Hitchhiking

It is my personal belief that every person in the world should hitchhike at least once in their life. I also believe each person should pick up a hitchhiker at least once in their life.

Americans used to hitch a ride all the time. I have spoken with many people who thumbed it back in the sixties and seventies. If they did not own a car, hitchhiking was a simple and easy solution to getting from place to place. But someplace in the late seventies and eighties, the attitude toward the free ride changed drastically. Was it due to a rash of hitchhiking murders? Perhaps the cinema cashed in on the fear and made hitchhiking horror movies. Did newspapers tout the antics of serial killers out on the road? Soon every hitchhiker looked like a villain. Was any of this true? Who knows? I wasn’t around and can’t verify any of this.

But I will say that in most parts of South America, hitchhiking is not only common, but a legitimate option for getting around. I met a young man in Bolivia one time, who, between busses and hitchhiking, traveled from Montana to Bolivia over the course of a few months. (He apparently ran into a little trouble with the military police in Panama, at one point though.)

Could hitchhiking be dangerous? Sure, but everything is dangerous. I think it really depends on how bad you need a ride. In America, the people hitchhiking are far more likely to be desperate.

I was desperate in Texas.

The greyhound bus that started in Dallas could only take me as far as the small town of Clyde. I was still a lot of miles short of Abilene—which isn’t a luxurious of fun location to begin with. (On a side note, the Greyhound Bus station in Dallas has the worst public bathroom I’ve ever seen in the US, but I digress.)

So, I stuck out my thumb and began to walk. If you are in need of some humility, I would suggest this course of action. There is nothing more humbling than trying to get a ride on a busy freeway. Car after car passed me. Two hours later, a car pulled over.

A Honda Civic full of college students from Zimbabwe kicked open the door, and I stuffed my backpack into the back with two other guys. We laughed and talked for the remainder of my ride.

And guess what?

I didn’t die.

In fact, I am still Facebook friends with those boys that gave me a ride all those years ago.

anthony forrest