I'm nearly 20 now, and sometimes I look back, sometimes in disbelief, at some of the things I did at 17. I'm still a teenager, but I think so much has changed since then. Since then, I've hitchhiked countless more times across over 4 continents, from the remote Icelandic Highlands to the Tropical Savannas of Cuba.
I still remember the morning I hitchhiked for the first time vividly. I had strategically eaten a pizza the night before, to keep the cardboard box to write my hitchhiking sign on. I had borrowed a Sharpie from the staff at the hostel, writing my destination "Te Anau" in big black letters, tracing over them a few times to make sure it was visible from afar. I had spent the night before researching and reading blogs on the best spots to hitchhike from outside Queenstown, heading south. After reading Jub's Blog, I decided to take his advice and bus the next morning to the Frankton Bus Stop.
Hitchhiking at Frankton Bus Stop
The next morning, I woke up ready, a little bit more nervous than usual, but I was determined. I had something to prove, not to anyone else, but to myself. That I was capable. I was in over my head. I had no solid plan, just this idea that had been implanted in me of the freedom of being self-reliant, exploring the ends of the earth, relying on a few things. The idea of escaping from the life that was drawn up for me, the life that was the norm, a life away from the society I had known. Having lived in big cities my entire life. I wanted to live off the things I had in my backpack, I wanted to get away from the complications of life, and experience a simple and raw life. So I put on my backpack, which was almost bigger than me, and I took the bus to the Frankton Bus Stop. I got off, looked around, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't completely sure what to do. I stood there going back and forth, holding up the sign to the drivers headed south. After 30 minutes, which felt like an eternity, Car after Car had passed, with the occasional honk or wave of encouragement, not a single one had stopped. I was discouraged, and I started to question how easy I had previously thought hitchhiking would be. But after a weary few minutes, a truck flashed its lights at me and waved at me to meet him a bit further down the road.
As I climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, the truck driver greeted me with a warm handshake and smile. His name was Frank, and he was a delivery driver, delivering stock for restaurants and cafes all the way down to Invercargill, so he could only drive me halfway. He grabbed a box from the compartment and asked if I was hungry. He was offering me his lunch, a sandwich, and a Monster Energy drink. I thanked him and politely declined. I had already eaten that morning, and I couldn’t take anything more from him. He was originally from Bohol in the Philippines, moving to New Zealand over 10 years ago in search of opportunity and a better life for himself and his family. His family had just moved over a few years ago. He told me about his children, their hobbies, routines, favourite stories, and how they were adjusting to New Zealand and their new life. He shared stories of the numerous other hitchhikers he had picked up. He was a hard-working family man who had a heart for helping people.
Along the drive, we made a few stops to deliver boxes to cafes along the side of the highway. I offered to help, and we unloaded the truck together. I was glad to help out a little where I could. Somewhere between the deliveries and the mountain curves, Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire” came on the radio. We sang—badly, but loudly—and for a moment, two strangers became something like friends.
We weren’t the best singers, but we didn’t care. After a short while, we had arrived at Five-Rivers, the intersection where our destinations separated. We said our goodbyes and wished each other the best of luck. I looked around and saw a small cafe at the intersection. I headed into warmup before building back up the courage to hopefully catch my second and last ride of the day. After a brief walk around in the cafe, I went back out onto the side of the highway, holding up my pizza box, with a smile.
I must have been really lucky, because in less than 5 minutes, Arjun had picked me up. A software developer from Seattle, he told me about his work, and we talked about all the beautiful sites around New Zealand. After a short ride, he dropped me off at Te Anau Lakefront Backpackers, my hostel for the night. I was beyond relieved when I got there. I had a weird feeling of accomplishment and shock. I could not believe what I had just done.
Frank showed me a sign of a previous hitchhiker couple from Israel that he had picked up.
Looking back now, I realize how easily we let labels shape who we talk to, who we trust—a 17-year-old kid, a truck driver, a software developer. But when you strip away the labels, and listen—really listen—you start to realize how much you don’t know, and how connected we all are. How much beauty there is in the randomness of it all. And sometimes, on a quiet stretch of highway, you even find yourself singing Billy Joel with a stranger.
Arjun!