Thumbing by Dave Rigby

1967 

I’ve been at the roadside for six hours. 

The tractor that dropped me off here, turned off down a stony, dusty track,  

Before disappearing into a dip, never to be seen again. 

Since then, there’s been the occasional car, a moped, two tractors and a smoke-belching wagon. 

But none of them even slowed, let alone stopped. 

A baking hot mid-afternoon has now transformed into a cool mid-evening. 

I’m standing next to a tree. It needs to be climbed and I’ve nothing else to do. 

Maybe some passing driver will fall for the novelty approach and come screeching to a halt. 

Even high up the tree there’s not a single building, let alone a village, to be seen. 

After thirty minutes a Fiat 500 putters towards me. Up in my lofty perch I stick out a thumb, waggle it about and grin inanely. 

The four occupants stick their arms out of each window, waggle them wildly and grin back inanely. The Fiat continues its journey. 

I wonder where Ken will have got to by now. We split up so as to improve our chances of getting a lift.  

Hitching in twos is always more difficult, although it’s hard to see how waiting hours 

On my own for a lift is any easier. 

Ken won the toss for who hitched first. Twenty minutes was all it took him. 

See you at the campsite in Mostar tomorrow, I’d shouted as 

He’d jumped into the front passenger seat of a flash, black saloon car of indeterminate make. 

Maybe the day after tomorrow would have been more accurate. 

The darkness comes quite suddenly. 

I’m back down from the tree. It’s not late and I’m not really tired but as there hasn’t been any kind of vehicle for the last hour, 

Maybe it’s time to get a bit of kip and try again early in the morning. 

It’s too hot inside the sleeping bag, so I lie on it, listening to chirruping insects and the occasional night bird. 

A few sips of precious water, a couple of squares of half-melted chocolate and a large apple, purchased that morning from the market. 

I fall asleep, only to be woken by bouncing headlights and a rapidly slowing engine. 

The vehicle stops and a man gets out. I can’t see anything, but I know it’s a man because he’s whistling along, badly to some Yugoslav pop tune on the car radio. 

My first instinct is to leap up and enquire about a lift, but a pitter-patter noise close by tells me it’s just a pee-stop. 

Then I’m torn. Embarrassment versus necessity! Embarrassment wins. I listen as the car pulls away. 

Then the recrimination starts. Why on earth didn’t I say something? The frustration of the past lift-less hours boils over. 

That’s it, I’m never going on a hitch-hiking holiday again. What a waste of time. I could have gone walking and hostelling in the Lake District instead and had enough cash to go to the local every night! 

In the end I curse myself back to sleep. 

It’s a flock of sheep that wakes me. Bedlam. There must be a hundred of them. And a man at the back indulging in a slow bicycle race. 

He waves. I wave back. The sheep noises and the clanking bells slowly fade.  

I pour a little precious water over my face, locate some bread and a small piece of cheese in a rucksack pocket and sit on a roadside rock to partake of breakfast. 

A tractor pulling a trailer trundles towards me. I leap up and stand in the road, thumb aloft. The tractor stops. I can’t believe it. 

The driver signals for me to climb into the trailer. We pick up speed as the road dips downhill.  

It’s a beautiful morning. The wind blows through my hair as I grasp the side of the trailer to prevent a pinball effect taking over. It’s a magic feeling.  

Half an hour later when we reach a large village, the tractor driver signals for me to climb out. 

Carta? he asks. I pull my map out of the rucksack. He motions me to show him my destination. My finger stabs at Mostar. He says autobus and points to a bus stop on the opposite side of the road. Then he points to a town on the map about half way to Mostar. 

Autobus first, then Mostar hitch-hike, he says.  

So, it’s a two-stage journey.  

I thank him and we shake hands.  

Sergeant Pepper, he says and starts to sing the chorus. I’m impressed. It’s only just been released. I join in. We laugh and say our goodbyes. 

I feel guilty waiting at the bus stop. Surely this is cheating! But when the lumbering vehicle pulls up, I jump on, pay the fare, settle in to the back seat and promptly fall asleep. 

The driver wakes me at the terminus. 

As I stand on the main street trying to gather my wits, a large wagon sounds its horn. Instinctively I stick out a thumb. It stops. 

In the open back of the wagon there’s dust and traces of stone everywhere. My green combat jacket with a blanket lining has experienced worse.  

I grip the side of the wagon and roar out the lyrics of as many Sergeant Pepper numbers as I can remember, the truck thundering on to Mostar. 

Climbing out at my destination I thank the driver, dust off my jacket and head for the nearest bar, feeling a little like ‘The Man with No Name’, my faith in hitching completely restored. 

I push open the bar door in something of a daze and immediately recognise the man sitting at the nearest table. 

Ken! I need a beer.