It all began with Gill's departing gift - a copy of On The Road, by Jack Kerouac. It made hitching seem exotic. Something only done in times of desperate need, when you've only got pennies left in your pocket and huge expanses of landscape to cross. I was thinking Route 66 and heartland America. Apple Pie and Ice Cream. Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty. It was totally out of my league. Kerouac manages to both romanticize and depreciate the art, making it both a pathetic act of necessity, but also an exclusive club accessible only to a daring and desperate few.
When I met Bus Stop and Paul in Selcuk, they had just hitched down the Turkish coast from Istanbul. It began to sound more accessible. "We hitched in a military van from Gallipoli to Troy," they boasted, "but we had to sleep out in the rain one night since we couldn't find a ride" It began to put things into perspective. They thrived on the thrill of stopping cars on the road. "Who can we hitch a ride with next??" they challenged, "a cattle truck!" Or, "ten lira to the person who flags down a horse and cart!"
I didn't understand the thrill until I'd tried it for myself. I made my first attempt in Israel, where it's common way to get from place to place, and it's relatively safe. With my friend Mike by my side, both hitching virgins, took to the streets in the dark night hoping to find a ride from the Dead Sea to the Red Sea so we wouldn't have to wait for the midnight bus. We were picked up by an 18-wheeler, driven by a soft-spoken man from Gaza. I sat curled up against his comforter and pillow on the small mattress in the back of his truck with the strange feeling of invading someone's home. He quietly offered us Marlboro Reds as we gazed out the window at the black expanse on the Israel-Jordan border. Occasionally, the glow of a small city would prick the horizon, but it was only headlights and double yellow lines for miles. I tried to relax but couldn't escape the feeling of exhilaration that comes from sharing a ride with a stranger, not truly knowing what was ahead of us, and unable to communicate or form any bond beyond a mutual smile.
Three hours later he dropped us on an empty corner. We were tired and nervous, wondering where our next ride might come from, and if we'd find ourselves sleeping at the bus stop, a mere concrete block on the corner of the road between Eilat and Paran. But within five minutes, the first car that we waved down came to a screeching halt beside us and we ran with our heavy packs to jump into his compact Nissan. Ronen, a young Israeli, was an enthusiastic and energetic driver who brought us the final hour into the coastal city of Eilat and showed us around town when we arrived. He had been a dog trainer in the army, and studied Marine Biology at university following his post. Yet another interesting character who sang the praises of the Israeli army. An interesting conversation to carry us down the empty road.
From there I hitched back from the Negev desert in Israel with a timid driver in a broke-down Toyota. Sitting in the back seat I heard the boot bouncing open, up and down along the bumpy road, and I was constantly peering behind me, waiting to see my backpack fly out into the dust. It didn't. He dropped me at the road that leads to the Israel/Jordan border crossing and I walked across with my head held high, only to be ripped off by a Jordanian taxi driver since I was too afraid to hitch into town in a new country. I have some time to go before I really get the hang of it.
There's something addicting about hitching. It becomes a way of life. Read my friend Dries's comment on the last blog, and you'll see how the concept of traveling has different meanings to different people. To him, when you take buses, taxis and trains, you're a tourist. As soon as you take the next step and find a real map to walk or hitch, you become a traveler. And there is something romantic about that way of moving. I realize that as a single woman traveling in the Middle East, this form isn't always the easiest or safest way to get from place to place. But I can't get it out of my head. Taking the bus only makes me think how much money I might have saved if I'd hitched. I arrive in a new place and suss out the best spot to go if I plan to catch a ride. I know now I wouldn't hesitate to pick someone up back home (well... so long as they looked remotely sane). In the words of Dean Moriarty, "I dig it."