“No one lifts anymore, right?” I hear people say this often and I proudly respond that I have lifted every decade of my life except the first. And I’m not about to stop just because I’m in my 80s now.
There I was, last year at the age of 82, standing along the road in southern Bavaria, with a sheepish smile on my face and my thumb extended, as car after car sped by, looking at me curiously. I could have taken the bus; Indeed, that was the plan when I firmly told my companions that a walk of seven miles was enough for me, and that they could cover the last five miles to Egloffstein, where we were staying, on their own.
I found a bus stop and learned that the next departure was in just under an hour. It was a beautiful afternoon, with the late sun illuminating the autumn colors of the beech trees, and there was a bench to sit on, so I decided to hitchhike. If no car stopped, I could get on the next bus.
After about 10 minutes a large car stopped. I told the middle-aged driver where I wanted to go, while his teenage passenger looked on with some doubt.
“Guesthouse?” he asked. I mentioned the name of a boarding house, he nodded, and I climbed into the back and got into the usual hitchhiker conversation. Where did he come from? Originally Italy, but he now lived locally. I told him I was on a walking holiday and that we were enjoying the region, which is rather whimsically called Franconian Switzerland, and in no time he stopped in front of the guest house.
As I sipped a beer while waiting for my friends to arrive, tired and hungry, I reflected on why my enthusiasm for hitchhiking remains as strong as ever. It’s partly the serendipity – having no idea who you’ll meet and where you’ll end up – but mainly that, more than any other form of travel, it confirms the innate friendliness of most people. Learning to trust strangers is, I think, one of the important lessons in life. Yes, there are risks, especially for single women. Of course, sometimes (although rarely) bad things can and do happen, and it’s obviously much safer when it’s just the two of you.
More than any other form of travel, hitchhiking affirms the innate friendliness of most people
When I was young I went on hitchhiking holidays to Greece and the Middle East with friends, and we met some really nice people. My best hitchhiking memories, however, are from later, when I was in my 20s, living in Boston and meeting my future husband who, to my surprise, didn’t own a car. That wouldn’t be so unusual in Britain in the 1970s, but in America?
George hitchhiked as a matter of course and expected the same from me. More mature and less selfish than my teenage self, I have learned that every lift is an opportunity to both give and receive. George was good at this, a great conversationalist and always interested in the lives of others. Often the driver just wanted to talk. That was fine; we listened. Still, I remember a couple driving around in silence for half an hour after picking us up (we later learned they had argued about whether to stop for us). But toward the end of the day, we joined forces for a lobster and wine feast at a rented cabin on the Canadian coast. “Boy, I’m glad we came to see you,” the man said. “We were supposed to drive back to Boston tonight.”
I can’t remember the name of the island off the coast of Maine where we had our most special encounter. We took the ferry there and planned to spend the day seeing as much as we could before returning to the mainland. Soon a man stopped and we explained our open plans. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll show you where I live.” He drove us a few miles, stopped in front of a white wooden house where he got out, pointed to the driver’s seat and said, “You kids are going to explore. This is my house. Just return the car when you’re done.”
Drivers must have been shocked when they stopped and realized this hitchhiker was years old
Another time, in a different place, an older man stopped in front of us and asked where we wanted to go. ‘Well, be true you to go?” We asked. He said it was up to us. He spent his days driving around looking for hitchhikers. This may sound creepy, but his motives were simple. ‘Listen, I’m retired, I love driving and I love people. Where do you want to go now?’
Such displays of generosity were exceptional and unlikely to occur in these more suspect times. I spent my next decade traveling through South America and Africa. On both continents, free-riding opportunities were limited to the wealthier southern countries, where there were more private cars. Otherwise you were expected, and fair enough, to pay for your transportation. Chile and Argentina were going through politically turbulent times (Allende had just been overthrown in Chile; Argentina was under the spell of Juan Perón).
We spent hours in cars just listening to the stories of ordinary people, but it was in South Africa that we had one of our most memorable lifts. George and I worked there in 1975, at the height of apartheid, and hitchhiking was – if you were white – relatively easy. Once a damaged one cup (pickup) stopped. The black driver, with a big smile on his face, gestured to the back and we happily got in, knowing like him that we were within the law. The usual arrangement, of course, was for a white farmer to drive the vehicle with the black farm workers squashed in the back. I still laugh when I think back to the looks on the faces of the people we passed.
While I continued to look for a ride into my 40s and 50s, the drivers must have been shocked when they stopped and realized that this hitchhiker was years old. But it wasn’t until I started traveling with Janice, two years older than me and with white hair, that I discovered the benefits of showing off your age instead of hiding it.
Janice had hitchhiked in Greece as a child, so when we planned a return visit to the Mani Peninsula to revisit some of her favorite places, we agreed that the bus that would run once a day wouldn’t take us far and that we hitchhike when necessary. I didn’t realize how easy it would be. I would push Janice forward, and cars would stop, because what else can you do when an old lady with white hair sticks out her thumb and looks pleading – and carries a sign with the destination written in the Greek alphabet and also in English? They’ve stopped. They all stopped. We rode with a priest, with his hat and his bun, and Janice talked to him in Greek; we traveled with German tourists and exchanged information about the most rewarding Byzantine churches; and eventually we piled into the back of a pickup to join two young Albanians who, we understood, were working on a construction site.
The Albanians spoke as much Greek as Janice, so although the conversation wasn’t exactly flowing, it flowed along happily. They were understandably curious as to why two women who certainly looked past the first blush of youth were hitchhiking. They muttered among themselves, stealing glances at us before asking Janice her age; 62, she told them. No interest there then.
Janice and I continued to hitchhike through our 60s and 70s, although she would sometimes rebel and mention the T-word. No, we weren’t going to take a taxi if it was more complicated than sticking out our thumb.
The last time was in France, when there were no buses to reach the prehistoric cave paintings of Les Eyzies. Janice made a cardboard sign, in French, and soon a car stopped. It smelled wonderfully like fresh bread. The female driver was on her way to deliver groceries to her mother. Did we mind waiting while she visited Mom? Of course not. She left the key in the ignition and her purse on the seat and stayed away for a while.
This is an example of the mutual trust that is so essential in hitchhiking, and why I’m still left with my thumb at the side of the road, once again dependent on the kindness of strangers.
Taking the Risk: My Adventures in Travel and Publishing by Hilary Bradt (Bradt Travel Guides, £20) is published on May 1