When we think of the term
“hitchhiking” there’s almost always a negative connotation that goes along with
it, especially if were talking in America. For whatever reason hitchhiking has
lost its presence in the states and those that rely on such a means of
transportation might be viewed as someone that’s dangerous, homeless or
otherwise not right in the head. In Europe and various other continents around
the world, however, hitch hiking is more alive than ever, to the point where
some countries view it as a societal norm.
So how did I end up in a van with a former dog sled trainer halfway around the world? I first heard about hitching from
an Australia friend I met in Barcelona. She had been utilizing the good in
people as a means of transportation for the better portion of her adult life. This
is the first person I got to know who genuinely thrived on a constant lifestyle
of travelling and working abroad. The truth is, if you’re not tied down, your
young and you have some sort of decent income then short to long term travelling
can be one of the best things you’ll ever experience in this life. Of course
she’s had her share of close calls, awkward moments with creepy drivers, and
nights sleeping in parks, but none of this discouraged me from the idea of
hitching, mainly because her countless success stories outweighed the bad.
Once I left Barcelona a couple
weeks ago, the only plans I had made were to get back to Galway from Dublin,
and then to Dingle at some point. After studying some maps the route from
Galway down to Dingle in the Southwest seemed like it would be the perfect
opportunity try out my friends suggestion. Certainly the amount of friendly
folk in Ireland would create good conditions for hitching, and everyone I spoke
with agreed this was a country where hitching was looked upon as a fairly
common practice. So, after only a day back in Galway I decided I would head out
to the N4 and try my luck.
On the trek down, like most
things in life, the first hitch I caught was easily the best. It didn’t even
take five minutes flashing a cardboard sign with “Limerick” scrawled across the
front in green colored pencil before I caught a ride just before the bus stop
(Hitch tip: For longer distance hitching always indicate the closest big city
rather than your actual destination. You’re more likely to have someone pull
over heading to that town rather than getting really lucky and landing a ride to
your final destination).
Still standing with my sign I saw
out of the corner of my eye a guy with a curly brown afro and a corduroy suit
jacket waving me over. He’d pulled just around the corner in the car park
because he didn’t want to stop in the bus lane. I followed him to a beat up burgundy
van with purple flower petal stickers slapped across the sides. I threw my pack
in the stripped out back and hopped in.
For the next hour I got to chat
it up with Ian, an ex-dog sled trainer and current child social worker who
was an Irish native on his way home from a ZZ Top concert in Cork the night
before. I would describe Ian as a sophisticated hippie, one who is a free
thinker yet still dresses well and not quite burnt out from years of drug
experimentation. Ian lived for years doing odd jobs in Mexico City before
pursuing his love for dogs and getting a free place to stay in Norway training
huskies. He said he picks up hitchhikers whenever he gets the chance, mostly
because he knows what it’s like to be the one waiting for a ride.
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| Give Me A Sign |
The time in Ian’s unkempt van flew
by, and unfortunately he could only take me as far as Gort before he had to
turn off. He gave me his number in case I got stuck and mentioned his roommate
just so happened to be twenty minutes away and on her way to Shannon airport,
which is about another hours ride closer to Limerick. I should keep an eye out
for a bright orange van he said.
After we parted ways I threw my
stuff down just before a roundabout and put out my sign. Just like before it
wasn’t five minutes before another car stopped, but they actually misread my
sign for another town, so they continued on. A few minutes later a white worker
van pulled over, and two behemoth Irish brothers inside told me they were going
as far as Innis, a small town just before Limerick. Wanting to keep moving I squeezed
in the front seat next to them. I could barely understand what the one brother
was saying under his thick Irish rambling. Apparently they were on the way to
Innis to look at a car for the one brother’s wife. They were nice enough, and
when I thanked them for the ride the one brother I could understand shrugged it
off and said, “Every man’s entitled to a lift”.
Once I got dropped in Innis, I had
my first interaction with some fellow hitchers, a French brother and sister duo
trying to get to Limerick for the night. The three of us posted up just before
another roundabout, and after about twenty minutes rotating the sign holding we
decided to start hoofing it to a main road towards the town. There was only a
limited stretch of highway before the actual motorway, which is illegal to
hitch on and the Garda will often pick you up for it. Not the type of ride you
want.
We ended getting quite lucky after
about a half hour of walking when we had one of those odd looking florist minivan
types pull over. There was a guy inside driving the van by himself and was
easily the nicest of all the drivers I had. He had a bag full of soccer balls
in the back for the coaching he did for his two kids. I recall talking about
the beautiful game for much of this ride, but unfortunately he could only take
us to the outskirts of Limerick, which was the beginning of the hardest part of
my journey.
The only money I ended up
spending was to get in and out of the black hole of a city that’s Limerick, or
“stab city” as it’s commonly referred to for its prominent nighttime street
crimes (Luckily we had arrived here on a sunny day at three in the afternoon). We
waited fifteen minutes at a bus stop just outside the city to catch the next
one going into the city. Bread and clementines were exchanged as the duo told
me the story how they snuck into Body and Soul, one of Ireland’s biggest music
festivals, just the week before. This isn’t really the smartest move if you
believe in karma, but sometimes the travelling lifestyle doesn’t afford much
cash, which still doesn’t make it right but explained their reasoning.
The ten minute bus ride into
limerick got a little interesting and quite awkward when a local recognized my
accent and rightly pegged me for an American. She went on to tell my about her
neighbor’s grandson who was apparently one of the lucky ones who survived the
balcony collapse in California. I had heard the news a few days earlier, but
the way the lady was talking to me made me feel like I had to represent that
event and form an opinion solely based on my nationality. Shit happens was all
I could come up with (I didn’t choose those words exactly, obviously). The lady
was an eccentric one way talker, so whatever I said didn’t really matter anyhow.
This wasn’t even the first time someone has come up to me asking for an
explanation for a shooting/freak accident, but it’s definitely the first time
in another country. Strangely enough I actually do have a slight connection to
that accident through a friend in Galway who works for the crisis intervention
company responsible for sorting out the aftermath of the bodies. Depressing
stuff.
After we got off the bus the
three of us headed to the tourist office to get some maps and plan our next
moves respectively. One of the lady workers very confidently suggested the best
hitching spots on the other side of the city. This was another sign hitchhiking
was a pretty common occurrence in these parts. The French brother and sister
stayed at the office to figure out a place to stay, and my next hour and a half
was spent getting through to the other side and waiting for a ride. This easily
took the most amount of time between any lift.
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| French Travel Mates |
The next ride was the fourth
Irish driver in a row (makes sense I guess?). He came to a skidding halt on the
gravel side of the road and popped the automated boot to his black Audi. I
stepped into a car filled with deep bass and three Irish twenty somethings with
buzz cuts and tight t-shirts. The driver began switching lanes like he’d just
bought, or stolen the car. I couldn’t tell which. I didn’t ask. We exchanged
hometowns as he was changing the songs from his house trance mix every thirty
seconds. The driver asked if I did any drugs, as if he had them right there,
which to be fair is a common question I get whenever my hair reaches a certain
length. “High on life” I like to respond to these questions. Corny indeed, but
I needed to say something to combat the feeling I was in a scene from the movie
Trainspotting. They told me they had just been “out for a drive” in Limerick,
which is ether shady or sad depending on how you look at it. Either way I
thanked them for continuing my journey and we parted ways on a rural road surrounded
by thick brush.
I was now on the outskirts of a
really small and obscure town called Askeaton. It took roughly fifteen minutes
for a beat up maroon sedan to pull over. Inside driving was Kevin, a twenty five
year old Irish factory worker. He told me he could take me as far as Listowel,
only two towns away from Dingle, which ended up being a good thing, considering
his emotionless demeanor. We shot the shit, and never got too personal in our
discussion, but I could tell he was a little skeptical in the whole hitchhiking
lifestyle. “You know what your doing can be dangerous,” he said at one point
towards the end of the ride. I brushed it off and said of course, but people generally
have good intentions. He then said something similar to his first comment, “Bad
things can still happen,” which then made me feel a little uneasy in this guy’s
presence.
I was relieved to say the least
when we got to Listowel (Hitch tip: For a different reason
then the first tip it is never wise to reveal your final destination early
in a conversation. If you sense some bad vibes from your driver you can always
just say the next town is your destination. Not until you’re sure this person
is bearable and safe should you reveal where you’re headed. The same goes for
drivers, as it’s generally a good idea to ask the hitcher where they’re headed first
and decide later if you’d be willing to take them further if you’re even headed
that way).
While this last ride probably
made me feel the most nervous, the next one would have me feeling the most
awkward. I got a ride in Listowel from a
Romania house cleaner who spoke limited English and could hardly comprehend
what I was saying. She had these really peculiar eyes that were bugged out and
felt as though they were looking into your soul every time she made eye contact
with you. Definitely not the most ideal person you want driving you, but she could only take me as far as Tralee, which again was a good thing. Tralee
is a fairly large city with an affinity for roses, so once she dropped me off I
had to walk through to the other side, getting some directions along the way
from a local who was wearing some artsy Stonehenge ear rings. She drew me a map
and I jokingly asked if she could add some trees to the directions. She obliged
and we went our separate ways.
Tralee would be the last town I
passed through before reaching Dingle. Passing through is actually a really
nice feeling that is both fleeting, yet enjoyable. You’re in a place you know
you’ll only be for an hour or so and yet it’s special because of your limited
time there. In this way it’s like a microcosm of life itself. A lot of people
never lose the feeling that they’ll live forever, and then it’s too late when
they realize they won’t. So hitching really can put this into perspective. Back
to my last ride to Dingle.
Another black Audi would pick me
up in Tralee, but instead of a pale skinned Irish lad it ended up being a black
chap from London. He had the London accent and the type of energy that helps
carry a party, always cracking jokes and commenting on whatever positivity
surrounds you. I told him I was jealous of his ride to work, which consisted of
green pastures and coastlines that extended as far as you could see. Mike lived
just outside the town of Dingle so when he said he’d take me into town and grab
some milk I was really surprised and grateful.
He told me the story how he’d met
his Irish girlfriend in England and how they’d come to own 500 acres of Dingle land
through a family inheritance. After seven hours of hitching I wasn’t quite in
the talking mood but tried to keep an upbeat attitude nonetheless. The
conversation was mostly concentrated on Dingle so I didn’t have much to add
other then what everyone had told me about it's majestic scenery. Mike ended up dropping
me off right before a row of hostels and we said our goodbyes. Eight hours, and
seven rides later I had finally made it to Dingle. The bus takes six hours and in a car its about four, so not too shabby for a first timer. It wouldn’t be until the
next day when I would discover why the journey down had mattered so much.
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| Retiro Park Hitchhiker Poetry in Madrid (Might need to zoom to read!) |
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