Page 94
A hitch in time
by Matt Nippert
Rule of thumb might get you there.
In Bombay, Bob stopped. He was contracted to clean the rubbish off Auckland motorways, and this time the trash in question was me. Good sort that Bob, running varied transients, students and police-deposited hitch-hikers from the motorway on-ramp to State Highway One.
With a tight, desperate smile and your thumb hanging out, it’s easy to feel romantic in relying on the kindness of strangers. I was On the Road with Kerouac’s ghost, reliving the beginnings of the Grapes of Wrath, throwing myself at the mercy of passing motorists. There’s probably also a certain naiveté in a wilful blindness to dangers, but I was confident, being neither English nor in the Outback.
A downpour in Pukekohe made me a wet, liberal sunshine in Cambridge turned me pinker. Thirty minutes roadside gave me time to delve deep into theory; it’s a mugs’ game, being unprepared.
A burst of academic activity in the 1970s brought a veneer of kool-aid science to this age-old pastime. Mark Snyder penned “Staring and Compliance” – printed in that useful grab-bag of Jedi mind-tricks the Journal of Applied Psychology – reckoning that eye contact was a significant, and positive, variable. Damn those tinted windows.
Bob Baugher wrote that shaving was important, those without beards being 0.8 percent more likely to be picked up. But even sans beard only one car in 50 deigned to stop for poor, unpublished, Mr Baugher.
In 1975, Charles Morgan observed an incredible one-in-nine success rate just outside Seattle. The required conditions? “Eye contact and breasts.” And, in Los Angeles, James Bryan proved that costume works wonders. After an hour waiting in vain, he added a “bandaged knee and cane” and was on his way in five minutes.
Cripples with cleavage get all the luck.
As I’m not wounded or female, I planned on patience. In time, this paid off and the one-sided conversation with New Zealand began. There’s an unspoken rule when hitching that polite listening is compulsory, arguing outlawed.
I’ve travelled with a mercenary who fought both with and against Mugabe, and two earnest Mormons who broke the Good News. There once was a man on his way to visit an acquaintance in Hamilton who owed him money. Beneath a blanket on the back-seat lay a crossbow. He seemed nice enough, but I got out before he drove by his former friend.
In some people the top joint of the thumb can bend more than 50 degrees, but it’s a regressive genetic trait. Hitchhiking, where this digital eccentricity gets its name, is also dying out. Ben, commuting from Auckland to Hawke’s Bay, took me from Rotorua to Taupo. “There are still some New Zealanders on the roads,” he said, in reference to my one-in-100 strike rate. “A lot of them used to hitchhike when they were younger.”
During the ride Ben talked of shopping in Onehunga (“Nice place to shop. Not just cheap rubbish, but expensive rubbish as well”), but also of China and diplomacy. “Why do they call it a free trade deal? Even after they sign there’ll still be barriers.” An uncommonly smart man, that Ben. He waxed lyrical about the joys of recent fatherhood. “At Christmas you get to see that sheer, unadulterated joy on their faces.” An uncommonly rich man, that Ben, even with his old car.
Dan the lumberjack cruised between Taupo and Turangi, happy to have me aboard. He asked where I lived. “Western Springs,” I said, thinking that Auckland scraps over noise control wouldn’t be noticed down south. But Dan began to brake. “I was once a bogan!” I stammered as the speed dropped to 30, then 20kph. “As a teen I sniffed petrol at Te Marua Speedway!”
The car accelerated, the woodcutter satisfied enough to hold court to his captive audience. According to Dan, the problem with New Zealand today is “too many minority rights. First it was the niggers, the Maoris, then the homos, and now the wowser pensioners in Western Springs.” My tongue bleeds when I bite it.
He expressed dismay at the trouncing of John Banks. “We’re missing out on the greatest sporting event in all of entire history!” he railed, at the loss of V8 racing. “Any motor sport is better than a bunch of natives chasing a scrap of leather.” Interesting chap, that Dan.
From Turangi onwards there was a lovely pair of girls who dangled a cross from the rearview mirror and let Radio Rhema preach loudly. Sarah and Claire are two good Samaritans. In Bulls we stopped at a pottery barn. Sarah’s dad was already getting bumblebee socks for Christmas, but now he was also to receive a terracotta dunny. Priceless.
The lights of Wellington, Aurora Capitalus, glowed faint over the Tararuas, and then I was home. Ten hours later the sun laboured to peek through rain clouds at the dawn of December 25. Christmas Day – a hitch in time had saved mine.
