I am a small, young woman and one of my primary mode of transportation in Botswana is hitch hiking with strangers. Yes, I took all the classes, I read all the hyperbolic headlines. Trusting girl, stabbed. Physically weak female, left for dead.
But this isn’t how it is in Botswana. Standing on the side of the road, basking in the relentless sun, I have been taught the proper way to wave down a car on our desolate, rural roads. Seeing a semi truck or Honda Fit from the distance is like seeing the biggest present under the tree on Christmas morning, hoping it is addressed to you. Anxious waiting, vulnerable hope, as the driver and I communicate with hand signals to determine if his direction correlates with my final destination. To flag down a car, I stick out my right arm and flick my wrist up and down, as if giving a child an encouraging pat on the head, and then use my arm to point in the direction I’m headed. If the driver flashes his headlights or spins a pointer finger in a downward and circular fashion, as if he were stirring a cup of coffee, he is just driving locally. If his car is full, he shakes his hand in front of his face, signaling “no luck today.” If he has space and is going in the same direction, the car stops.
While seemingly simple, there is nothing better than that moment a car pulls over and says “A re. Get in, I am going.”
Conversations sputter in an awkward, broken way. Comments on the heat, on my white skin, the driver’s home town, the peaceful Botswana. Questions about my time here, the exchanging of snacks, the exchanging of selfies. Sometimes, after I crack a joke about my Setswana name and all introductory protocol has been observed, the time passes in conversation about politics and religion, music and movies, dreams and plans. There’s always a question about Donald Trump.
Oftentimes, it is hours of silence.
I spend my time staring into the abyss of the bush, trying to figure out what organizes the expansive network of the worn, yellow trees. The endless shrubbery is interrupted by a small village or a herd of wandering cows. They are quiet reminders of the things that exist when it seems like maybe nothing is there. Notice us, they whisper, re teng, we’re here.
As a hitchhiker, I am at the mercy of strangers, my locus of control is limited. Someone must stop their car, adding time to their trip, for the benefit of someone they don’t know. Luggage is rearranged, babies are placed onto laps – my comfort puts their comfort at stake.
Being a hitchhiker reminds me to look around, to take the extra second or minute to go above and beyond in hopes of paying back the generosity of all those who gave me refuge from the heat, who literally went the extra mile to drop me off at my doors safely. It’s a reminder that we are all part of a greater system, a greater network of humanity. It’s a reminder to be a little kinder, and to make sure we help each other get where we need to go.
Yet, the story doesn’t end there. It doesn’t start there either.
Why would someone inconvenience themselves for me? Yes, often, it is nothing more than the desire to help someone else, to give without any expectation of return. Their intention may be to make a few extra pula during their journey, or their curiosity about the lekgoa with the huge backpack on the side of the road got the best of them.
The history of my hitches always surprise me. I am still in contact with a Zimbabwean lawyer who couldn’t catch a flight, so instead bought a car in Windhoek in order to make it to his hearing that Monday in Harare. A mixed-race couple told me that their love story began with a hitch, the now-husband picking up his now-wife, changing the trajectory of their life. I drove with an important Ministry of Education official on her way home from dropping her child off at boarding school in Zimbabwe, a testament to Botswana’s schools-system. I’ve been included in private family road trips and given meals, shared and kept secrets.
All the times aren’t so rosy cozy.
I still don’t know how to acquiesce the moments in which drivers have pulled over saying, “lekgoa fela, the white person only,” when I am waiting at designating hitching posts with groups of people. Or when drivers, both black and white, have told me that I should never drive with a black person, or that they only drive white person. Once, I switched hitches when I could no longer stay polite to a drivers’ racist and sexist comments. Generally, I try to diffuse. Often, I don’t fight with it. They picked me up. I am their guest. How can I be rude?
I don’t know how to rationalize taking a seat from a local, and yet I continue to buckle up.
My motivations are questioned during these rides. My hitching has lead to passionate and well crafted marriage proposals from other passengers. After contemplating my future with this stranger, I usually tell a joke to distract, or instead share falsified stories of my husband in the states (my fake husband rocks I love to tell of him), or of my American boyfriend across the country. “Why do you move to Africa just to date an American?” I am often asked. I don’t have an answer.
Yes, some car rides can be uncomfortable, waiting in the sun is not fun and being at the mercy of strangers is, well, vulnerable. Yet, this is an experience I chose. I chose to move to Botswana and only make $300 a month. If that money runs dry before the next paycheck, because I spent it on too much beer or a vacation and not on babies and rent like my coworkers have to, then I can use savings from jobs in college. Or I could call my parents/grandparents/aunts/probably a friend who would happily lend me $10 to assure I don’t spend the night on the road.
Last month, The New York Times magazine published a piece called “The King of the Ride” about the Best Hitchhiker in the World, deemed so by the author. This man travels the world hitchhiking, writing books of what he has seen and learned. I found pieces of myself and my experience in this beautifully crafted article, but I felt it overlooked another important aspect – the other people hitch hiking. The people who I stand next to while waiting for rides depend on this informal system for their livelihood. In a few months, I will be back in America and hitchhiking will be a cute story I share at a bar, or a memory I long for as I sit in hours of traffic. I will go home. I will not be a hitchhiker. Those standing with me are home.
Yes, let these stories of kindness inspire kindness. Give to and love strangers generously, without expectation of return. Inconvenience yourself to make the world convenient for someone else.
But remember, I am not the only one on the side of the road. The “Worlds Best Hitchhiker” is not alone on the road. We both made choices to stand there. And we are not standing there alone.
Blog-Swana: My Peace Corps Journey 