HITCHHIKE BABY

Standing on the tarmac watching the sun rise over the Anatolian plain somewhere outside the Turkish capital Ankara, I held my thumb out wearily hoping for as swift a deliverance from hitchhiking purgatory as possible. In short order a truck driver pulled over and nodded when I told him my destination and off we went. With a sleepy expression and a neat moustache, the middle-aged to elderly truck driver was a man of few words, unlike other truck drivers who would chat excitedly to me in Turkish and use easily misunderstood hand gestures in a vain hope that the communication barrier would be shattered. On this occasion, my new friend simply asked my destination and “Nationality?” and was content with feeding me Turkish delight, delicious honeydew melon, and the salty yoghurt drink Ayran in lieu of verbal communication. He drove me over 450 kilometres. Almost absurd generosity for the pleasure of a companion dozing in the front seat and the delighted grin of the melon salesman when he saw the ragged and bleary-eyed foreigner peeking out of his latest customer’s truck.

I ended my travels with fervent dreams of reciprocating the kind of generosity I had encountered countless times in a wide variety of locations. Yet, my vision of my dilapidated but charming St Kilda share house as a traveller’s oasis was cut down by my housemate’s objections to couchsurfers; and wayfarers thumbing for a ride are thin on the ground in all directions on Victorian country roads. My unfulfilled goodwill for humanity was left rusting with the unused garden tools in the shed. Six months after my return from wandering about Europe and the Middle East, I was barrelling down the Stuart Highway returning to Darwin from Kakadu. I glanced at a huddle of people fiddling with backpacks at the exit of a service station when, too late, I realised they were preparing to hitchhike as I zoomed past. Dammit! I had blown it. I resolved to pick up the next hitchhiker and miraculously ten minutes later, I spied a figure in blue with his thumb extended waiting for salvation. Giddy with excitement, I skidded off the highway onto the gravel to offer a lift. The figure in blue turned out to be a middle-aged man in worker’s overalls, with unfocused eyes and a rather pungent smell emanating from his person. This was a bit of a contrast to the youthful backpackers that I had envisaged, but undeterred, I asked him if he had much trouble getting a lift and we meandered onto the topic of why he hitchhiked. “I drink too much alcohol to drive a car”, he proclaimed in his thick accent. Well, at least he was responsible I suppose.

As I outlined my experiences in Turkey and beyond I was treated to a bit of my passenger’s own homespun philosophy. “We’ve lost our way in the Western world,” he declared. “We don’t take care of each other the way they do in other countries. I don’t know what’s gonna happen to us if we don’t turn it around and start to look out for each other.” He rambled on and repeated his mantra, “We need to look after each other”, and I was feeling slightly unnerved when he replied to my inquiries as to where to drop him off: “Anywhere in Berrimah, I’m going to go and sleep rough in the bush. “And we don’t look after the environment. I try and do my bit by cleaning up and burning my rubbish so I don’t leave a trace where I camp.” I am not sure where he picked up his tips on how to be an eco-warrior, but I was under the impression that burning rubbish was not in the manual on how to cut down on your environmental footprint.

I dropped him off, relieved to be free of his company, and realised I had my possessions strewn all over my car and, to my eternal shame, gave the floor a thorough patting down for my valuables. They were all still there of course. This is coming from a man who once used cardboard in the absence of a proper sleeping apparatus. Later, I was to reflect on my prejudices and decided that despite my fear of my hitchhiker, I had done the right thing, and could return to an attitude of smug self-congratulation. I had a given a lift to the man least likely to get one: a smelly alcoholic in dirty overalls. I still keep an eye out for the pleading thumb on the highway, although I have to admit that I would like just once to chance upon the inspiring backpacker, rather than the down-on-his-luck philosopher dispensing his pearls of wisdom.

Marcus Macdonald is an aspiring vagabond who enjoys rambling and roaming.