The Ups and Downs of Accepting Lifts from Strangers

There's lots of things that I love about hitchhiking - there's that feeling of not knowing where you'll end up at the end of the day, the sense of adventure, the undeniable convenience of free travel, but more than all that, the thing that astounds me every time, is the variety of interesting characters I meet. Because the people who pull over for the questionably-smelling but big-smiling backpacker are not your average Jenny from the block. In Australia and in Europe drivers regularly recount to me their past hitchhiking days; to and from school, to Darwin from Melbourne for footy, all the way across Germany every weekend for a girlfriend (ain't that love!). The little club of us who once stood thumbs-up now pulling over whenever they recognise the symbol, ready to help out a traveller and be a part of someone else's adventure for a while. Or, ready to unload their entire life story (marital problems and all), their opinions, political agenda and conspiracy theories on their unsuspecting passenger. But hey, it's not a bad use of a few hours driving.

Anyway, spending hours in cars with strangers is a great way to get to know some incredibly interesting people. But, as illustrated by the 2001 Drew Barrymore flick, Riding in Cars with Boys is not always a good idea. 

After 3 days of driving, I reach Nullabor station with the two surfers who I've driven with since Esperance, a few empty wine bottles and absolutely no fuel. The service station and attached pub, which constitutes the entire town, is our oasis in this desert, where we can fill the tank with petrol and our bellies with beer. Sweet. 

Except it's not so sweet because, despite being the only station for 400km either side,  the fuel pumps are out of order and won't be fixed for at least another day (Thanks Obama). Eventually, I find a truck, fully fuelled, headed out and say my goodbyes to the wonderful friends I'd spent the last few days with. 

"You're lucky I pulled in here," Peter chuffs at me, "I don't normally drive these trucks.. I own them". He waits for me to be impressed. I already know the next 12+ hours to Port Augusta is going to be very different to the last few days chilled out in the van with K and J. 

We talk about his life, his job, his wife - "And y'know.. she still looks alright. looks after herself. Yeah" is all the details I get and all the details I assume he cares about. 

I walk a tenuous line manouvering the conversation back to neutral topics while he launches on tirades against every marginalised group possible. He's the type of person I imagine Donald Trump would be if he were less politically correct, with the ego to compete.

He tells me about his quick stop in Portland during his America trip "biggest bunch of lezzos, and hairy feminists. Doc Martin captial. And probably everyone's on fuckin' welfare". The word welfare washes through my ears like background noise though, because he brings it up with every sentence, with the kind of entitlement only someone who at birth inherited a multimillion dollar company can muster. 

At first I'd thought it funny, eager to recount to friends the words this absurdly, rude guy is saying, but any humour quickly dissolves as his welfare tirades move to refugees and indigenous peoples. I bite my tongue through horrific stories as he mocks the death of Aboriginal people.

The guy is a dick. He's crude, cruel and makes me feel sick. But at this point, biting my tongue is a manageble strategy - until we pull up to deserted rest area. 

I curl up in the front chair while he takes the bed in the back, but my uneasy feeling is soon confirmed. "You can sleep in here" he offers, "there's room. I don't bite". I decline, but he's persistent. Within minutes I'm ready to call it quits, climb out and sleep on the floor outside - he's not dangerous at all, but a night sleeping on the desert floor in would be significantly more comfortable. Eventually though he gives up and apologises, so I rest on the chair while he sleeps in the bed for an hour. He suggests we make a move on, "unless, you wanna make yourself useful". I vomit in my mouth at the phrase.

It could have been worse. This guy was a pig but besides from having to listen to his horrible rants, I got out completely unharmed and ultimately OK. And within minutes of leaving his truck at a Port Augusta service station I meet a truckie (J) headed direct to Melbourne.

In all honesty, the thought of hitching the rest of the way scares me more and more now, but I get a good vibe from this guy and after 3 days of travelling from Esperence I'm desperate to get to the safety of my friend in Melbourne. Ultimately though, I'm glad to be moving - until I see the audiobook on  J's dashboard.

The book documents the police investigation to catch Ivan Milat - Australia's notorious serial killer who picked up, tortured and mudered multiple backpackers. Great.
But, despite being the guy most knowledgeable now on how to abduct, torture and kill backpackers without police capture, the next 10 hours driving to Melbourne with J reminded me why I love hitchhiking. He's the exact opposite to my last lift, and the time flies by while we trade stories and joke around.

He's the sort of guy best described just as a Bloody legend. Seriously great bloke.
I reach Melbourne and I thank J for restoring my faith in the road and erasing the thoughts I had of giving up and flying home. Finally, after 4 exhausting days of driving and sleeping in the desert, in car seats and sometimes not at all, I crash into bed at the house of my Melbourne friend.
It's luxury.
Despite my eagerness to get home I make the easiest resolution I can make: I need a rest, and I'm not leaving this bed for the whole day.