CouchSurfing is brilliant

Couchsurfing is a website which makes you realise the internet is brilliant.

A non-profit organisation effectively self-administered by volunteer members, CouchSurfing is a free-to-join website where users agree to put up other travellers visiting their city.

In short this is what happens: You email someone who lives in a city you intend visiting. You ask if you can stay with them. They say yes or no.

No money changes hands. This is feel-good factor surfing.

The same process can also happen in reverse. If you stay with someone they are usually very nice to you. They might cook you a meal, they might show you round their area. If you’re a nice guest you will probably take them a gift of appreciation.

With an average age of 25, the one million plus users (1,152,463 users on Sunday May 31) are perceived to be backpackers, but the sight accommodates are far wider ranger of people. Literally.

I have surfed in mid-America, Prague and India. I also met some CouchSurfers in Warsaw for a drink. Always had a brilliant time. Being driven across the Punjab at 100mph was almost as memorable as the out-of-control naked party held in my honour on the outskirts of Kansas City.

Sadly, the concept is open to abuse. Spam emails and bad experiences are kept to a minimum thanks to a fairly robust screening process for members and a vigilant administration team.

But talking to an Australian couple travelling across India I was made aware how the nature of the sight was being abused. While staying with a CouchSurfer in New Delhi, they were shown round the city by their host. However, after visiting various bars, restaurants and shops, the Indian host appeared to get paid by the owners of the various establishments.

The power of the tourist pound in India is very strong. An India taxi driver can earn as much from one tourist as he could from 20 fares carrying locals. White tourists are targeted as soon as they get off trains or step out of the airport. I can testify to this.

But the cynical manipulation of the travelling CouchSurfer goes against everything the website strives to achieve. Obviously, tackling this problem won’t be easy. Certainly the travellers would have to report the host, and they would be reluctant to do that if he was otherwise charming.

I myself stayed with a CouchSurfer named Hemant and his family for three days in Ludhiana and had no such issues with him. He could not have done more for me and my sick girlfriend Anna, reinforcing the generosity that CocuSurfing has worked so hard to generate around the world.

Shortly after my visit to India I hosted a Slovakian man named Joe and his Hungarian girlfriend. They bought me a bottle of whiskey. Don’t drink the stuff, but the offer was very much appreciated.

I’ve surfed a few times. I’ve hosted twice now. Great experience. I feel I've contributed. As CouchSurfing gets bigger I hope it manages to retain its personal touch.

Paris has more CouchSurfers than any other city – 20,602 - followed by London (17,856), Berlin (14691), Montreal (13,650) and Vienna (9,607). Just over 30per cent of CouchSurfers (353,330) had couches available at the time of checking. Over 230 countries are represented, and 59,199 cities have at least one CouchSurfer. The least spoken language by CouchSurfers is Lojban (four members).

Beggars belief

I visited India for ten days. I went to a lovely wedding, explored Ludhiana, walked round the Golden Temple at Amritsar and visited Chandigarh. To top it all off I spent two nights in the fabulous Himalayan mountain town of Nainital.

It was quite and amazing experience. So why do I keep questioning if I should be enjoying myself in this exceptional multi-cultural country?

The answer is poverty. Deprivation is not exclusive to India but this country holds a sizeable chunk of the worlds homeless, hungry and humiliated.

India has a fat-growing economy built on industry, particularly manufacturing. But still it harbours huge misery and desperation.

You see it immediately from the train when you leave New Delhi Station heading north. Amongst the litter-strewn wage ground between the track and slums squat dozens of human beings in what acts as their open-air toilets. They shit on the ground.

The stench of the slums, even from 50 metres away in Agra is unbearable. So unbearable I didn’t dare go near.

And the beggars at every street junction and corner, who traipse up and down the trains (first-class excluded) or, like these two girls pictured (above), who relentlessly smile into carriages in the desperate hope of a few rupees.

I gave them a (large) packet of crisps and some biscuits. Does that justify taking the photograph?

Possibly not. But at least writing about it and showing this photo is better than ignoring it. Do I sound like Bono?

Road to hell (yes, it's in India)

I remember Alan Whicker. I’ve seen Clive James. I watch Michael Palin. I knew what to expect in India. So I reckoned anyway. Nothing can prepare you for the stress of the roads.

It’s not so much the hustle and bustle and bump of traffic in the congested cities, it’s the torturous journies between towns that leave your brain battered and bruised.

Imagine travelling from Manchester to Newcastle or London to Leeds on a country road which regularly descends into a dirt track and which is littered with cows, horses and carts, huge trucks, motorcycles, rickshaws and cars all travelling on both sides of the road, often four abreast at 90mph, while oncoming traffic whizzes towards you.

For someone who prides himself on not getting stressed-out this was too stressful to bear.

Ludhiana to Chandigarh. Three hours each way. Nightmare. The booting and braking of my friend Hemant on dusty tracks left me scared of Ford Fusion’s for life. I decided to shut my eyes for almost the entire journey back to Ludhiana.

Ludhiana to Amritsar. Four hours each way. Absolutely horrendous. The Ayrton Senna-style drive to Amritsar was bad enough- we were late for the India/Pakistan border closing ceremony at Wagah. But coming back in the dark was emotionally devastating. Parts of this journey on the famous Grand Trunk Road were on dual carriageways. Unfortunately, dual carriageways do not stop some trucks from driving the wrong way down them. And then there was the Holy Cow! moment when Hemant blackspotted his Fusion’s tyres when Daisy the cow meandered into our 80mph path on a typically unlit piece of carriageway.

Ludhiana to Corbett National park. Fifteen hours in a mini bus. Along some of the bumpiest roads ever misconstructed. This was a nightmare from start to finish. So traumatised I was by this that my final journey, intended to be from Nainital to Delhi in this very same minibus was dumped in favour of the train. A decision I did not live to regret.

India has a huge amount to offer. Temples, mountains, culture by the bucketloads and enough diahorrea to keep everyone busy. But the roads, the speed and the fearless head-on driving give this monumental country it’s own unique selling point.

Road to hell (yes, it's in India)

I remember Alan Whicker. I’ve seen Clive James. I watch Michael Palin. I knew what to expect in India. So I reckoned anyway. Nothing can prepare you for the stress of the roads.

It’s not so much the hustle and bustle and bump of traffic in the congested cities, it’s the torturous journies between towns that leave your brain battered and bruised.

Imagine travelling from Manchester to Newcastle or London to Leeds on a country road which regularly descends into a dirt track and which is littered with cows, horses and carts, huge trucks, motorcycles, rickshaws and cars all travelling on both sides of the road, often four abreast at 90mph, while oncoming traffic whizzes towards you.

For someone who prides himself on not getting stressed-out this was too stressful to bear.

Ludhiana to Chandigarh. Three hours each way. Nightmare. The booting and braking of my friend Hemant on dusty tracks left me scared of Ford Fusion’s for life. I decided to shut my eyes for almost the entire journey back to Ludhiana.

Ludhiana to Amritsar. Four hours each way. Absolutely horrendous. The Ayrton Senna-style drive to Amritsar was bad enough- we were late for the India/Pakistan border closing ceremony at Wagah. But coming back in the dark was emotionally devastating. Parts of this journey on the famous Grand Trunk Road were on dual carriageways. Unfortunately, dual carriageways do not stop some trucks from driving the wrong way down them. And then there was the Holy Cow! moment when Hemant blackspotted his Fusion’s tyres when Daisy the cow meandered into our 80mph path on a typically unlit piece of carriageway.

Ludhiana to Corbett National park. Fifteen hours in a mini bus. Along some of the bumpiest roads ever misconstructed. This was a nightmare from start to finish. So traumatised I was by this that my final journey, intended to be from Nainital to Delhi in this very same minibus was dumped in favour of the train. A decision I did not live to regret.

India has a huge amount to offer. Temples, mountains, culture by the bucketloads and enough diahorrea to keep everyone busy. But the roads, the speed and the fearless head-on driving give this monumental country it’s own unique selling point.

Taj Mahal, Agra, India

Mother and son having a rest at the back of the Taj Mahal on Sunday morning May 3, 2009.