July 1st 2012
Anyone who has ever hitch-hiked will know it is an activity designed to produce resentment. Watching cars zip past, their passengers traveling in comfort, a hitch hiker wishes only for one of them to stop and pull him into their world and out of his—out of the sun, the heat or the cold. It is a powerless pursuit, dependent on the good will of others. As a younger man I hitch hiked across North America once, from a summer job in western Canada. It was a romantic venture, I suppose. But I also recall long periods waiting, being passed by cars that did not stop and as the hours went by the feeling of frustration turning to resentment was undeniable—I came to hate those people.
Transport in rural South Africa is dependent upon hitch hiking—it is how everyone gets around. In the Eastern Free State, an area where the plains meet the mountains with landscape reminiscent of southern Alberta or Arizona, there are frequently no scheduled routes: anyone with a car driving these lonely roads and empty countryside is a one man bus company. The hitch hikers are not white; like many things in this country it is a constant visual reminder of inequality and many other sad legacies.
But the rural Free State is a place of small towns and large farms—communities where people know each other; there are social bonds of assistance and it is not easy to pass those who stand by the road, thumbing for a ride. The interactions are brief but warm, even soulful, and the smiles when an offered bill of payment is refused is a reward in itself. Old women, young men, people with children, with bundles and packages, traveling long distances from farm to town and town to town.
It is near sundown on a late winter afternoon and the young man at the cross roads leading to Ficksrus looks cold.
Thank you, I was waiting a long time here. I’ve come from Vereeniging today, to visit my Mother. She is ill. So is my brother. He has HIV. He refuses to go to the clinic and get tested but I am sure of it—he is sick all the time, a cough, a cold, sores that don’t heal. I tell him to face what must be faced, but he won’t listen. I think he is scared. I have my own problems; I’m an alcoholic, I drink, I smoke. I steal if I can. But at least I know who I am. The life here it is not easy, but it is not bad. And there is wine at least. Here, do you want some? You stopped for me, I appreciate that. Not everyone is like you. Have you had experiences of life, things that are hard and difficult? Have you ever killed someone? It can be enjoyable. You can stop here, this is my place. Thank you for getting me home. God bless you Sir.