I do it every time – pick them up and then wish I hadn’t
The first time I hitchhiked is when I was a student at the (then) University of Natal, Durban, over 20 years ago. A bunch of us would stand at the corner of King George V Avenue and Francois Road (now Rick Turner, I’m told) just below the tennis courts and stick our thumbs out to passing traffic.
The Durban Metro Transport buses were an unattractive option due to the prohibitively exorbitant R3.50 fare. We relied on the kindness of fellow students, staff members, benevolent strangers from Manor Gardens and Chesterville Township.
Most of our benefactors would drop us off at the King Edward VIII Hospital, where we’d catch one of those busses we called “Indian busses” headed for town from Montclair/Chatsworth on Sydney Road. R1 fare, you see. One could even get away without paying the fare, because you didn’t pay upon boarding.
A conductor would come around afterwards to collect his R1, and if you gave him a long enough “stare ahead”, he’d assume you’d already paid.
Hitchhiking or giving lifts to strangers is generally a crummy idea. This is what I tell my kids. Most stories that end with unsuspecting folk caught up in bizarre foursomes on a Delmas smallholding with a farmer called Gerhardus, his 200kg wife and a member of their livestock, start with the sentence: “So I stopped to give this woman a lift.”
The perils of hitchhiking are no more dramatically illustrated than in the news story emanating from Bobland last week. Apparently marauding gangs of evil women are said to be roaming the Harare highways in search of virile young men from whom to forcibly extract semen. How I wish I were making this up.
To illustrate just how immature and inappropriate some of my friends are, one of them asked: “So, where does one sign up for this service?”
But I digress. If you think the possibility of being abducted and having my eyes gouged out by crazy, devil-worshipping cult members would be my primary fear regarding picking up hitchhikers, you do not know me at all. I have taken the art of worrying about all the wrong things to new, dizzying heights previously not scaled by any man or woman, dead or alive.
You see, for all my aversion to giving lifts to people, now and then I roll the dice and go right ahead. It is often in remote parts of the country where I know there is no formal mode of transport. Just try and catch a taxi or bus between Cradock and Colesburg, for instance, and report back on your findings. (Casts askew glance in transport minister’s direction).
On the R550, the stretch of road between Walkerville and Heidelberg, I’ve seen human beings disappear into the back of a refrigerated van just to get to their destination. And having travelled extensively with my mom as a child using public transport, I guess I suffer from what Lerato Tshabalala calls “new-middle-class guilt”. I see a dowdy old lady struggling with Shoprite bags and I can’t help but think of my mother and an impressive array of aunts who rely on public transport to get around.
My greatest fear about picking up hitchhikers is that it leads to awkward social situations. For starters; there’s the issue of hygiene. One minute you’re driving happily in your air-conditioned vehicle humming along to your Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes CD. The next minute you’re driving with all your windows rolled down in 38°C heat to get some ventilation because the hitchhiker you picked up has extreme theories about water conservation and regular baths.
And then they always have the overwhelming urge to share their life stories with you. Next thing you know, you’re a reluctant King Solomon trying to adjudicate in a convoluted case involving Jeremiah, your hitchhiker, and a band of thieving-wizard uncles from Giyani in Limpopo who are trying to strip him of his chieftaincy birthright.
The best advice I can give under such circumstances is always a muted “Maybe you should just get a real job”, which I’ve always been told is a deal-breaker in Zulu royal household circles.
A few months ago I gave a lift to a pair of smart-sounding university girls travelling between Grahamstown and Port Elizabeth a day after their final exams. After about 20 minutes of listening to their inane jabbering about everything under the sun except biochemistry and microbiology (or whatever it is they claimed they were studying), I became increasingly irritable.
Why was I robbing myself of blasting my Bobby Womack CD at full volume to listen to two girls going on about how much they hated some other girl because she has a better weave?
Of course, the final straw in the whole hitchhiker scene is when the recipient of your hospitality tugs at your heart strings right at the end of your journey: “You’ve taken me this far. You might as well take me all the way to New Brighton.”
I love New Brighton as much as the next guy trying to get to the airport on time, but I draw the line at driving around New Brighton delivering passengers with murderous thoughts about classmates with “pretentious” weaves.
I guess my point is that if you’re hitchhiking and you see a guy with a big head and glasses driving along, don’t bother sticking your thumb out.




















