Two years ago, Rob traded a comfortable and predictable existence in Australia for adventure in a wild neighbouring country. In exchange for a contract in an auto service firm and many expenses paid, Rob came to put some order in the corporate mess of PNG. His job: manage the locals who lower their heads to the white man but whom, according to him, steal tools and supplies when no one is looking.

A lot has happened since Rob’s first three months, when all he wanted was to go home. “I suffered a lot at first,” he said. “But my Australian friends are still stuck in the same routines, drinking the same beer, talking about the same things. When I come home it’s hard to get into their flow. Coming here gave me a vision of the world that I would have never acquired if I stayed at home.”

Rob’s gratitude is understandable, but I must admit, admirable. It’s one thing to leave Brazil in search of a more comfortable life, be in in Canada, England or Australia. It’s another thing entirely to leave Australia for Port Moresby.

Violence, cholera, stifling hear, inexistent leisure spaces, vegetables that cost as much as Swiss chocolate, Swiss chocolate that costs its weight in gold, filthy beaches, exorbitantly expensive internet… That’s Port Moresby, and so much more, Rob relates.

“Everyone born here has a sad story to tell. But this country grows on you. I like the social life with the expat community. I took some great trips and met incredible people. Not to mention Couchsurfing, which really opened my mind.”

And we were two lucky ones to enter this country via his safe harbour.

Rob was like a godfather from the first minute, when he picked us from the airport on a Monday morning. When he took us sailing at the city’s yacht club, we saw the city at sunset from far away with a cool breeze on our faces. For the first time, Port Moresby looked nice.

When Brazil played its first World Cup game, his neighbour opened his door at 3 am so we could watch the match on a large screen. Like a good Australian, Rob is mad about rugby (and could care less for soccer), but he woke up to watch with us. And the next day he moved his TV from his bedroom to the living room so we wouldn’t miss a game.

Rob enjoyed our travel stories like a dedicated father who cheers at his children’s joy. But we we also took turns at beige parental, cooking almost every night and preparing his lunch bags for the next day, moments, that according to him, were the most precious.

And you, do you still insist on staying in hotels? You don’t know what you’re missing.

Bianca informed me we’d be hosting a pair of Israeli men and I immediately turned to my most hardened stereotypes about that country. As usual, they turned out to be entirely true.

They came to our home on January 1 as we were nursing a killer New Year’s Eve hangover. Tomer, a native of Ukraine, had flags of Guatemala, Colombia and Brazil stitched on his backpack. “I speak Portuguese,” he said, in a straining, unmistakably Semitic attempt at Portuguese.

“I speak some Hebrew,” I replied, and fired off three words that would win any schoolboy a swift reprimand. They both chortled and proceeded to teach me more complex obscenities.

Aelon, who’s been living and working in Philadelphia for several years, carried a bag large enough to alarm human smuggling inspectors. He immediately made himself at home on our couch and battered us with questions. After a few minutes, the two were smacking one other on the arm and insulting each others’ mothers. Then they offered to make us a complete Israeli meal.

I had recently bought some obscure teas from a specialty shop and cautiously offered them a cup. Cautiously because for these two well-built guys’ guys, tea might be an expressly unmanly drink. But both accepted my smoky lapsang souchong and demanded to be taken to the shop to procure some themselves.

I was once told by an Israeli girl that her countrymen are like prickly pears: thorny on the outside but sweet and nourishing once you get inside. My experience with people from Israel showed that analogy to be a partial lie. Not one that I met showed any signs of a protective exterior.

Neither did Aelon and Tomer. We liked them right away.

Some of my closest friends growing up at an expat school in Budapest tended to be from that area. There was Sagi, the compact but spritely Israeli; Mark, the Cro-Magnon impersonator from Lebanon, as well as a couple of wise-cracking Hungarian Jews. We were sometimes joined by a Palestinian emigré or two. One was named Islam. They all shared a certain fancy for penis jokes and prominent cleavage that I could relate to.

I was told years later by another Israeli that his people are not only mad about soccer, they are mad about the Brazilian national squad. I slowly started to understand why. Israelis, much like Brazilians, aren’t happy to just get things done. They like having it done with style, with grace, with art. It’s not enough to score the goal. You have to do it in a way that blows people’s minds.

And this itself can be distilled to an ever clearer essence: Israelis, like so many Brazilians, leave their homes every day knowing they might not end the day alive. For them, its the threat of a suicide blast. For us, it’s a carjacker or a stray bullet from a battle for drug turf. So their daily existence is atomizes into two simple choices: enjoy it or waste time being scared.

Tomer later taught me how to play poker and (I think) let me win. He also tutored me on his approach to seduction theory, being a pick-up coach (he calls it “courtship specialist”) in Tel-Aviv. Aelon shared his recurring dreams with Bianca and traced its symbols to unresolved conflicts in his life. They played us videos of them brawling with their friends in their backyard fight club, where they punch away frustrations and then hug it out over drinks.

They gifted us some cosmetics made from Dead Sea minerals and left, making us almost promise to stop in Israel on our trip (we were going to skip it).

We just might have to go now.

For tips on how to improve your chances of scoring a couch, click here.

Aude, our French guest

Consider the following perks a well-connected traveler might enjoy: Receive free lodging, and thus eliminate one of the biggest travel expenses. Meet interesting, open-minded, well-traveled people who are interested in you. Get in on insider tips that only the locals know. Get invited to a house party or to a club that is the complete opposite of touristy. And, in the end, regain faith in humankind. These and more are the backpackers’ benefits through Couchsurfing, which, in my opinion, has yet to be outdone as a concept. Since I signed up to Montreal’s Couchsurfing community, at first as a host, I receive one to five requests per week. It’s a lot of people, and I can’t (not would I want to) honour all requests. To some people I say no, even if I have the room and the time. For others I say yes even if I’m super busy, tired, or already hosting people at home. Here are some tips on how to be one of the people who get a yes.

1. Mind your profile

Make sure your profile is attractive, complete, spell-checked and brimming with pictures that represent you well. If you look interesting, I’ll want to know more about you. If I find us compatible, or if you’re someone I can learn from, I’ll find a way to make you some room at home. At the very least I’ll propose alternate dates to fit you in somehow. I will sense that you really invested to be part of this community, and that you didn’t just throw together a skeletal profile just to score a free bed.

2. Make a brilliant Couchsurfing request

This is major. If your request looks like it was copied and pasted to lots of people, your chances of being welcomed in my home fall dramatically. Sometimes I make an exception to those with fascinating profiles. But you’ll seduce your hosts by commenting on something you read in their profiles. Use this precious info to explain why you make a good match. Offer a sincere compliment. Really, it’s no fun being hosted with people who have nothing in common with you. Say please and thank you. Everyone likes to feel special and we’re no different. I have hosted people with no references simply because I was swept away by the request. Like with those two guys.

3. Watch your timing

Don’t make a request more than three weeks in advance. Between seven and 10 days is ideal, in my opinion. This for three reasons: first of all, my home is not a hotel. Second, I don’t know what I’ll be doing in three weeks. Will I go out of town? Did our short summer just offer an irresistible sunny weekend for camping? Will I have to work during the weekend? On the other hand, making a last-minute request is risky, since I may already have plans.

4. Build references

You could do like me and, before using the community for surfing, open your home as a host to build a reputation in the community. Or, find a friend who’s already singed up and swap references. But only do this with people you’ve met and trust. Your reputation, as well as the safety of the community, is at stake. Counchsurfing, as you can guess from my rhapsody, changed my life for the better. And you, do you have tips, doubts or experiences to share?

A roaring Tuesday night, thanks to the pleasant company of surfers Amélie and Sophie.