Backpackers and other laments

Some things were never meant to take place via the casual anonymity of the internet, like extending inviting someone to sleep on your couch. Perhaps you've heard of the website couchsurfers.com, which allows wandering vagabonds to connect to willing hosts via the internet, show up at their door, and sleep in their houses all for the price of a meal and some interesting conversation. I'm not going to judge those who choose to take part in this free exchange of short-term housing, but what do you do when you find yourself being perceived as a "couch-surfing" location by accident?

A week and a half ago, I found myself in this exact position after meeting a professional traveler at a friends house. This friend had indeed signed himself up as a couch-surfing location, and was hosting his first visitor when I showed up to crash in his guest room after a full day of traveling on the bus. I was a little surprised, but just figured, hey, to each his own, right? The next morning I exchanged friendly conversation with the backpacker and then went on to catch my bus back to my village. I must have mentioned the name of my village and expressed my good fortune at having such a beautiful home, but in no way did I encourage the traveling organic farmer/musician to stop in for a visit. I have enough to worry about without having to play host to a random stranger. So imagine my surprise when Mr. Backpacker peeps his head in my open door a couple of days later, saying “hello, the ladies by the river told me you live here, mind if I set my bags down while I look around the village?” Being the gracious, non-confrontational American that I am, I offered him a corner for his bags and figured that he would set up his tent with a local family and eat with them. He came in, took a seat on the floor (I do own chairs, but apparently that was too conventional), and started asking about where he could find some local vegetables to cook for dinner. This is where I realized that he had confused me with a couch surfing host, and I began racking my brain for a way to get out of this. Unfortunately, having never been faced with the dilemma of a complete stranger waltzing into my house and assuming complete familiarity, I was at a loss.

I was on the way to the store anyways, so I took him around to some houses where people grew vegetables, and he picked up the makings for some sort of rice and vegetable dish. Back at my house, I needed to go do some work down the road, so I innocently let him stay in my house, I figured he had stayed at my friends house without ransacking the place. A few hours later I returned to find nearly every pot and pan in my kitchen in use and every kid in my village staring at this strange man who was making himself at home in my house. The last thing I wanted was for everyone in the village to think that I was in the habit of having strange, male house guests, but what was I to do? He was basically inviting me to dinner in my own house and I had no choice but to sit down and wonder how I was to get him to leave. The control freak inside me was scratching to get out, to tell this guy to quit cooking on my cast-iron pan, to use a little bleach on the dishes, and to take it easy on the olive oil, a pricey commodity. After dinner I feigned tiredness and my site-mate and another PCV made sure that Mr. Backpacker had set-up his tent and was on his way out the door. Thankfully I didn’t even own a couch that could serve as a bed and I was not about to offer up my hammock.

After a night spent developing a so-called exit strategy, I got up the next morning and boldly informed the wayward traveler that I was very busy, and it would be best if he found another place to park his tent. Chances are I will never see this guy again, and I really needed to regain control of my house before I completely lost it. Later, as I was processing the whole situation, I realized that I was so aggravated because this was my home, not some hostel or half-way house. Backpackers flock to Central America in hoards, sleeping in hostels and relishing in the communal living and sharing that happens in those places, but I live here. For me, it was as if someone had knocked on my apartment in Seattle, invited themselves in, pitched a tent in the front yard and then started rummaging through my cupboards and whipping up a meal, albeit one that is graciously shared. It was that strange. After I dismissed the foreign traveler along with his guitar, tent, and drawstring hemp capris, I cleaned up and took a deep breath of relief.