Like Bungy jumping, hitchhiking is one of those activities that is safe in the vast majority of circumstances, but can fail spectacularly when things go wrong. And like the Bungy jumping, it was not my idea to do it.
Folks at the pension had some pretty good stories about their hitchhiking adventures–extreme examples of local hospitality and colorful characters. Micaela heard the tales and became quite enthusiastic about the prospect of ditching the bus and using our thumbs. I knew the risks were small, so I agreed, albeit reluctantly. This was my first time, and I always imagined doing it with someone a little more imposing than this:
I would have felt safer traveling with the guy on the left, but realistically, people are more likely to stop for her. Life is full of tradeoffs. We were picked up by a French couple in their early 20’s and things went off without a HITCH (hahahaha).
Our next ride came from a Tahitian girl of about 20 and her mahu (Polynesian transvesitite) friend with lots of eye liner.
We began the next day’s adventures by with a local man (of Chinese descent) who was about 40. “I am on my way to a business meeting” he proclaimed. Seeing as he was wearing flip flops, old shorts and a flower print shirt, we were curious about just what business he was in. “I am an artist. I design shirts.” He then elaborated.
“I am the best artist on Tahiti. But I have not sold anything in ten years. Can you believe that? I do not understand why.”
I assured him that the problem must be small-town politics (not lack of talent), but he really did not respond. Instead, he just kept going on about “best artist” and “ten years”, until the engine stopped and the low oil warning light came on. He was unphased by this development, and simply jammed a rag somewhere on the engine block with a precision that revealed he had done it many times before. He did need a little help, though, as the hood was busted also.
The fix worked, and we were on our way. And I’m glad, because otherwise we would not have learned this guy’s other talent–performing bossa nova music. Unfortunately, he could not play his guitar while driving, but he did serenade us with his rendition of “The Girl From Ipanema”. You can not make this stuff up.
The car stopped again, this time on a hill, and I was recruited to push while Micaela steered. He knew that the repairs would require more than an oily rag this time, so he thanked us for the push and we thanked him for the ride, and we parted ways.
For our next leg, we were picked up by a mechanic. He had a small van with no seats in the back, so I slid around on the floor, which was actually kind of fun. It was not as much fun to look at the unidentifiable power tools back there that looked like props from the “Hostel” or “Saw” horror movies. He was on his way home for lunch, and even drove past his house (which he pointed out to us) by about 10 minutes just to drop us off at the beach at Pointe Venus.
At the beach, a French woman of about 80 chatted with us for a few minutes. She did not speak much English, but still was able to explain that she was a retired secretary and pointed out her house, which was next to the beach. Three hours later, we were walking away from the beach with our thumbs up, and after only 2 minutes a car pulled over. It was that French woman. This meant either coincidence or stalker. I was guessing stalker, but of the non-threatening, bored retiree variety, so we got in. She claimed to be on the way to the pharmacy. The car smelled bad, and I’m pretty sure that she was wearing an adult diaper.
Five minutes later, without any advance warning, she pulled into a gated driveway behind a high wrought iron fence. We stopped by a house, and a few mean looking dogs surrounded the car and barked like crazy.
Micaela and I were not sure what was going on, but just in case, I began to evolve our escape plan in the event it was a kidnapping plot. One of the many lessons I learned from watching “Magnum P.I.” was that you cannot outrun mean dogs on a tropical island, so I ruled that out immediately. It did not matter, as the woman’s friend (who appeared to be about 90) stepped out of the house and called off the dogs.
We visited with the friend for a few minutes, and then she drove us all the way home (about a half an hour). Communication was difficult, but since this was Michaela’s idea, I let her deal with that. The woman did not understand much, and instead defaulted to saying “Oooh La La” a lot. I did not know French people actually said “Oooh La La.”
In the final analysis, hitchhiking did deliver some colorful characters, so it was worth doing once, but to compare it to Bungy jumping yet again, once was enough.
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