AS A FRIEND reminded me, years back when he arrived in Calais off the ferry, keen to get a free ride to the Costas, there used to be a queue of hitchers like a line of shabby commuters waiting for a taxi. Getting around Europe by thumb was quick and easy. Well most of the time. On this particular day he was delighted when a smart BMW stopped, complete with lady driver. As she wound the window down and spoke in pukka middle-class English, he was sure it had been a good idea to pin the Union Jack on his rucksack. Instead, she gave him a complete dressing down on why he should be utterly ashamed to call himself British as he was such a degenerate freeloader, and accelerated off into the distance.
She was, of course, wrong. Hitchhiking is an excellent way to travel around galaxies and country roads. But it is becoming less and less frequent, horror stories abound of rape and robbery, of misinterpretation and misadventure. The last time I hitched was a year ago in Italy. I was working as an International examiner of English. I’d arrived at the Italian version of Adlestrop on a hot sleepy Sunday afternoon. “Get a taxi to your hotel,” the instruction said. What taxi? Apart from a few buzzing bees and a flea ridden stray dog there was nothing but fields and shimmering tarmac disappearing to nowhere.
The station cafe was closed, my mobile had no reception, and the hotel was 4km into the hills. I had no idea which direction to go. I`d been travelling since dawn and was hot, sweaty and close to kicking the fleabag dog. There was nothing to do but sit on my suitcase and wait. It was about ten minutes before the sound of an engine brought a glimmer of hope, and it was another interminable ten minutes before one of those three-wheeled agricultural vehicles crawled towards me like a scene from Mr. Bean. It was faster to walk, but not with my suitcase. I had not hitched for twenty years. I tentatively held out my thumb. It stopped and I smiled. The old farmer behind the wheel of his cart laden with water melons was, patently, amazed to see me. I showed him the name of the Hotel but he just shrugged. In dreadful Italian I explained where I was going. He was none the wiser but encouraged me to throw my suitcase on the melons and clamber beside him putting a squawking chicken, in a wicker basket, on my lap. And so we were off: a short drive in the Tuscan Kush. It took about 20 minutes to get to our first stop where we dropped off the chicken and met Alberto who decided we all needed homemade rosso to help us on our way. Alberto could read, knew the hotel and offered himself as navigator for the 2km road trip. We must have looked a curious sight as we arrived at my five star final destination. The four kilometres had taken two and half hours but, nevertheless, I was very grateful to my new found friends who then felt it necessary to check out my room, shake hands with all the staff and, of course, join me in a cold beer on the terrace.
In this age of suspicion and litigation I was reliant on the comfort of strangers. The exhibition at The Photographers’ Gallery in London this summer is on just this theme. Chris Coekin hitch hiked around Britain in the old-fashioned way. Vulnerable, alone with a destination written on the back of cereal packet: the good news is that people still picked him up. He photographed them with their motors, and asked them all for a quote on why they stopped. Couples, single women, old gents, working class, middle class, white, Asian, black, there was no stereotype for those willing to take a risk but the darkest comment was, “I wanted to kill you”. It was a joke, but it highlighted the stranger danger societies we are becoming. With global warming and increasing petrol costs, it makes sense to resurrect travelling by thumb, but dare we do it?
