…It sounds like your car is having many problems, says Horst.
Yeah, I love her but she’s a fuckin’ piece of shit, says the driver, and cracks open another beer on the dashboard. Couldn’t get her through rego’ last time. So if you see any coppers, fuckin’ let me know. Bastards busted me driving without rego’ twice already…
I’ve had my thumb out for a while. I’m standing next to the road just south of Moruya, Australia. It’s a baking hot, summer day.
A van scuttles to a standstill on the gravel shoulder and I jog up to it. The window rolls down and a friendly spectacled face, with a shaved head and a German accent greets me:
Where are you going, mate?
(Top pic: the course of Horst’s epic journey.)
The van is loaded with bags, boxes and furniture. The German passenger is Horst. He is a hitchhiker also. The driver is Lydia. Lydia is moving to Melbourne. I squeeze myself into a tiny gap between a coffee table and a futon, and Lydia urges the van forward.
Horst tells me: when I saw you on the roadside, I said to Lydia, well, you have pick up one hitchhiker, you may as well get two.
I thank Lydia and Horst for picking me up.
I’m not going to go all the way to Melbourne today, Lydia apologises, but I can take you as far as Eden.
Lydia takes us a few kilometers south of Eden, to get us on our way. Horst and I stand our bags beside the road and take turns thumbing.
As we wait for our next ride, Horst tells me about his adventures in Australia.
I have hitchhiked around your country twice, he says. Two years ago I came here and I started from Sydney, hitchhiking north. I loved to hitchhike here so much. People were so friendly. So, I keep going. I arrive in Darwin, and I still have some time left, so I just keep going. I went across the northern desert to
Perth, then back across the Nullarbor to Adelaide, and Melbourne.
I say, Horst, that is an amazing journey! You’ve seen more of my country than I have.
It was magnificent, he says. Most of the time, in the deserts, I ride with trucks. These Australian truck drivers go thousands of kilometers and they enjoy having some company. I moved pretty fast, but, I had a ticket booked to fly back to Germany from Melbourne and I ran out of time. So I did not see the south coast here between Melbourne and Sydney. When I got back to Germany, I hang my map of Australia on the wall. I draw the line on the map, showing where I had been. After a time, looking at that map, the gap between Melbourne and Sydney began to bother me. I cannot explain why I feel so upset, but every time I look at it, I feel as though my journey was not complete. It is a mighty circle, but some part of it is missing. So, now I have come back. This time I will make the circle complete.
I’m impressed. So you are going to hitch from Sydney to Melbourne and complete the journey you made two years ago?
No, this time I go all the way around. I begin in Sydney, and end in Sydney, and I will go all the way around Australia a second time.
All the way? But don’t you feel like you are repeating the same experience? I ask him.
Of course not, says Horst. This time I go clockwise.
A rust splotched 80’s Escort brakes hard and pulls over for us. Horst has his thumb out when the car stops, so he gets the front seat. I climb in the back and perch on the cracked vinyl seat next to a half empty slab of beer.
It’s pretty obvious our driver is drunk. As soon as we get going, he offers us beers, and cracks one himself, knocking the cap off the bottle against the chipped dashboard trim.
We sip our beers nervously, as the driver talks loudly about his car. The list of defects and mechanical abnormalities seems endless. I have a bit of trouble hearing him, because the Escort is making a lot of disturbing, metallic noises.
It sounds like your car is having many problems, says Horst.
Yeah, I love her but she’s a fuckin’ piece of shit, says the driver, and cracks open another beer on the dashboard.
Couldn’t get her through rego’ last time. So if you see any coppers, fuckin’ let me know. Bastards busted me driving without rego’ twice already. Gave me a thousand dollar fine, and took my fuckin’ license away! Cunts! I know all the fuckin’ pigs round here. They all got it in for me. They catch me driving this thing again, without no license and registration or nothin’, they are gonna chuck me in jail! I told em’, I’m a fuckin’ working man! I’m not a fuckin’ dole bludger, like most of the cunts round here. How am I going to get to work if I can’t drive? If I lose my job, how am I gonna pay my fines? See, these cunts don’t think shit through!
Our driver is red faced with rage. He pours beer down his throat. Horst and I look at each other anxiously.
Horst asks: what is your work?
I’m a killer.
There is an awkward pause. The driver laughs loudly, spraying the windshield with beer.
Not people mate! Don’t worry, I’m not a psycho. I work at the slaughter house. I kill the cows. It’s very humane these days. I just put the bolt between their eyes, and they don’t know what hit ’em!
He raises his hand to Horst’s forehead, making a gun shape with his thumb and forefinger. He purses his lips to make the plosive sound of the bolt, but something catches his attention in the road ahead. He snatches both hands to the wheel, yanks the car across the opposing lane, sending it skidding at full speed onto the opposite shoulder, as he hits the brakes.
A cloud of dust swirls around the car. Horst and I sit, rigid with shock, gripping the window sills. For a few moments the only sound is the hollow gurgle of beer dribbling out of my stubbie, which I have dropped on the floor.
Fuck me! says our driver. That gave me a fuckin’ fright. I thought I saw a cop car up ahead.
Horst glances at me and clears his throat.
Thank you for the ride. I think we will get out here.
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