tv and sitting areas to a tent or sparse caravan. Before you leave you’ll want to know whether you can expect to stay inside or not, and whether your electronics will be secure (or even rechargeable) during your stay.

Can you get into town (or to other towns) on your own?

If you are just looking for a rural experience, an isolated host is no problem. But being stuck in an inaccessible part of Tuscany with no way to explore Florence, Chianti, or the surrounding towns could put a big damper on your plans to use WWOOFing as a base to see the region. Ask your host about local transportation or other options for WWOOFers; some hosts have bikes available for their volunteers or will be happy to drive you to the nearest train station or show you around themselves.

The difference between a sob story WWOOFing experience and the time of your life can either come down to chance or preparation–it’s up to you if you want to take your chances with Lady Luck. 

It can be really difficult to get in touch with hosts, but asking you host these key questions before you confirm your stay ensures that you take control of your WWOOFing time and end up with the best situation for you.

Gabi Logan is a freelance blogger and travel writer. While renovating a Ligurian farmhouse on a recent WWOOFing trip, she finally found a way to put her Italian literature degree to use: bonding over Dante with her hosts.

By Gabi Logan

For independent travelers, WWOOFing is an ideal way to travel slowly and inexpensively and learn something along the way.

But what is WWOOFing? How do you do it? Why on earth does the word have two ‘w’s?

What is WWOOFing?

Officially, WWOOF stands for “World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms,” but among travelers and hosts, the older name “Willing Workers on Organic Farms” persists, emphasizing the very human component of the organization. Volunteers work for free (sort of) for organic farms all around in the world, from Turkey to Taiwan to Tonga.

In its early years in the U.K., the organization was known as “Working Weekends on Organic Farms” and focused more on giving city dwellers an opportunity to get out into the countryside and support the organic movement. Short stays taught visitors about the movement, but weren’t the ideal situation for farmers, who were investing a lot of time teaching volunteers who were only around for one weekend.

Reflecting this need, the organization shifted away from directly organizing trips for volunteers and toward individual long-term farm stays, acting more as a resource facilitating the connections between volunteers and farms. The organization briefly adopted the name “Willing Workers on Organic Farms,” but governments took issues with people “working” on farms without work visas, and the name changed to its current form.

Today, volunteers organize their own farm stays, contributing their work to organic farms in exchange for meals, a place to stay, and training from in ecologically-sound agriculture.

WWOOFing Terminology

If you visit any national WWOOF organization, you’ll find that very specific terminology has evolved to describe these unique arrangements.

“WWOOF” is the name of the international organization overseeing all national WWOOF chapters, but is used primarily as a verb, describing the act of organizing and going on a farm stay or the work itself. For instance, in Italian, you can say you “fare lo WWOOFing” (do WWOOFing).

The farms, vineyards and orchards where volunteers stay are called hosts, similar to an immersive language-learning homestay. The volunteers themselves are known as “WWOOFers,” which may sound a bit like an onomatopoeic name for canines, but actually sounds much more charming in non-English accents.

Who Should WWOOF?

The main requirement for WWOOFers is an interest in organic farming practices. The organization emphasizes that this is not just a way to arrange a cheap vacation. Beyond that, you need to be okay with roughing it and physically able to complete manual labor tasks.

Some hosts provide nicer accommodations than others, in a guest house, private apartment, or hotel room if they run a hotel on site. But these opportunities are more the exception than the rule, and many hosts offer simple campers or tent sites for WWOOFers. If you have a real need for multiple hot showers a day and modern, indoor accommodations, you’ll need to really screen the hosts.

Likewise, the work WWOOFers perform is not equally demanding in all WWOOFing locations. With some hosts, you can work primarily in the kitchen canning jams or making herbal tinctures, but other larger farms may have odd jobs like building a shed or a stone fence that WWOOFers need to help out with. If you have any serious physical limitations, let your prospective host know in advance so they can decide if you’re compatible with the work at their farm.

What do WWOOFers do?

If you envision riding around on tractors and milking cows when you hear “farm stay,” you’ve only imagined a small part of the possibilities of WWOOFing. In some areas, hosts fit into this pastoral farm mold, but more often than not, hosts are small, independent operations specializing in a one product or type of agricultural output.

You can learn to make goat cheese in the Alps, blend pinot noir in Australia, run an agrotourism school in the south of France, harvest olives and make olive oil in Portugal, build irrigation systems in Ghana, heard cattle in Argentina, or grow papayas in Hawaii.

The basic premise remains the same no matter where you go or what kind of agricultural operation you visit: WWOOFers work roughly five to six hours a day five days a week for their hosts. Early mornings are typically the norm, so you may work from 7 am or 8 am till lunch at 1 pm or 2 pm or put in a few hours in the morning and a few hours in the evening in hot climates with stifling midday heat.

Where Can You Go?

WWOOFing is an ideal vehicle to explore both developed countries and developing destinations that are difficult to visit independently, including many countries in eastern Europe, the Caucuses, and Africa.

More than fifty countries have their own national WWOOF organizations, and another 50+ are on the independent list, meaning there is no national administrative body, and you can WWOOF there with a membership from any other country. For a full list of the countries that currently host WWOOFers, check out the national organization list (http://wwoof.org/natorgs.asp) or the independents lists (http://www.woof.org/independents.asp).

How Do You Sign Up?

First things first: pick the country you’d like to WWOOF in.

One of the main downsides for travelers looking to WWOOF is that you have to sign up for each national WWOOFing organization separately. So if you are trying to assemble a year of WWOOFing around Europe, you’ll have to sign up separately for membership in the British, Swiss, French, Spanish, Greek, and Italian organizations.

After providing your biographical information through the national organization’s online form, you send in a membership fee, typically around $30-$40. Many countries accept payment by Paypal these days, but for some countries, you’ll have to factor a few weeks for your check to arrive into your travel plans.

Once these materials have been received by the national WWOOF administration, they’ll send you a host list and a membership card. You can’t begin a WWOOFing trip without your membership card, and many hosts will ask to see a copy of it by email before accepting your request to stay with them.

***

Many national WWOOFing organizations have a list of opportunities you can browse for free before signing up for membership. Take a look through some listings in Brazil (http://www.wwoofbrazil.com/pre_host_farm.htm), Kazakhstan (http://www.wwoofkazakhstan.org/hosts/), and Italy (http://www.wwoof.it/gb/list.html) to get inspired.

Gabi Logan is a freelance blogger and travel writer. While renovating a Ligurian farmhouse on a recent WWOOFing trip, she finally found a way to put her Italian literature degree to use: bonding over Dante with her hosts.

By Nelya Rakhimova

There are places on the Earth where winter lasts almost 9 months. Yar-Sale is one of them. Located above the Arctic Circle, it is a small town with population about 5,000 people. It’s the administrative center of Yamal Region, which occupies the whole Yamal Peninsula. It was founded in 1927 by Soviets. In 1932 it became the administrative center in order to the Nenets, nomads who live there. In the Nenets language, Yar-Sale means “Sandy Point” as it is located on a sand island surrounded by endless marshy tundra.

My parents moved to Yar-Sale for several years to earn more money. As they worked in the educational sphere, they couldn’t make much money in the south. Because there is need of education for local nomads, you can easily get good bonuses to your usual salary because of the “hardship” status of the living in the area. I visited my parents for New Year’s.

Visiting the northern nomads—the Nenets Nation—became the best New Year’s present. It was an incredible experience also because one of my classmates, Alexey Serotetto is one of them. He was glad to show me around and to introduce me the wild northern life of his nation.

Getting to Yar-Sale

First of all, it is necessary to say that it is one the places in Russia where it is really hard to get to. I flew from Tyumen to Salehard. Then you have two options to get to Yar-Sale: helicopter or jeep with huge wheels. During the summer you cannot drive cars between towns because there are no roads, only helicopters and boats can be used.

During the winter everything is frozen and only experienced drivers can find the right way. They prefer to drive when it dark because apparently they can see the way better than in daylight. However, it is not a problem in this region, because sunlight appears here only for two to three hours per day in winter. Helicopter pilots, in contrast, prefer to fly during this short sunny time.

I tried both means of transportation. As I landed quite late and I did not want to stay in Salehard for a night, I took an eight-hour jeep ride. Even though it is just 190 km (about 120 miles) it takes a lot of time to cross tundra. There is no road, snow covers traces of cars immediately and it is really easy to get lost. There is one stop on the way—the small town Aksarka—which is a good way to know you’re on the right path.

Nomads in Modern Life

The main purpose of the settlement is to provide local people with education and medicine. Every fall, children are collected by helicopter from the nomad’s camp and are brought here. They stay in a special school for nine months and then go back to their parents’ camps. Usually immigrants work in these organizations; most of the Nenets keep a traditional way of life.  They have a lot of subsidies as they are indigenous peoples. As a result they can get additional equipment to make life a bit more comfortable.

Only some of them try to get political power and defend their rights at the local level. They have apartments and from first glance have the same living conditions as Russian people. However, I realized that it is not really true when I visited my classmate in Yar-Sale. His apartment was organized as a traditional tent with lots of deerskins everywhere. They treated me with raw cut fish and instead of soup they offered me a bowl with reindeer’s blood. I liked it, by the way.

Some Nenets fit into the modern era very well, and some of them can get in real trouble. For example, the biggest problem is alcohol. The Nenets have not adapted to it as we have and it’s really easy for them to become dependent on alcoholic.

Day in the Tundra

Nenets people are really hospitable and they really like to show how they live, entertain and treat their guests. I was told that my classmate’s family participated in a documentary series of BBC ‘Tribe’ when a BBC crew spent about one month with them to make an episode about their tribe.  I had only one day to experience the freezing temperatures and their lifestyle was so unusual for me.

My classmate invited me to visit his relatives that were in 20 km from the town at that time. We met in the morning, while it was still dark. They gave me natural clothes to be comfortable during the trip. They are made from reindeer skins and are really warm and comfortable. The Nenets usually travel by snowmobile from the town to their camps. Camps are setup by families that overtake the reindeer in order provide them with the possibility to find food. As they eat reindeer moss, they need to move all the time. So sometimes people come and stay next to the town to get provisions and see relatives who have changed from the traditional lifestyle.

It took about one hour to get ready and another to get to the camp. We wanted to arrive there when it wasn’t dark so we didn’t have much time. It was amazing for me how the Nenets can find the right direction in the tundra. It is a completely white plain and monotonous landscape. Only sometimes there are some hills and small trees. When we were closer, we met the head of the family and he suggested we take a sled ride.

Sled Ride

The people that we visited didn’t have many reindeer. There were only about 300—they told us that is not a lot. They say that each of them has a special name and they remember each of them. Reindeer here are considered a holy animal for people. Life without them in such a severe climate is not possible; they provide food, clothing, and transportation.

There was only one traditional tent (chum) where people usually stay. Women are responsible for the transporting the tent, as well as setting it up, and what goes on inide. Usually there is an iron stove inside which helps to keep it warm.

The Chum

Inside there a lot of deerskins that are used as carpets and sleeping bags. The woman, host of the chum, treated us with different kinds of raw frozen fish and some vodka. As all Nenets people who complete school can speak Russian, we had nice conversation about their life and how they migrate from the north to the south during the winter and back during the summer. Toilets are situated away from the chums and separated into male and female areas. Their clothes are made in a special way to make it as comfortable as possible. However, I was told that when there is a snowstorm they use a robe to go outside because sometimes people can get lost. They cannot find their way back even if they go only a few meters away from the tent.  Also the Nenets will often take a stick with them to the toilet to fend off any overly-friendly reindeer that are in search of salty fluids.

In general, I was impressed with Nenets’ way of thinking. In the beginning I thought that I am going to meet uneducated people with who I do not have anything to talk about. However, I found out that they are incredible people who live in harmony with nature and who are completely happy to be there in such a cold and severe place. They told me how it is hard for them to live in small apartments, and how they miss the unlimited dark tundra, snow, frost, raw fish and meat.

We came back when it was completely dark. I did not want to give back such warm and comfortable clothes because I was going to stay in Yar-Sale for couple days more, but I did.  I was really happy that I had opportunity to understand these people who live in such a severe climate. It seems so crazy for us, people who are used to hot water from the tap and a heating system during the coldest days.

I understood once again that people can get used to everything and that happiness depends only on our perception of situations and that the endless white plain is one of the most beautiful landscapes that I have ever seen.

If you go

If you want to visit Yar-Sale, you need to have a special permission because this area is considered a pre-border area. I would suggest finding people who can host you there beforehand.

Nelya Rakhimova grew up in the town of Tobolsk, Russia, and moved to Tyumen when she was 15. She has spent the last few years traveling and studying in various countries and has recently completed her Master’s degree in the United States on a Fulbright Scholarship. This is her second feature for GoMad Nomad.

Meet Jonas Studer, a primary school teacher from the small town of Brugg, Switzerland. For the last decade he has been crossing the world in search of the biggest, badest, and most exotic waves. It wasn’t until after years of traveling to surf that he began to “see things” other than waves. I caught up with him for an interview on a non-surfing leg of a trip to Malaysian Borneo.

GN: I’ve heard of Swiss hikers, mountaineers, ice-climbers…but surfers? No. How does a person from a mountainous land-locked country develop a life-long obsession with surfing?

JS: The first time I saw a proper wave was in my friend’s brother’s bedroom. We were young. It was a poster of Hawaii’s Back Door. We were sneaking into to his room to look for any evidence of girls that we could find. Instead of girls, we found surfing.

When I got a little older, I learned to surf “static” waves in rivers. At 14, we had raised money for a school trip to Barcelona. Due to a measles outbreak, the trip got cancelled. But some of us wanted to salvage our summer holiday. One of our classmate’s fathers invited us to his beach house in Brittany, France. We ended up using the money we raised for surfing lessons.

GN: Where are some of the destinations you’ve traveled to surf?

JS: In South America I surfed on practically every beach from Ecuador down to Santiago, Chile. In Central America I hit the waves in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama. Also, Indonesia, Australia (including Tasmania), New Zealand, and Hawaii. Closer to home, I’ve surfed in France, Portugal, the UK, Italy, and Morocco. And there’s one more place…but…I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.

GN: The question I always ask? Does your passion drive you to travel, or is traveling the driving force? In other words, do you travel to surf or surf to travel?

 JS: I definitely travel to surf. But traveling is a nice “side effect”. I thank my girlfriend Camilla for helping me to begin to see things when I travel. In fact, my first trip not to surf was to Bolivia and it was an incredible experience.

GN: Do you always travel with your surf board? How do you transport it?

JS: The surf board is a big pain to transport. My biggest board is 6 ft. 4 in. Some airlines charge extra for surfboards. British Airways does not allow them. You can find information like that on surfline.com.

GN: Has surfing brought you closer to locals or the local culture of the place you were traveling?

JS: For surfing, many times you have to trek to remote places. This has meant that I come in contact with a lot of locals and consequently have spent a lot of time hanging out with them. In Morocco, I took a car about two or three hours south of the touristy area to a predominately Berber region.

GN: How do you compare surfing in surfing cultures, say in Hawaii or Australia versus non-surfing cultures like Indonesia?

JS: In countries with a large percentage of surfers, everything seems to revolve around surfing, so much so, that it can be annoying. It attracts not only considerate surfers, but also the arrogant and selfish crowd.

In a place like Indonesia, you meet independent travelers that have come to surf and they tend to be much more open minded.

GN: Where are some surf destinations that are at the top of your list for the future? How about your favorite places to revisit?

JS: Indonesia is definitely on my list to revisit as is South America, predominately because of the combination of the waves and the culture.

I’d love to surf in Mozambique and Ireland at some point in the future.

GN: Thanks so much for the interview!  Keep in touch during your future surfing adventures!

Interview compiled by Stephen Bugno

By Stephen Bugno

I am definitely not a mall person. You might even be able to classify me as a mall hater. Here are five reasons I didn’t fight malls when I visited Singapore.

5) A National Obsession

To understand Singapore without eating at or entering a mall is like trying to understand Ireland without entering a pub. Singaporeans are obsessed with shopping. The temples they’ve built to worship this infatuation with consumerism, are malls. They are big, they are beautiful, and they are here to stay. My conclusion: understanding malls equals understanding Singaporean society.

4) Nice to Look at

These are some of the nicest, most well-designed buildings I’ve seen. I spent much of my time in Singapore just walking through the malls admiring the interior design, the grand open spaces, the escalators. Not to mention all the beautiful people. Singaporeans look good! In fact, they are the best dressed people I have ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, Londoners and New Yorkers are dressed well, but in those cities there’s at least one person poorly dressed for each one that is well dressed. In Singapore, it’s just beautiful person after beautiful person. Even if they’re not good looking, they still look good.

3) I didn’t ask to visit this mall

How did I end up in a mall? Get used to it, malls are everywhere in Singapore. And they’re almost impossible to avoid. If you exit the MRT (mass rapid transit), you may end up inside a mall. It’s nearly impossible to escape. I tried once for 20 minutes to get to street level and failed. Luckily there are good information desks helping you plot your way out. So you may not have a choice about visiting malls while in the city. Accept the mall. Be one with commercialism. Smile, you love shopping.

2) It’s freeeezing in here

A mall in Singapore.

Singapore is hot. Walking around the city, you’ll think it’s the hottest, most humid place you’ve ever been. Enter shopping malls. They are cold, very cold. And to most people this feels good. Feeling good goes hand in hand with spending a lot of money. There you have the secret to happiness in Singapore. Unfortunately, to the weak (myself included), this shuffling into the ice cold mall and out into the hot street can cause headaches. Why not stay inside the mall all day?

1) 1 +1 = 3

Shopping malls combine shopping with Singaporean’s second obsession: eating. This city is both eater’s and shopper’s paradise. Malls have food courts. These are not the disgusting and dirty food courts that you are used to back home. This is good food. And lots of it. A diverse range of independent stalls offer an array of sophisticated food choices at reasonable prices. Char kway teow (fried broad noodles) with cockles, lemon pepper beef rice, fish ball and wan tan soup, chicken rice, turnip and mushroom dumplings, kaya (coconut jam) toast and coffee,  just to name a few that I tried. The mall food court is the place to get good food at good prices. If you think Singaporeans have fashion sense, they have even better food sense.

There you have it. Malls rule Singapore. The next time you’re here, just try to avoid malls. I dare you.

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Contributing writer Sally Kay has been traveling through South America for 17 months, from Ushuaia, the southernmost tip of Argentina, all the way to Cartagena in the north of Colombia. She has covered many of those miles by hitchhiking.  I was about to meet her in Colombia but she got temporarily held up in Ecuador after being robbed. I was intrigued by her hitchhiking, especially alone as a woman, and I wanted to bring her story to our readers. So she answered some of my questions via email.

Sally Kay above Santiago, Chile

GN: First, the stats: How many times, roughly, have you hitched? How many countries? What was your longest ride?

Sally: I’ve probably hitched about 100 times, give or take, in seven countries.  My longest ride was with a friend across Argentina from Rosario, in the east almost to Salta in the west. When the truck driver stopped for the night we unrolled our sleeping bags and slept beside the semi.

GN: How many years have you been traveling like this? When was your first hitch?

Sally: I am relatively new to hitching.  My first ride was in 2009, but I was hooked from the start.

GN: The question most people want to know: Are you ever scared hitching as a female? Do you usually hitch with a male companion or another female? Is it safe?

Sally: I have been in slightly uncomfortable or awkward situations, but nothing scary.  Like anything else, I think it’s important to be safe about it. I have hitched alone and with another person without problems, but it really is safer to have a partner while hitchhiking.

I don’t think it’s unsafe for a woman to hitchhike alone during the daytime (depending on the place) and by no means would I advise against it, but a woman and a man together is definitely the best combination.  Whether or not you are actually a couple doesn’t matter, it gives that impression and discourages awkward overtures.

GN: I am biased about hitching in my home country, the U.S., because I think can be more dangerous than other places. Have you ever hitched in the States?

Sally: I think that it is more dangerous in the States.  I have thought about it, but the closest I have gotten to hitching in the States is Craigslist rideshares. The main reason I say this, is that while people will tell you hitching is dangerous all over the world, in South America people who do hitch, recommend it. In the States, hitchhikers have warned me that it is too dangerous for a girl alone.  There is also the added problem that hitching is illegal in many states and police will often fine hitchhikers.

GN: What was your easiest country for getting rides? Your most difficult?

Sally: Chile was probably the easiest country to get a ride in. The roads are wonderful, many people have cars, and everyone seems willing to give hitchhikers a ride. I hitched from La Serena on the west coast to Mendoza, Argentina in a day, getting one ride after another.

Colombia was by far the most difficult country to get a ride in. Though Colombians are wonderful people there is still a fear of kidnappings and guerillas. The government even has run announcements warning drivers not to pick up hitchhikers. This sadly makes hitching in Colombia almost impossible.

GN: Any stories of over-the-top hospitality?

Sally: That’s part of why I love hitchhiking.  It’s pretty standard for truck drivers to buy hitchhikers meals when they stop to eat, which is always nice.  I have had truckers offer to pay for bus tickets when we weren’t headed to the same place. I have had truckers invite myself and a hitching partner sailing with them.

I think probably my favorite over-the-top hospitality experience was traveling with a friend.  A truck driver called ahead to the city we were visiting, found us a hotel room, and paid for our accommodation.

GN: What has been the most frightening part of hitching; when were you worried the most?

Sally: I have been pretty lucky and haven’t had any really frightening experiences.  Once I hitched with a trucker, it was pretty far, but I thought we would make it to our destination before nightfall.  Much to my surprise he pulled over and stopped for the night and ended up making advances on me.  It was extremely uncomfortable but I told him quite firmly that I wanted no part of that and wanted out of his truck.

As soon as he realized I was serious about it, he apologized profusely and was extremely embarrassed, but it could have gone quite differently.  After that, I never hitched alone after dark or on extended trips where there was any possibility the driver would stop for the night.

GN: Why Hitch? Are you trying to save money or just after some adventure?

Sally: Hitching is more than just a way to save money.  It is a great way to meet some extremely interesting people you wouldn’t otherwise encounter, see a different side of countries, and some amazing nature along the roads.  It is also wonderful to see how kind so many people are, hear their stories, and get an entirely different perspective on life.

I hitchhiked with one miner who had grown up in a family so poor the nine children had to share four pairs of shoes when they went to school.  Half the children had morning classes and would bring the shoes back for the other children to wear in the afternoon.  Not only did the miner have fascinating stories, but he took me and my travel partner to the mine he worked at and let us stay in this amazing house made completely out of salt, with salt tables and benches!

GN: Any advice to anyone out there, especially for females who are looking to travel by thumb?

Sally: There are a million ways to hitchhike, but I’d be happy to give a little advice to help get some new hitchhikers started.

• Do not get into a truck if you get a bad feeling about the driver or the vehicle.

• Bring a map with you. That way you will be able to see the best route to where you want to go.

• Starting early is another good idea, especially for women, but for men as well. Drivers rarely pick up hitchers after dark, and with good reason. You and the driver want to be able to see one another.

• Smile, do a dance, look the driver in the eyes, and make yourself stand out.  Drivers want to pick up hitchhikers who will be good company and pass the time.

Sally has written Ten Things she should know before couchsurfing: Tips for Women and A Hitchhiker’s Guide to South America for GoMad Nomad. She blogs at: Adventuresse Travels

Interview by Stephen Bugno

By Danielle L. Krautmann

A local celebrity

How did  it get to be this late?  I’m lying on Violeta’s bed in her one-room home in Baños del Inca.  Actually, it’s not just her bed, she shares this queen-sized mattress which sits on cinder blocks with her husband and 11-year-old daughter, Alejandra.  It’s four o’clock in the afternoon; I had planned to be home hours ago.

Outside Violeta's house after lunch

When I agreed to go to church with Violeta, I assumed it would be your typical hour-long service…not three hours.  When I said I’d come for lunch afterwards, I thought we would slam down some sandwiches, and say chau.  Instead, we spent two hours preparing a feast and another hour eating it.  After lunch Violeta taught me how to prepare “fresh” limeade with tap water that spurted out of the faucet cloudy and yellow in color.  But how could I refuse to drink it after watching her cut and squeeze 10 limes all the while explaining to me that it is the most refreshing bebida you can consume after a big meal?

I gulp it down as fast as I can to show my appreciation (and to get it over with).  I’ll leave soon and either throw up or take an antibiotic, I assure myself to ease the nausea that is already setting in.  Violeta, seeing how much I enjoyed her refreshment, proudly refills my glass.  I try to politely refuse, “I should really get home to let Brandy out.”

“You don’t have to go yet!  Stay!  Chat with me!  Just give me one more horita of your time.”  Violeta pleas.  And again, how can I refuse?  My new friend and her family have taken me under their wing, inviting me for large meals, taking me to church, and bringing me with them to weddings and other events as if I’m a member of the family.

My new friend, Violeta, is a 42-year-old Peruvian woman who owns the only laundromat in Baños del Inca with her 52-year-old husband Alejandro.  She met her husband when she was 18 and they tried for 12 years to have children. Not until she was 30 did she realize that all she needed to do was pray and God would grant her one.  So came Alejandra or Lisbeth as we call her.  A plump, happy pre-teen who loves watching pirated DVD’s and can recite every line from Shrek and all four of its sequels.

We have nothing in common.  She has a child, I don’t.  My first language is English, Violeta’s only language is Spanish.  She believes Jesus Christ is her savior while the only God I’ve even known is Pachamama.  My house has four bedrooms, her’s is the size of my bedroom.  Despite all this, we have somehow formed a close connection.  Three or four afternoons a week, I go and visit her at the laundromat, spending hours chatting, and sometimes helping her fold clothes (she fired me from ironing).

Lisbeth and I playing with my camera at a wedding.

I agree to stay for un momentito  and try hard to forget about the mud-water limeade I just consumed.  I’ll leave it up to my stomach to decide whether to begin the digestion process or send it back up.  As we prop ourselves up on the bed with pillows to chat, I feel like I’m at a slumber party.  Violeta explains that she doesn’t have a lot of friends and prefers it that way.  After dealing with people at the laundromat six days a week from 9am until 7pm she likes to spend her free time by herself.

“Well then, por que yo?” I ask her, wondering what makes me special enough to be taken in by this wonderful family.

“Porque eres gringa!  Duh!”  She proclaims, correctly utilizing the English word I taught her this afternoon.  She must notice the naive confusion in my face and begins to explain how fascinating the “gringo culture” is.  “Ever since I was a little girl, I watched you on TV.”  She refers to a show called “La familia Ingalls,” which I realize must be Little House on the Prairie.  From an early age, Violeta watched this show, dreaming that some day she would marry a gringo and move somewhere like Europe or the United States of America.

“And I watch American TV shows every night.  You’re culture is so impressive!”  She went on with wide eyes.  “You gringos are so sophisticated, so rich, so advanced.  Your houses are enormous and you look beautiful all the time with your make-up, nice clothes, perfect hair…”  As she goes on, I peek down at my outfit.  With a hat on my head to hide the fact I didn’t shower today, worn cargo pants, filthy bare feet, and a short sleeved t-shirt over a long sleeved one, I’m afraid I must be a terribly disappointing gringita.

I recall the last show I watched on TV.  After five minutes of My Super Sweet Sixteen, where privileged teenage brats scream at their parents about which convertible they will receive at their million dollar birthday party, I had to turn it off.  This is what impresses her?  The chunks are rising in my throat, but I’m uncertain if it’s due to the limeade or her words.

I try my hardest not to cringe as she continues, “I tell my Alejandra to study her English so that maybe, some day, she can marry a gringo, or at the very least, travel to another country.”  The Peruvian dream.  Really.  If the American dream is to work your way from rags to riches, the Peruvian dream is to marry a gringo and move to the States.  I can’t take any more of this.  I’m going to puke up two hours of cooking, and two glasses of limeade.  I need to get home, and fast.

“Thank you so much for today, it was wonderful.”  I tell her honestly.  I will visit her on Monday at the laundromat.

What have we done to you people?  I think to myself as I run home.  I storm into the house, grab some Ciprofloxacin and a glass of water and plop down on my couch.  Feeling unsettled, I mull over a conversation I once had with a Peruvian friend of mine about Christmas.  “Why,” I asked “Do you Peruvians put plastic snowmen and fake tinsel pine trees everywhere for Christmas when it doesn’t snow in Peru and there are hardly any pine trees?”

“You did this!” He exclaimed as if it was obvious.  Then, after seeing in my face what a blow he had just delivered, he softened his voice.  “Well, your country did…or the country you come from…”

Peruvians are laid back, have strong family values, beautiful folkloric music and bright colors.  It pains me to think that people from a country as culturally rich as Peru would want to be anything else.  They want to be like the “classy” gringos who start wars for money, who shake hands instead of kiss and love to be politically correct.  Ugh.  This realization pains me almost as much as the thought of Peruvians watching our TV shows and thinking that is what our lives are like.

I am overcome by disappointment and guilt.  The fact of the matter is that I haven’t invited Violeta to my house because I once told her it was small.  After seeing that her and her husband share their bed with their daughter and their kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all fit into a room the size of the one in which I sleep, how I can ever show her my four-bedroom home with TV, sofa, refrigerator, coffee pot, closets?  The fact of the matter is that I am gringa and the quality of my life is better than that of many of the Peruvians here in Cajamarca.

And yet…I suppose I do the same thing.  I yearn for “the simple life.”  I admire the rich customs in Peru and want nothing more than to take part in them.  I’ve left my culture behind to immerse myself in another.  Who am I to judge?

Either the antibiotics are kicking in, or my stomach chose digestion.  As I sit on my couch, reviewing this afternoon’s conversation in my head, I recount Violeta saying, “You know, we don’t see gringos here often, and when we do, we think ‘Wow! Look how nice they look!’  We want to listen to them speak their perfect English to be just like them.”  This is true.  When I go running in the countryside, people come out of their houses just to watch.  The other day a woman yelled “gringita, please wait.  I want to show you to my children!”  I kept running.  People honk their horns, follow me, and the brave ones greet me or try to speak the only English they know.   “Hello!”  they call.  “Gringita!” they yell and wave.  Children follow me and ask questions.  “What country are you from?” “What are you doing in Peru?” “Why is your dog on a leash?”

I hate this attention.  I want to say “didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to stare?”  I usually try my hardest to scoot by as quickly as possible without making eye contact or reacting.

But, aren’t I guilty of the same crime?  I watch when a campesino woman walks by with a heard of animals and marvel at how one person can control five sheep, three cows and two burrows at the same time.  I study their skirts and hats and wonder what their lives are like.  I gawk when they shamelessly whip out a breast in the middle of the street and massage it to squeeze the milk into their infant’s mouth.  They call me gringita, I call them the hat people.

I am a celebrity in the countryside only because few gringos pass through.  If a campesino walked into Concord, NH, hat on head, and baby in blanket on back, we would stare too.  Thank Pachamama we still have diversity.  People will continue to gaze at the weirdo gringa who walks her dog on a leash every morning; I can’t change this.  My only choice is to be the best weirdo-gringita I can be.  I can answer their questions, return their Hello’s, and every now and then wait, so the woman can show me to her kids.  Turns out, I’m representing a culture.  “The gringo culture.”

Gergeti Trinity Church on the hill above Kazbegi, Georgia

Georgian culture is completely inseparable from their orthodox Christianity.  The land and people have been Christian since the 4th century.  People walking past a Georgian church stop, face the church, and cross themselves before continuing on their way.  The interior of the churches are dim with painted icons of saints and the holy family on the walls.  Devotees kiss the icon and then dip their forehead to lightly touch the object as they pray.  This is also done on the outside of the church’s gates and the interior corners of the building.  Services are marked by chanting prayers and ethereal singing by the priest and select groups of worshippers.  The Byzantine faces of the art, the candles, and the devotion of the people make the churches much more than a tourist attraction.

Text by Jett Thomason, photos by Stephen Bugno

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The Jvari Monestery on the cliff overlooking Mtsketa

By Sally Kay

The Couchsurfing Project is a great tool for the curious and thrifty traveler.  The project idea is a cultural exchange in which members are the type of people who want share their culture and to learn about others.  Couchsurfers want to get to know more than just the tourist attractions: they are travelers, not tourists.

I have been a member for almost three years now, surfing, showing people around my city, and hosting.  As fantastic as couchsurfing can be, there can be a dark side too.  Because of that, as a woman, especially if you are a woman traveling solo, you do need to be careful.  In some countries, in the Middle East for example, it is better to couchsurf with women.  However I do not like to limit myself as far as hosts.  Here are a few guidelines to make your experience the best it can be.

A couchsurfing party

Read your potential host’s profile carefully

Couchsurfing isn’t about getting a free place to stay; it’s about cultural exchange, getting to know the real place.  Don’t send a request to people you don’t think you’ll get along with.  Everyone has different criteria for choosing hosts, but I try to contact people who share my interests, have hobbies I find interesting, seem like I could learn from, or who would just be fun to spend time with.  Traveling is a lot more fun when you’re with people you like.

Only contact members with filled-out profiles

If a person hasn’t taken the time to fill out their profile, they probably aren’t the best choice for a host (or for a guest).  How can you tell what interests you share, what their views on life are, or really anything about them unless they have filled out their profile?

Only contact people with pictures who have pictures

As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.  If a member hasn’t taken the time to upload a picture then one has to wonder why. (Editor’s note: you also want to make sure the picture is the same individual you meet in person)

Read over the Couch Information

This tells you what the bed is like, if you’ll have your own room, and what the sleep set-up is. It is couchsurfing, so you shouldn’t expect to have your own room, but I stay away from men offering to share their room.  Even if there are two beds in the room, I feel like it’s best not to tempt fate.

Make sure your potential host has references…

and read them carefully.  References are there as a safety measure, and you can learn a lot about a person from them.  Sure, everyone starts out without references, but for a woman couchsurfing alone it’s safer to send couch requests to hosts with good references.  If you want to be extra careful then look at the profiles of the people who’ve left the references.

Vouching

Another safety measure in couchsurfing is vouching.  It signifies the person vouching for the couchsurfer trusts that member.  Members who are vouched for are safer to contact.

Stay away from male hosts only offering couches to women

There are always exceptions, but often when a man puts “preferred gender” as “female” this means that the man is using couchsurfing for the wrong reasons: to meet women.  One of the first rules of couchsurfing is that it is not a dating website.  Of course romances can happen; sometimes there is chemistry between two people.  However, if the host assumes something romantic will happen with their guests, tries to manufacture a romantic connection, or feels that the guest is in some way obligated to him, then that is definitely not okay.

Always trust your instincts

If anything gives you a bad feeling about a profile, then don’t send a request.  Intuition is a powerful thing and it is always better to be safe than sorry.

Stay with families

I prefer to stay with women, or men living with their family.  Living with your family into adulthood is extremely common in many countries, and the families are generally extremely kind.

Talk to your host first

Send a few email exchanges back and forth, chat on Skype or MSN messenger to get to know your host a little before staying with him or her.  At least for your first few times couchsurfing.

If you don’t feel comfortable in a place then leave.

Go to a hostel or check into a hotel. If something in the back of your mind says that this isn’t the right place then listen. Just because you’ve sent a couch request does not mean that you are obligated to stay the exact number of days requested.  If you feel awkward telling them the truth, then invent an excuse, but always remember: your safety is first.

By following these guidelines and by using a little common sense, you’ll have a fantastic time.  In fact, I find that couchsurfing is actually a safer way to travel; you have a friend wherever you go.  To make things better, you are under the auspices of a savvy local who knows his or her way around the city, give you advice, and want to help.  So what are you waiting for?  Get couchsurfing!

After graduating from the University of Kansas’ school of Journalism Sally hit the road and hasn’t looked back.  She has explored Europe, Africa, South America, and North America, lived in Slovakia, Hungary and Argentina and is currently traveling in South America. She writes about her adventures in the blog www.adventuressetravels.wordpress.com, has had articles in various online travel magazines, and is a travel guru for the website Tripeezy LLC.

Read Part I: On the Water in Guinea

Part II

By Jett Thomason

We have been following the other boats. There is an art to seeing the schools of fish playing just below the water and on each boat men are standing tall, not even realizing their legs roll of the boat. There is an art to seeing the fish and anticipating where they will move next. Then there is the more practical approach of assuming that if there is already someone out there with a net in the water, it might not be a bad idea to cast yours, too.

After half an hour of following the crowd, we take the latter approach and pull ahead of the first boat with what feels to me a nautically polite distance apart. One fisherman strings out the top of the net which is buoyed with small plastic balls and cut up soles of old flip-flops. The other man holds out the bottom of the net that is lined with hand-beaten lead pieces. The buoyant and weighted ends will create a 30-foot vertical wall in the water snagging any passing animal. Hopefully a lot of them.

The net rolls through the fishermen’s hands. The captain guns the outboard from time to time to give us enough forward momentum to lay out a clean line. The bottom of the net billows out in the blue water before sinking out of sight. In ten minutes, all 2,000 feet of the floating trap is in the water.

I had not been briefed on what to expect next and I realize I have nothing beyond a general guess as to how the fish are caught and brought out of the water. We are bobbing in the water, rolling with the waves, and waiting to see what comes our way.

Fassiney looks at me from the stern of the boat, making a scooping motion with his hand. Two realizations hit me. The first is that they are breaking for lunch so this could be a long wait. And second, while I appeared to be impervious to sea-sickness when the boat was moving forward, this is no longer the case. We drift, rolling up and over the tops of the waves.

The fishermen scoop rice into their mouths. I just feel nausea creep up on me.

“Captain,” I look at him, “Bon appétit.” He nods. “How long do we wait?”

Fassiney pulls over a plastic bucket and pries off the top. Unwrapping a plastic bag and then unzipping his little cigarette bag, he pulls out a small watch.

“It’s fifteen past eleven now…” Fassiney looks up for a minute. “So let’s pull in the net at two.”

Eddie knows this routine and makes himself comfortable on a cross beam, draping an arm over his eyes. I try to keep my focus on the horizon, on the islands on the other side that are faint and dark blue though the water-heavy air. Forced thoughts of how vertigo is all in the mind give me a quarter hour of control before I get ill. The fishermen politely look away as if they haven’t noticed. While my pride stings, my real fear of this moment was that they would insist on going back. I needn’t have worried. No one says a thing.

I lie on a wooden seat across the frame, adjust my hat over my eyes, and fall into a half-sleep. The fish are there, swimming along with only a distant cloud in their sky – our boat – hinting at the danger. Schools of them must be there now, arcing back and forth in the shallow, warm current below us.

They will be swimming along and then, suddenly, rushing into entanglement. All their efforts to free themselves will only make the binds tighter. Wrenchingly pulled into what must seem like a terrible vacuum of space, water will flow out and they will gasp for breath as the poisonous air fills their gills. I jerk up from my rocking sleep and realize that this idyllic tropical ocean setting is as brutal a scene as any abattoir.

The captain is awake and smoking a cigarette. Well past mid-day, the humidity clouds the boundary of the horizon and the sky and it feels far from shore. Eddie sits up. He has slept poorly, too.
“Mr. Jett,” he grabs the sides of the boat, “Imagine this space for five days, a week. It was like a prison sometimes for me.” Eddie hasn’t been back on a boat in ten years and I know he is glad he has gone out with me. Still, these are not the statements of a nostalgic man.

Fassiney tosses his cigarette in the water. “OK, we pull in the net now.”

His men put on loose pants and wind breakers. The strongest goes up to the bow and grabs at both sides of the net. He leans up, straining with the effort.

Fassiney looks at me, “This is why we call the boat bon-ta-bon.” I look at him a bit dumbly. “This work hard! You pull your muscles ‘bone to bone’. People know this boat is a hard work boat.”

The captain is right. One man in the front pulls the net from the water. Eddie and I grasp the bottom, straining to keep the weighted rope straight. The captain handles the buoy side and untangles the lines. The last fisherman is at the stern, grasping both sides and folding the net in ready for the next deployment.

I was being spared the real bon-ta-bon work, but pulling a net out of the water by hand is no easy thing. The hours in the water have lined each bit of twine with sediment and slime. Pulling the ropes flicks these particles up in a mist that quickly coats all of us with sea filth. I see now why the others first clad themselves with the windbreakers and pants.

Then up comes our first fish. It is vibrantly and deeply blue. I never quite imagined how blue a fish could be there in the middle of a dirty net, a moldering boat, under a white sky. The quivering life in the fish is short as I tear it out of the binds and toss it into the brown bilge water roiling in the bottom of the boat. There is no time for romancing the moment as the net keeps coming and we keep prying out the trapped fish, pulling in the ropes, pausing for only a split second to dip our hands in the water and wipe sludge from our brows.

After half an hour, the net is in and we are able to look at the catch. I let myself get carried away during the planning stage of the trip. ‘What to do with all the fish?’ I had thought. ‘What if we ran out of room in the boat?’ Suffice it to say, these are not problems we face.

A shallow and shimmering covering of fish in the bottom is all we have to show for the work and the wait. It might fill the one plastic box that is a standard unit of sale for the fishermen. I am paying for the gas on this trip, I am going to give the fishermen a little money, and I never intended to sell any of the fish. Still, a sense of despondency fills me as if I was depending on the sea for my next meal. It has been a while since I have felt anything like this sharp disappointment.

I look at Eddie, “I thought we’d get more fish…”

Eddie just tilts his head with a little frown.

Fassiney sees me, “Jett, don’t worry. You know, sometimes it’s like this. We can’t say what we’re going to catch. This trip though, it’s for you. You see how we live. It’s for you.”

He and the other fishermen have been here before just as they have seen boats brimming with catch pulling into port. This is just one day and one time out.

“We’re going back out tonight,” says Fassiney. “These herring, eh! They’ve been sleeping all day but tonight they come out to play. We go out four, five, six hours and then lay the net. Eh! Then we make some catch! But now we go home.”

I want to go home. It’s a long day in the sun and I wash the dirt off as best I can hanging over the side. We take turns bailing out the dirty water while the fishes’ eyes slowly lose their clarity.

Disappointment in the catch fades to resignation as we ride back towards port in the heat and humidity.

“Captain, how much do you and the other fishermen make from a trip?” I ask. I know the owner of the boat pays for the gasoline, oil, maintenance. If I had to guess, I would figure a fifty-fifty split on the catch.

Fassiney gestures to the front of the boat. “There’s five sections. Sometimes you come in and the boat is full – Full! – of fish. Sometimes the boat only has a little fish, like now. No matter, the owner, he takes eighty percent. That’s maybe three and half sections. The rest is for us. When it’s very good, then we can take 200,000 Guinean francs.”

200,000 Guinean francs is a bit less than $30. With a normal complement of five to six men, that’s less than $5 each for a long day’s work. These are not captains of the sea as much as they are tenant farmers, trapped by contract and poverty to their work.

“It’s a hard life. Hard work,” says Fassiney.

We round the sea wall and pull into port. I shake hands with the men, passing Eddie some money to give them on my behalf. It’s Africa and it would be rude to not use an intermediary.

“Take care, Mr. Jett,” Eddie admonishes me as we walk across seven or eight other fishing boats to scamper up the dock.

I do take care. You don’t fall into water this close to Conakry and its open sewers. My appearance on the dock attracts even less stares than the first time.

Fishermen are preparing their boats and loading ice blocks into plywood-and-styrofoam coolers. These are the snapper boats that will spend days in the open ocean. Women fishmongers are inspecting catches, shouting out prices over each other while other women are weaving between the people with buckets of fried bread and meat balanced on their heads, selling the fishermen their next meals on the water. Men going out, men coming in, and the fish between ocean and market.

Jett Thomason works for the U.S. government managing small agricultural development projects in Africa. A former Peace Corps volunteer in Uzbekistan, he has worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively in Latin America and the former Soviet Union. In his current job, Jett copes with responsibility and limited time for indulging wanderlust by writing the occasional blog entry and travel story.

By Jett Thomason

Part I

I’ve been living in Guinea’s capital, Conakry, for six weeks now. Conakry is a city built on a peninsula jutting into the Atlantic and it has long outgrown the French planning for the town. Two million people have been living poor and densely packed for fifty years in the limited space. Each day I’m driven to and from work along this peninsula.

With long hours at work and long hours in sitting in traffic, most of my interactions with Guineans are with the staff drivers. My favorite driver is Eddie. My most substantive conversations in Guinea with Guineans have been in the half hour commute each day.

It is currently the dry season and we recently had a burst of rain – last monsoon fits of the climate making its cycle around. I catch sight of the ocean between concrete buildings, golden water with the setting sun outlining one of the islands just off the coast of Conakry and the air much clearer with the rain-cleansing from earlier in the morning. This pristine view from a distance belies the scene along the road where everyone is rushing and hustling to get by.

We roll off the main autoroute and onto the corniche road that leads to my apartment building. At each bend there are women sitting on short, squat wooden stools with fresh fish hanging for sale.

“Eddie,” I say, “how do these fish get into the city each day?”

“Mr. Jett, it’s a hard business,” Eddie says. “I did this for six months when I was living in Sierra Leone. I did this only for work, to eat, because it is too hard.”

I can see the small boats out on the horizon, seemingly stationary on the water.

“What’s it like? Do the fishermen go out in the morning, come back in the evening?” I ask.

“Some land in the evening. Some go out at night and come in back the morning. You don’t want to know. It’s hard business. Hard!”

I pause. I do want to know. “Do you know any fishermen here? Anyone who would take me out there with them?”

Eddie turns his head briefly from the traffic to me and then back again. I can see him weighing the balance of a kind of friendship with a client – me – and what it might mean to help that client get onto the water.

“I know a man. A good Christian man who helped me once with work. I will ask him to see, and if you don’t mind, I would go with you.”

Eddie is as good with the plans as he is with the drive. It’s Saturday and I am already awake for the neighboring mosque’s call to prayer at 5:00. Somewhere there is a small wooden boat bobbing in the Atlantic, and a crew that’s now two men short to make space for Eddie and I.

Fear comes to you in interesting ways. Little fantasies play out in my head of the regretful call to cancel the trip and the wave of relief that would bring. I’m tired and at 5 am, I don’t really want this experience. Thinking about the planning, Eddie was pretty insistent on the life preserver. Was that from a healthy sense of caution or should I know more about what I’m getting myself into?

As I’ve learned before, the only way to deal with this kind of pre-adventure panic is to go through the mechanics of preparation without actually stopping to sit and ponder how ridiculous the plan might be. Pack water, apply sun block, prepare a small lunch, and stash money in two plastic bags at the bottom of my sack.

Too late to back out at this point, the car with Eddie is soon outside waiting for me and I let the momentum of the planning and packing carry me along.

“Eddie, good morning,” I say.

“Good morning, Mr. Jett. Are you ready?”

I am not ready. “Yes. Let’s go.”

The morning sky is lit as we park the car and walk into the port. People are still asleep on the concrete stall slabs where the fish will be sold in just a few hours. I get some stares, but just a few. People are already too busy to gawk.

Roles at the port are framed by gender. Men are crawling over the wooden boats, adjusting the red, green, and yellow ribbons on masts, and moving equipment onto the crafts. The younger fishermen are already bailing water that has seeped in during the night. Bailing water before setting out strikes me as a bit of a bad sign about what to expect on the open sea.

The women here are the fishmongers. Older ones, dominant in stature, are milling down by the boats, waiting for the first arrivals of night fishermen. Younger women are squatting on the jetty, selling meat pies or walking down with buckets of small sundries balanced on their head.

Eddie takes me down the pier. “Take care,” he says while pointing out gutted fish and –yes- banana peels that might make me slip. “The owner is just here.”

We shake hands with the boat owner who is wearing clean jeans, a nicely ironed shirt, and shoes that are not meant for sailing. He’s not going out on the boat with us – he just owns the Arise and Shine No. 3 that is taking us out on the water. There is another man next to him smoking a cigarette. Shorter and with old clothes, his angular frame has none of the boat owner’s healthy belly.

“This is the captain, Fassiney,” says Eddie.

“Hello sir! You come from America?” he says.

“Yes, I do,” I say.

“Ah, great country!” He’s beaming and continues, “We are going to show you how we fish. We go for herring today. They’re good fish, lots of them here.”

I nod, looking at the Arise and Shine No. 3. There’s a bit of water in the bottom, but it’s visibly in better shape than its neighbors. It looks about five years old, maybe a bit more.

“Nice boat, captain,” I say, “How old?”

“Not yet six months. It’s good, no?”

“Yes, it’s good.” This is the experience I asked for and can’t back out now.

Eddie jumps in first and nervously watches me clamor down into the boat. I hand him my flip-flops and plastic bag of supplies and get myself seated on a crossbeam. The captain and two other fishermen climb in, arrange the outboard motor, and then we pole ourselves out of the scrum of boats.

Fassiney looks at me and looks down at the t-shirt I’m wearing.

“Ah, you’re a sailor?” he asks. I look down, realizing my college tee-shirt is from the rowing team’s bar.

“No, no, I’m not a sailor,” I say and uncomfortably trace the outline of an oar that I really wouldn’t know how to use here. I pause, and then I check my baseball cap. ‘Harpoon Brewery’ is written in big letters with a big whaling harpoon on the front. I’m not a sailor but you could be forgiven for guessing it from my outfit. When did our clothes become so nautical?

“Well, good shirt.” The captain gets in the boat with us. On the dock the owner is already involved on his cell phone, walking away as he talks.

The captain gestures to one of the fishermen squatting on the stern. At that motion, the fisherman yanks on the cable and revs the outboard to life. Black water gurgles up behind and the engine pushes us out into the open port and past the seawall.

The water is smooth and the waves do not even break. They are just swells in the surface as we coast along with the palm-lined islands rising up on our right.  These are the remnant shells of an ancient volcano and an echo of what the mainland used to resemble before post-colonial concrete and tin roofs sprawled across the landscape. The sea fills our view and we forget the city quickly.

“Captain, the water’s nice today,” I say to make chit chat.

“Yes,” Fassiney nods. “It’s the dry season. We fishermen love the dry season! Waves are small. You get waves in the rainy season, oy oy!” He sticks out his hands, waving them up and down to illustrate the tossing of the boat. “We Africans, we confuse God. While farmers praying for rain, fishermen praying for sun!”

“But you go out into the water in the rainy season? When the water’s rough?” I ask.

Fassiney nods again. “But we not resting! We taking out water the whole time.” Fassiney picks up the bailing bucket and strains with imaginary effort.

Eddie nods his head. “One time I was out there in the deep ocean. We were fishing for snapper. We went out for four, five days. Mr. Jett, I thought it was the moment I was going to die. The boat went up one wave,” he leans back for emphasis, “And then the boat goes down the other.” He lurches forward and for a second I imagine cresting a monster in a wooden boat like this with just an old plastic jug for a bailer.

“Mr. Jett, I thought I would die,” he says again and I believe him. “We took turns emptying the water. The man in the front bailed and the other men hung onto him. When he got tired, he passed beneath our legs so not to fall out and he took the last position. Then someone else took a turn bailing water. We lasted like this for six hours, up and down, rain and waves. That was my last day as a fisherman.”

I want to ask Eddie about the other men, if they kept up with work. I wanted to ask if he’s lost friends like that, but you can’t ask this question. Someone can only tell you the answer.

(End of part I)

Go to Part II: On the Water in Guinea

Jett Thomason works for the U.S. government managing small agricultural development projects in Africa. A former Peace Corps volunteer in Uzbekistan, he has worked in Afghanistan and Iraq and traveled extensively in Latin America and the former Soviet Union. In his current job, Jett copes with responsibility and limited time for indulging wanderlust by writing the occasional blog entry and travel story.

Recently I’ve been increasingly interested in those travelers whose intense interest, hobby, or profession take them around the world. Be they surfers, chefs, farmers, artists, or hunters; they go to far off places to see how their specialty is done in that particular place.

I met Ben Tobin trekking in the High Sierra of California this summer. He’s the assistant cave technician (or caveman as he likes to joke) at Sequoia King’s Canyon National Park.  Whether he uses traveling as an excuse to go caving or caving as an excuse to travel, he’s been exploring caves around the world for more than a decade now. I asked him about the places caving has taken him.

Ben at the bat monument in Austin, Texas

GN: What places have you been caving?

BT: Kenya, Greece, the Bahamas, China, Mexico, and throughout the USA at various National Parks: Wind Cave in South Dakota, Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, among others on both public and private land.

A current obsession with a lot of American cavers is China, so I took a trip there with some colleagues a couple years back. In Kenya I saw some lava tubes. Greece was for an international caving conference. And most recently, some friends and I took a road trip into northern Mexico to go caving.

A large chamber in San Wan Dong (Ben holding a flash in the far distant part of the room), in Chongqing, China Photo Credit: Hazel Barton

GN: Do you meet any cavers in the countries you’ve visited? Do you connect through your common interest?

BT: One of the most enjoyable parts of caving in other countries is meeting cavers and other locals. Caves seem to provide a good focal point to expand our understanding of one another. Typically, locals (non-cavers) think that we are crazy for traveling around the world to crawl into a little hole in the ground. But in many ways, that provides a means for more meaningful interactions.

GN: Do you have any funny stories?

BT: We were in a remote region of Hunan Province in China, living with a local farmer, exploring and mapping some nearby caves. It was a group of six cavers from the US and Britain along with three Chinese cavers. Every day we returned home, exhausted from spending the entire day caving—crawling, climbing, hiking around—that we would have a few drinks, crash, and crawl into our sleeping bags for the night. Well, apparently one family in the village ended up calling the police to find out if we were legally allowed to be there.

The police arrived to investigate and asked us for our passports. Because we didn’t really understand what was going on, we all began to grow nervous.

Apparently a neighbor had reported to them that we were “really strange” and would “go crawling in the dirt all day and then not take a bath and then get into our sleeping bags to marinate in our own stink.”

Ben climbing out of cave #196 after a mapping and exploration trip in Chongqing, China Photo Credit: Hazel Barton

GN: What is the attraction to climbing into these sometime dangerous and small spaces in the earth?

BT: What gets me excited about caving, I think, is the same thing that got explorers energized about traveling to uncharted lands, the unknown. Not only are we exploring passages that people may not have ever seen, but understanding how these places work. Understanding the life that’s there, the ecosystems that have developed, and generally understanding more about this part of the world that we don’t know too much about.

GN: What’s the difference between spelunking and caving?

BT: My personal definition of the two and one I think is held by most cavers is this: People who go into caves generally fall into two categories. There are those who understand the unique delicate nature of caves, as well as some of the inherent danger of these places, and those who don’t understand that. People who enter caves and are prepared for the environment they are entering (both for their own safety and the safety of the cave) are cavers. Spelunkers are not prepared and often do not recognize the importance and unique beauty around them.

GN: Do you travel for caves or do you cave to travel?

BT: It entirely depends on the situation. Some places the caving is so enticing that that is the driving force behind going there. Other times it’s the culture and environment of a place that provides a really good excuse to travel to the cave.

Quan Kou Entrance: Ben with two other cavers entering a cave named Quan Kou Dong, in Chongqing, China

GN: What are the best regions of the world for caving?

BT: World caving hot spots right now depends somewhat on the type of caving people like. If you are into cave diving (SCUBA diving in caves), then the Yucatan of Mexico is probably the place to go.

China is hot right now because of its mostly unexplored caves and the opportunities to map and discover these areas.

For vertical caving (using ropes to lower yourself into caves), Mexico and the Caucasus are on the top of the list.

The United States is actually a substantial caving destination. Some of the longest known caves are located here. Mammoth Cave is the world’s longest with over 360 miles of mapped passage and Jewel Cave comes in second with 150 miles.

Southeast Asia up into China has some of the largest rooms and passages in the world. I know cavers who enjoy these areas not only for their caving, but for the environment they are located in. In a place like Borneo, for example, you are surrounded by tropical rain forest as you hike around looking for cave entrances.

GN: What areas are on your must-see list?

BT: My must-see list is way too big. Currently, I have an obsession with marble caves, which are much less common than those made of limestone. In addition to California, there are marble caves in Norway, Madagascar, and New Zealand that I would like to explore.

I’d love to return to China as well and also check out some caves in Southeast Asia. And the Pantanal in Brazil is a place I’d like to investigate too.

But basically if there is a country that has potential for caves, I have a lot of interest in going there.

By Danielle L. Krautmann

Alternative to department store.

As my taxi weaves its way through the streets of Cajamarca, Peru, things look different than they did my last visit.  Perhaps it’s because last April, I was a tourist from Lima.  This time I’m here to look at apartments.  I will be moving to Cajamarca in a month.

The taxi driver grumbles to himself about the traffic as I look out the window.  I notice that every store on this block sells cleaning supplies.  Brooms, mops, bold colored buckets and dustpans clutter the shop fronts to draw you in and deter you from the next store which sells the exact same items.  The next two blocks are filled with peluquerias (hair salons).  Each store front is covered with out-dated posters of models from the 80’s displaying voluminous hair styles.  I wonder which of these peluquerias I will go to.  Does it make a difference?

The next block is where you buy your canned foods with faded labels while the one after is filled with hardware shops.  Is this a weird dream?  What planet am I on?  Why don’t these people just go to a department store?  Finally, as the taxi approaches Hotel de las Americas, I notice every other building on this block sells nothing but cheese and yogurt.  All I can think about is how I will describe this strange phenomenon to friends and family when I return to Lima.  Then it hits me: these are the places I will shop and these are the streets I will need to learn.  Shit.  This is going to be like starting all over….AGAIN.

One of these guys is not like the others

I step out of the taxi and take a look at the locals.  When I visited in April, the people of Cajamarca (many of whom still wear traditional Andean clothing) contributed to the rich cultural experience of visiting this beautiful mountain town.  They walk the streets dressed in sandals, knee-length wool skirts with petticoats, with 3 to 5 sweaters layered over each other (never mind it’s hot out).  A tall hat made from woven palm leaves shades their dark leathered faces and covers their black hair which they wear tied back in one or two braids.  Today, these women are no longer photo opportunities, but my new neighbors.  The majority of Cajamarcanians sport modern attire as they would in Lima, but there is still something very different.  All of a sudden I become keenly aware of the lyrics to the song I’ve been humming to myself for most of the taxi ride.

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger.  Faces look ugly, when you’re alone.”

You said it Jim Morrison.  How the heck am I going to live here?  How will I make friends?  Lima is one thing, but this place is just a little too different.  I try to remember why I wanted to move here in the first place.  Something about the mountains, something about the culture, something about getting out of the city, and something about Brandy being able to run free off her leash.  These things seem trivial and I’m ready to hop back on the next plane to Lima.  Loud lonely Lima all of a sudden becomes lovely, luxurious Lima, where I have friends, and can buy everything I need in one store.   Alas, I am supposed to go and see eight different apartments tomorrow so I’ll stay the weekend.

I guess it doesn't look all that bad, does it?

The taxi driver says “gracias señorita” as he dumps me off at the hotel and drives away quickly.  I catch myself humming The Doors again, “No one remembers your name, when you’re strange, when you’re strange.”

Change is hard, moving is hard, and after moving nine times in the past five years (I’m not exaggerating), I can safely say, it doesn’t get a whole lot easier.  But I have learned there are a few things you can do to get through the adjustment period a little more smoothly.

Leave the house every day

Easier said than done.  At any given time, I can think up at least five reasons not to leave the comfort of my own home:  It’s not safe. I can’t understand anyone. I’m tired. there’s too much to do around the house. Brandy doesn’t want me to leave her alone.  There, easy.  That was five.  Stop making excuses. Even if it’s just to take a walk around the block, get out of the house.

Get your bearings

Figure out where you are. You can look at maps, but the best way to learn the streets is by walking them.  When I moved to Lima, I was so nervous about getting lost, I would only walk around the block, so that’s where I started.  Then it became two blocks, then trips to the grocery store, then I learned the bus system.

Talk to people, start conversations

Everyone has a story to tell and most have good intentions.  Of course you must keep safety in mind, so perhaps if there is a “gentleman” standing on the corner making kissing noises, don’t approach him and ask him if he wants to be friends.  Aside from that, put yourself out there, you’ve got nothing to lose.  “People look strange, when you’re a stranger.”  So don’t be a stranger, talk to everyone.

Accept every invitation

Take advantage of every opportunity, even if it’s not your thing, keep an open mind and go anyway.  If you get invited to a gathering, a Tupperware party, a trip to Gamarra to see the Shaman market, to train for a marathon, whatever, GO!  Every invitation you accept will get you more invitations, and you’ll never know whether or not you’ll like something until you try it.

Finally, go easy on yourself

Moving is hard.  It doesn’t matter if it’s to another country or the next town over.  In Peru, we use an expression, “poco a poco”  which means “little by little”.  That’s how things happen and that’s how we adjust.  It won’t happen overnight.

So now, I suppose, it’s time to take my own advice.  In a month I will move to this place, I will shop in these stores, get lost in these streets, and befriend these strangers.  Time to find an apartment, check out the local market, and find someone to talk to. Here we go again!

New Hampshire foliage

Have I ever told you how much I love the Jorge Chavez International airport?  Well, I love it so much that I try to arrive early.  If check in goes smoothly I have time to sit outside the security gate to watch Peruvians say goodbye to each other.  Entire families go to the airport with their loved ones to participate in the dramatic parting ritual.  The traveler tearfully makes his or her way through the group, kissing each person, telling them they love them, telling them “cuidate” (take care of yourself), promising to call the second they arrive, then more kisses, hugs, tears,  and handholding while exchanging longing looks.  Family members who are staying in Peru cry and hold each other for comfort.  

I love it.  I hope to someday partake in such a dramatic goodbye.  Charlie has little tolerance for the production.  He feels it’s excessive and whether the traveler is going for a year or a week, they do the same darn thing.  He gets annoyed when they block the entrance to security and you have to push your way through, which we did as we made our way through the airport for a visit home to the United States.  To Charlie’s credit, he spends far more time at Jorge Chavez than I do, and I’m sure it gets old.  I looked back as a family of seven parted with their young adult.  As they wept and held each other, I pretended they were saying goodbye to me.  “Goodbye for now, Peru,” I said to myself as I popped a sleeping pill (courtesy of a typical Peruvian pharmacy at which you can get any drug you desire without prescription) and boarded the plane.    

Charlie and I eating Fenway Franks and drinking beer at a Red Sox vs. Yankees game.

After sleepwalking my way through a layover in who-knows-where and customs, I found myself in Logan International airport surrounded by gringos.  Finding a bus to my hometown of Concord, NH seemed too easy to be true.  I had become accustomed to the simplest tasks taking at least a half day in Lima.  The bus arrived on time and the ride was tranquil.  No slamming on the breaks, no bumps, no one cutting anyone off and no horn honking.  I had almost forgotten that for the most part, in the United States of America (home of the brave), we follow traffic laws out of fear of getting a ticket.  I looked out the window and appreciated the cleanliness along the highway, allowing the grass to show its bold green color.   Here I was on the other side and the grass was definitely greener!

I looked around at the other passengers on the bus and something felt strange.  No one was looking at me.  No men making kissing noises, staring me down, or proclaiming “I lub you!” in thick Spanish accents.   I waited for the feeling of relief to set in.  After months of enduring sexual harassment whenever I left my apartment, after walking around in sweatshirts hiding my identity as a gringa rubia, after daily rants to Brandy about the perverted men in Lima, I could finally relax.  But a different feeling overtook me: disappointment.  I looked just like everyone else.  On this bus, there was absolutely nothing special about me that would cause a person to look twice.    

I must say, it was nice being home.  Autumn in New Hampshire provides an incredible display of changing seasons causing people to come from all over the country to marvel at…leaves.  Ironically, the brilliant foliage is a sign that the leaves are dying and NH will soon enter into another terribly long, excessively cold winter.  But the leaves do not accept their fate quietly.  They put on a captivating show of fiery reds, oranges and yellows before they go.

A typical American making apple pie

I spent three weeks enjoying the foliage, visiting with family, drinking savory beers from local breweries and eating far too much delicious American food.  Charlie and I celebrated our anniversary hiking in the White Mountains without need for guides or worrying about being held up or having our packs taken.  I appreciated speaking English, feeling safe, the familiarity, cleanliness, and law and order to everything.  When I’m in the States, everything makes sense.  I have never enjoyed NH or my family as much as I did this past visit.

But this trip to New Hampshire felt different.  Over and over again I found myself feeling like a foreigner.  I wanted to kiss everyone I encountered which doesn’t fly in the United States.  I had almost forgotten that in the USA, we shake hands when we greet.  After months of kissing my friends in Peru, my maid, my driver, and anyone else I got introduced to, I felt like I was being rude NOT to kiss my parents’ friends, my brother, or my best friend’s boyfriend.  There were several times I found myself going in for a kiss only to have a hand thrust in my direction for a shake.   I was constantly reminding myself “Don’t kiss strangers, Danielle.  They’ll think you’re weird.”  

My cousin Kate thought I was weird when I tried to negotiate the price of a hotdog.  This vendor wanted to charge me $3!   “Three dollars for a hotdog?” I asked.  “That’s ridiculous!  I’ll give you a dollar.”  The guy paused and looked at me, then replied “Sorry, three is as low as I can go.”  I assured Kate, “Don’t worry. I do this all the time,” then said “Two fifty, no more.”  He appeared irritated, “Sorry, these hot dogs cost $3.”  To his credit, it was a good hotdog, but I could get a whole meal for that price in Peru.  

Kayaking in Keene, NH surrounded by foliage.

Mom thought I was weird when she noticed me taking pictures of everything from cars stopped at traffic lights to Charlie doing yard work with my brother, Brent.  “Act natural,” I told her as she stood elbow deep in a bowl of flour at our kitchen counter.   “This will be a great photo.  Its so typical.  An American making apple pie!  I can’t wait to show my friends!”  Mom rolled her eyes.

After three weeks, I was sad to leave.  I sniffled my way through security checks at the airport and anticipated my return to loud, lonely, Lima.  I feared that after 3 weeks of speaking English, I would be back at square one stumbling through words like an idiot.  I filled my carry-on bag with enough magazines to last me a month, boarded the plane and popped a sleeping pill.

I woke up as my plane landed at Jorge Chavez.  As I fumbled my way through customs and baggage claim I mentally prepared to be harassed by taxi drivers who would approach me the second I exited the airport.  On the contrary I was greeted by Carlos, who of course, before anything, gave me a big kiss.  Funny enough, that was all I needed to remind me that there are a lot of things I love about this place.  

I’ve heard that life experiences that are most difficult are the ones you remember the best.  I found that the things I complain most about ended up being the things I missed while visiting the USA. The men in Lima who make kissing noises are jerks, but they sure make me feel attractive, even when I’m in baggy sweatpants and having a bad hair day.  There is much less structure, law and order in Peru, making simple things take sometimes days to accomplish, but when I do complete a task, I feel triumphant.  While my Spanish has improved, I continue to struggle to communicate all I want to say while projecting my personality, but each time I have a deep conversation in Spanish, understand a joke, or use a new word, I feel successful.  I stand out here in Peru, and for that am a target for crime, scams, and higher prices, but learning about and living in a culture so different from my own has been the experience of a lifetime.  

I got back to my apartment and took Brandy out to the park.  I looked around and noticed the grass was a lovely green.  Not the same bold green as in New Hampshire, but bright green.  Not more or less green than it was on the other side, just a different shade.