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| Imlil, Morocco – December 2017 |
After enduring three hours of rejection from everyone passing by, I wished I'd heed the advice of a motorcyclist an hour earlier – "Take the bus. No one is going to pick you up." I wasn't hitchhiking through Morocco as a poor university student trying to save every penny. Instead, I was a 52-year-old, international-school teacher hoping to prove a point to himself – we don't need to fear life as we age.
Now, I wasn't so sure. Morning had already given way to afternoon, and I was still a half-day's journey from my destination of Merzouga in the Sahara Desert. The steady flow of traffic dwindled to a trickle. I felt tired. I felt lonely. I felt foolish, knowing the only bus had long since departed.
In my 20s, 30s, and
40s, I'd been a fan of independent, adventure travel. I preferred to utilize
public transportation, rolling into a new town without reservations or even a
detailed plan, ready to dive into the local culture. My ultimate rush involved
placing my fate into the hands of strangers through hitchhiking, but since
moving to Zimbabwe in 2016, my preferred travel mode was all-inclusive
vacations via air-conditioned 4 X 4s.
I convinced myself I
had few other options because of the continent's lack of infrastructure;
however, deep down, I dreaded the unknown. Riding in unmaintained buses on
pothole-filled roads seemed risky. Could I find hotels showing up unannounced?
Was Africa the best place to navigate solo? It certainly had absolutely nothing
to do with middle age, or did it.
The older I get the
more apparent it becomes that all accidents can't be avoided. Sometimes bad
things do happen to good people. Sometimes evil prevails. It's been reassuring
for me in midlife to embrace organized tours to steer clear of potential
unpleasantries, in the name of comfort and convenience.
When I decided to visit
Morocco, I again looked into tours and probably would have ended up on one if
not for an argument with my then girlfriend, who accused me of only being
willing to explore Africa along well-worn, predictable paths. As a veteran
backpacker, I knew she was wrong. I had to convince her, or convince myself,
that I hadn't changed, that I wasn't afraid to resume my wandering ways.
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| Sign that took me 600 miles through Morocco |
A month later, for the first time in years, I was standing by the side of the road, sheepishly holding a crudely written placard with the word 'Imlil,' a village in Morocco's Atlas Mountains about two hours outside Marrakech. Is a 52-year old really hitchhiking? Am I going to be mugged? Will ISIS kidnap me?
Despite the potential
hazards, I'll admit part of the attraction of hitchhiking is not knowing who or
what is waiting on the other side of the door – just as bungee jumpers always
face the possibility of the cord snapping – but rather than dwelling on
what might go wrong, I tried to keep in mind the slim likelihood of becoming a
crime victim.
For decades, I'd
hitchhiked around the world without incident, drawing inspiration from the words
of Albert Einstein who once said, "The most important decision we make is
whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe." I'm
convinced of the former, which gave me the confidence to stick out my thumb in
Africa. Hitchhiking is an exercise in trust, both for the hitchhiker and
driver, and a terrific way to open the door to magical possibilities.
Within minutes of
debuting my Imlil sign, a car stopped. It was too easy. I was still the man,
bald spot and all.
"No good,"
said the driver, pointing to the opposite road I'd taken at fork.
Once I was back on the
correct route, another car stopped.
"I'll take you to
Imlil," said the motorist."100 dirhams," the equivalent of about
$10. I rejected the taxi driver's offer. Hitchhiking isn't about saving money.
It's about the experience. I wanted that experience. He returned, insisting I
wouldn't find a ride.
However, less than an
hour later, a car full of four men allowed me to squeeze in with
them.
"American?"
asked the front-seat passenger.
"Yes," I
replied.
"Trump," he
chuckled.
Any remaining angst
evaporated. The men took me halfway, where I managed to find another ride the
remainder of the way to the village. I was reliving the glory days of my youth.
My good fortune lasted
two more days. Now, it appeared my hitchhiking luck had vanished, just short of
the Sahara. With the afternoon waning, the threat of getting stranded after
dark loomed like a hungry vulture patiently awaiting the demise of its prey.
I'd have to admit defeat, find a hotel, and take the next day's bus.
As a young man, I never
entertained such negative thoughts because I believed the universe always
provided. Eventually the right person would pick me up, but perhaps times had
changed in this troubled, unpredictable world.
I had essentially given
up hope when a car pulled over next to me. Two German women heading to the
desert offered me a lift covering the entire 100+-mile journey. The universe
had come through yet again.
During my three weeks
in Morocco, I faced additional adversity – language barriers, hours of walking,
being dropped off in the middle of nowhere – but managed to hitchhike 600
miles, relying on the generosity of 23 benefactors.
Near the end of my
trip, while waiting for a hitch to Fez, a 20-something-year-old stopped, saying
he doubted someone would pick me up that late in the day. He volunteered to
take me to the bus station, promising to bring me back to my spot if there were
no buses. I was too exhausted to argue.
When we arrived at the
station, he went up to the counter and learned an
overnight-bus would be leaving in a couple of hours. Before I could take
out my money, he paid the fare. I objected, telling him that was completely
unnecessary because I had plenty of cash, but he refused to accept it. I had to
ask why. His face grew serious, and in his limited English he replied,
"humanity."
Nope, we needn't fear
life as we age, even while hitchhiking alone across Africa.
NOTE: My article originally appeared on the travel site Matador Network and is republished with permission.
