How to Travel the World for Free

by Michael Wigge

  The young man observes me standing there scrunched up in the corner. We both stand there looking at each other for a few seconds without saying a word.

  I keep looking at him. He looks right back at me. I think we’re saying things with our minds, but I can’t be too sure.

  I nonchalantly try to act as if I’m just standing there to gaze out of the window; I even prop my chin up on my fist and manage a small smile. The young waiter pushes his cart to the other side of the compartment and proceeds to fix himself some lemonade while keeping his eyes on me—he knows exactly what’s going on. I continue staring out the window with an expression of wonder, though I’m not paying a bit of attention to the scenery.

  After a few minutes, the waiter pushes the cart back out of the compartment, barely hiding a smile. I arrive in Antwerp both overjoyed by the success and utterly exhausted from holding myself in that position for almost an hour.

  My next challenge is to find some food. What if I approach, say, five different shops, and simply explain to them that I am traveling to the end of the world without any money and ask if they would donate some food for my cause? How many of them will say yes? It’s worth a try. So I first approach a nice café run by a young man. He thinks my adventure sounds great and offers me a coffee and a muffin. The Latin American music playing in the background only increases my anticipation for traveling throughout South America. I then go to a hotel where they let me refill my two-liter bottle without any trouble. At my next stop, a fish store, the saleswoman refuses to give me any food since her boss isn’t there to make the decision. The fourth place I try is a bakery, where the employees are very generous: slices of quiche, various buns, some bread, and pastries are packed up and handed to me. The three employees have fun debating which one of them will accompany me on my trip. Finally, a fruit vendor gives me two apples. With four out of five of my requests met with success, I’m left feeling hopeful about the rest of my journey.

  2

  ALL HANDS

  BELOW DECK

  Antwerp’s harbor is about sixteen miles long and quite difficult to explore on foot; there are trucks driving around and numerous cranes incessantly loading and unloading the huge container ships that come from all over the world. Everything must be done quickly, as there’s no time to lose. After much searching, I finally find my ship and I’m immediately filled with a sense of adventure.

  The MS Valentina is 194 yards long and loaded with 1,800 containers. Upon entering the ship, I am politely greeted by a Filipino steward: “Hello, Mr. Wigge.” He introduces himself as Julius and brings me to my cabin. To my astonishment, he insists on carrying my backpack although it’s quite heavy and almost as big as he is. I’ll be spending the next twelve days in a comfortable sleeping cabin that includes a small private lounge with a stereo system, a satellite television with over 900 channels, and a minibar. Julius tells me that I can always reach him on the ship’s phone system—“Extension 148!”—then politely takes his leave. I sit on my bed feeling unbelievably happy, for I had never expected to find such luxury on a container ship.

  I meet Julius again while I’m having a look around the ship, and he tells me that meals are at eight o’clock in the morning, noon, and five in the evening, but that it’s not a problem if I’m a little late. Near the dining hall is a fitness area, and beyond that is the ship’s cinema, stocked with plenty of DVDs. Julius proudly goes over everything, explaining, “Our passengers should be happy!” I realize that they must have booked me as a tourist and not as a helper—as was discussed on the phone—but I certainly am not going to be the one to complain. Thus, my journey across the Atlantic will be made in unexpected comfort.

  There is plenty to eat. I listen to the news on the BBC, Russia Today, France 24, Deutsche Welle, and Al Jazeera, comparing the different views of each one. I enthusiastically begin selecting DVDs to watch over the next twelve days: Casino to prepare myself for Las Vegas, Back to the Future to relive memories of my childhood, The Lord of the Rings trilogy so that I’m not the only one who hasn’t seen it, and classics featuring Joe Pesci and Al Pacino. Just as I’m reaching out to grab the Steve Buscemi film The Interview, the German captain, Mr. Kamrad, approaches me.

  “Mr. Wigge, I’ve just heard that we have an extra helper on board!” His smile is massive. It’s like having a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over me, waking me from my dream, but I keep my cool and simply ask him how I can help.

  For the rest of the journey, I become a proper sailor. Every morning I get up at six, put on my work gear, and sorrowfully glance back at the stack of thirty-five DVDs waiting to be watched in my cabin. My work schedule unfolds as such: On Monday I paint the railings of the ship with a fellow named Ramir, while twenty-foot-high waves rise up all around us. On Tuesday I help do inventory of all of the food and supplies. On Wednesday I accompany a man named Victor to check the cooling systems, requiring us to go seventy feet above deck and look down into the never-ending chasms of the 1,800 containers, all stacked on top of one another, at least five or seven in a stack. On Thursday I am on the bridge with the captain. On Friday I’m with the chief engineer in the engine room, where the main engine has a horsepower of 23,000 (Note: that would be approximately fifty of Harold’s Ferraris) and needs about 425 gallons of oil.

  For me, a successful oil change on my car brings me vast amounts of pleasure, so I can already imagine how much I’m going to enjoy an oil change on MS Valentina. Even though I’m only allowed to change the oil of an auxiliary engine, the procedure is much the same: I unscrew the caps, lid, filters, and filter safeguards; I lay them out in the order I remove them so that I know in which sequence they are replaced; I pay attention to how the heat regulates itself so that there are no burns; I clean any and all clumps from the 20-series Allen key; I take out the oil filter using a myriad of devices; I let the old oil drain out before putting in new oil; and finally, I reassemble everything. The satisfaction this brings me is immense.

  During those twelve days aboard the ship, it occurs to me that the entire twenty-member crew—the captain, the officers, the engineers, the cook, the helpers, and even the steward—all have a strictly regulated routine. Everyone knows exactly what they have to do, and everything operates without anyone having to say anything. What’s more, the people are very polite to one another, there is never any tension or bickering, and after completing the day’s work, everyone retreats to his or her cabin.

  This is, quite frankly, nothing like how I imagined seafaring people to be. I had romantically envisioned gruff, six-and-a-half-foot tall, tattooed Russian sailors living in dark, dingy cabins below the deck, playing vicious games of cards every night while pounding back endless quantities of vodka. In fact, when I had arranged the trip with the shipping company, I had even mentioned that I would like to sleep with the sailors below the deck. (The stoic Mr. Doehle must have thought that journalists have a tendency to exaggerate and didn’t respond to my offer.) Before my departure, I thought about how the sailors would react when they learned I don’t drink, but I now see, much to my shock, that no one drinks alcohol here at all. Well, maybe with one exception, on one night . . .

  On Saturday evening, the ship’s cook, Capriano, organizes a grill party in the dining hall with steaks, chicken drumsticks, and spareribs. I sit with the captain and the officers and we talk about the recent ship hijackings off the coast of Somalia. I, of course, waste no time and begin spouting off all of my expertise, points of view, and opinions as a journalist, while they listen indulgently.

  All of a sudden, the stereo system behind me starts playing “Lambang Layassayh, Lamam Hanang.” I turn around to see my fellow sailor, Ramir, vociferously singing karaoke to a Filipino love song. Accompanying him is a video clip of bikini-clad babes (judging by their hair, from the mideighties) prancing around the beaches of Malibu. This does hurt my ears a lot! The captain grins and says that eleven of the twenty sailors are from the Philippines, and they have a great fondness for love songs from their
country. Ramir appears to be feeling little to no pain from the cheesy love songs and is completely immersed in his rather admirable rendition of the tune.

  Images of Ramir from the last few days spring to my mind. Every day he calmly paints the handrails of the ship for ten hours, while twenty-foot waves occasionally rise up over the deck. I know that he is away from his family during the six to eight months of his contract, working six and a half days every week, getting only half of his Sundays free. The only entertainment is karaoke on Saturdays and, on rare occasions, a brief shore leave.

  On the other hand, Viktor, a Ukrainian who works in the engine room, tells me that the best part of his job is the feeling that he’s on vacation for six to eight months. Since he’s away for such long periods, he’s able to enjoy his time at home with his wife and family more because he doesn’t have to deal with the usual stresses. It’s the first time I’ve been acquainted with this type of lifestyle, and so I’m lost in my thoughts, until “The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing starts playing on the karaoke machine and I’m swiftly brought back to reality. I quickly jump up and grab the microphone.

  3

  TRUE NORTH, LAND OF

  THE FREE

  After twelve days at sea, we arrive in Montreal’s harbor, and I once again, mercifully, have solid ground underneath my feet. I am officially in Canada.

  Some citizens of the neighboring United States enviously look to the rights that all Canadians have, and even sometimes refer to it as the “land of the free,” a rather ironic nickname as it is taken from their very own American national anthem. A public health-care system, legal same-sex marriage, abortion rights, low poverty and crime rates, and an abolished death penalty are achievements that the Canadian people can be proud of.

  Through www.couchsurfing.com I meet Raphaelle and Jessie, with whom I will stay for the coming days. For those unacquainted with the service, Couchsurfing.com is a global social networking community where people offer backpackers their couch for a free night’s stay. The basic idea is that you create a profile with a description of your personality, and then you can either search for or post a place to stay, which is rated by other travelers who have stayed there.

  In the past I have let couch surfers from all over the world stay in my apartment, and they all turned out to be very interesting and kind: guitar hippies from Sweden, a couple from California who were on a world tour, and, most recently, an intern from Senegal named Ken who was excited to stay with me because he had seen me on television. (My report series, The Truth about Germany, is aired on Deutsche Welle TV, which broadcasts in 160 countries. Ken claimed that his German improved by watching my series, and he actually knew fifty of the sixty-five episodes by heart.) I also occasionally take advantage of this network and stay with some couch-surfer hosts, mostly when I am traveling for my show.

  When traveling, I always bring my small netbook so that I can easily contact my respective hosts. Despite the extra weight added to my already heavy backpack and video equipment, its hardware allows me to surf the net wherever there is free Wi-Fi. Since cybercafes cost money and I don’t have any, I’m more than thankful for all of the free networks available in North America. The website www.wififreespot.com even seems to think that the number of free networks here is inexhaustible.

  But back to Raphaelle and Jessie, the two girls I will be staying with: they live in a two-bedroom apartment in the eastern part of Montreal, and they’re both twenty-nine years old and very attractive. A lot of couch surfers have already passed through their bright, friendly apartment, which is kept minimally furnished but is still quite stylish. Since neither of them travels much, they are very happy to have guests and to get to know people from other countries.

  My first evening at their place, we all sit around their kitchen table exchanging stories. Raphaelle, a fashion designer who loves colorful stripes in her designs, is enthusiastic about my travel attempt. Jessie, who works as a kindergarten teacher, is curious to know all about my trip up to this point. As I begin to elaborate, my stomach starts growling, but Raphaelle and Jessie are far too excited and engrossed in my storytelling to hear it.

  Instead of being impolite and asking for something to eat, I wait until they offer me something. Unfortunately, I wait in vain, as the girls are much too fascinated by my travel stories to realize that I may be hungry (and without money). Finally, it gets to the point where Jessie can no longer ignore the growling of my stomach, so she places a bowl of cookies on the table and offers them to me. The cookies are large and round and sugary looking, resembling those of the sandwich chain Subway: in other words, just the right thing to satisfy my hunger.

  Greedily, I grab the cookies and shove three of them, one by one, into my mouth. Delicious. Raphaelle and Jessie both look at me wide-eyed. What is it? Am I being impolite? “These are space cookies, so you really shouldn’t eat too many,” I’m told.

  “Space cookies”? Space . . . is she talking about hash cookies? Alarmed, I put the fourth one down just as I’m about to put it in my mouth. For this trip I had given up smoking and drinking, so this is the last thing I need. Gradually, a warm, fuzzy feeling slowly works over me, and I begin to wonder if I can manage a free visit to the Betty Ford clinic during my trip.

  Then, the doorbell rings and Felix, the girls’ best friend/personal stylist, comes in. He cuts their hair and advises them on how to dress when they go out at night. Today, Jessie ignores his suggestion of the white summer dress with black polka dots and, instead, wears something a bit more subtle. Felix doesn’t mind, as it just means that he can wear the dress himself.

  A little later Felix is standing in front of the mirror wearing the dress and proceeds to stick out his butt proudly. I don’t know whether it’s the space cookies working their magic or just that the situation is so bizarre, but I suddenly can’t stop laughing. Felix is six foot two, broad, and lean. I wonder if I squeezed into a schoolgirl’s outfit, whether I could pull it off as well as Felix would.

  A while later (Five minutes? Five hours?) we are in Raphaelle’s car and I am sitting in the backseat beside Felix, who is still wearing the dress. He only gives me a grin but it’s enough to make me start laughing again. Apparently, the space cookies must still be working since Jessie, Raphaelle, and Felix can’t understand what is so funny. We drive up the 765-foot-high hill called Mont Royal, from which the city gets its name. The view from there is breathtaking. The skyline is brightly lit under the night sky and you can see both the skyscrapers downtown, as well as the old city, with its alleys and houses reminiscent of Paris.

  Raphaelle and Jessie tell me that Montreal is, linguistically, a divided city. Raphaelle points out the area just to the left of the old city where French is mainly spoken, and the area to its right where only English is spoken. This divide dates back to when the French immigrants founded the city in the seventeenth century. However, in the struggle for supremacy in North America, the British were victorious, and all of Canada came under British rule in 1763 despite this province being inhabited only by French settlers.

  From 1844 to 1849, Montreal was the capital city of the British colony, bringing a whole new wave of English immigrants, which led to the division of the city between the French and English. The official language of Quebec is French: shops are obligated to tag their goods in French; all signage is written in the mother tongue of Céline Dion; and there is even an alarmingly named language police who monitor compliance to these regulations.

  Raphaelle, in her strongly French-accented English, tells me that the citizens of Quebec are increasingly demanding complete freedom from Canada because they feel discriminated against by the Canadian government. Jessie, on the other hand, comes from Ontario and considers the demand for independence quite unnecessary and arrogant. While discussing this social issue, it becomes clear how very different the two girls’ viewpoints are and how quickly the tension builds when discussing this topic. Despite all this, they make a good example of the city’s English-French i
ntegration and how harmonious relations are, in fact, possible.

  I slowly begin to notice that the others are equally as stoned as I am, because the topic abruptly changes and we begin laughing at everything—even at Quebec’s perpetual drive for independence. We speak by mingling our French, English, and German, and we all magically understand each other. Luckily, the language police are not on patrol that night.

  In order to avoid eating more space cookies in the days to come, I head off the next morning to get some food for myself. After my positive experience with dumpster diving in Cologne, I decide to give it a try in Montreal. However, the aroma coming from the bakeries and the tempting food on display in the windows spoil my motivation. Instead, I again decide to ask the shops for free food. To my great relief, I have surprisingly good results and my food supply for the next few days is quickly secured.

  Now I must face my next problem: How am I supposed to continue my journey from Montreal without a single penny in my pocket? The only possibility is the long-distance bus, but it costs money that I don’t have. Early the next morning, I go to the bus station filled with a sense of anxiety and concern that if I don’t succeed, I’ll have to sheepishly go back to Raphaelle and Jessie’s place. At the bus terminal, I talk to the manager of Coach Canada. She finds my stories bewildering, but amusing as well. I talk, she laughs. After telling her about my unfortunate space cookie experience and my hard times on the cargo ship, I try to remember some French I learned in school, which has always been terribly bad. I clumsily string together some words, like “Madame, voulez le vous aaah . . . je suis avec problemas.”