And so we continue down the annuls of history, with the hitch to Sofia, around mid July.
I’d made many new friends, spent time with old ones, lamented places which held fond memories, been thrown out of a bar for rounding on some stupid American girl giving me abuse, and climbed into a pen full of wild dogs while drunk and wearing a kilt. It was time to leave Romania once and for all.
They didn’t believe I would do it. They said I would still be there when they all woke up. But come early morning, I was making my way solemnly to the outskirts. My target was Sofia. The hitchwiki directions proved frustrating, and I’m walking down miles of highway in searing heat in what I can only hope is the right direction. A guy beckons me over, and convinces me he can take me somewhere. Which he can’t. It’s a load of crap. A few minutes later and a car pulls in, again insisting I can ride with them. I get in. I should have known better. Sweaty, bling-bling tattoo driver with his shawl covered granny in the passenger seat, and Mr no-teeth beside me. They demand money (as is the Romanian way with autostop) but I repeatedly respond “nu bani”, the phrase you learn for hitching in these parts. They’re not convinced I don’t have any money, and start asking something about a mobile phone. It’s time to get out. I hastily remove myself from the gypsy vehicle, and hurriedly snatch my bags away, worried they’ll take off with them in tow. I always make sure I keep a door open and a foot inside if possible before being free. They mumble obscenities as they speed away.
It’s looking bleak. It’s a bad spot with no room to pull in, and the motors are flying past. A battered estate pulls in and an old guy jumps out. He motions me over. Christ not another vagabond?! As I close in he jabs at my sign. He can take me to the border. I cut my losses and hop in.
It’s the kind of hitch I often prefer. No words. No idle chat. No same story over and over. Total silence for hundreds of kilometres, then deposited exactly where they said they would and where I want to be. A few quiet hours later and I’m on the Bulgarian side of the border. Astounding success in the face of defeat and or robbery.
Not five minutes I’m waiting and my favourite hitch pulls in. Young guy, perfect English, beautiful top-of-the-range motor, all the way to my door. Again unbelievable, but not only is he dropping me at my hostel, but I get a whistle-stop tour of the capital, and lunch to boot. What a hero. There’s that kindness of strangers again.
I started the day on a low ebb, upset to leave friends, struggling with a hangover, unconvinced at my hitch prospects. Two perfect rides and a few hours later and I’m in Sofia. And finally the chance to create new memories.
Hitchhike to India leg 31; Bucharest to Sofia
And so we continue down the annuls of history, with the hitch to Sofia, around mid July.
I’d made many new friends, spent time with old ones, lamented places which held fond memories, been thrown out of a bar for rounding on some stupid American girl giving me abuse, and climbed into a pen full of wild dogs while drunk and wearing a kilt. It was time to leave Romania once and for all.
They didn’t believe I would do it. They said I would still be there when they all woke up. But come early morning, I was making my way solemnly to the outskirts. My target was Sofia. The hitchwiki directions proved frustrating, and I’m walking down miles of highway in searing heat in what I can only hope is the right direction. A guy beckons me over, and convinces me he can take me somewhere. Which he can’t. It’s a load of crap. A few minutes later and a car pulls in, again insisting I can ride with them. I get in. I should have known better. Sweaty, bling-bling tattoo driver with his shawl covered granny in the passenger seat, and Mr no-teeth beside me. They demand money (as is the Romanian way with autostop) but I repeatedly respond “nu bani”, the phrase you learn for hitching in these parts. They’re not convinced I don’t have any money, and start asking something about a mobile phone. It’s time to get out. I hastily remove myself from the gypsy vehicle, and hurriedly snatch my bags away, worried they’ll take off with them in tow. I always make sure I keep a door open and a foot inside if possible before being free. They mumble obscenities as they speed away.
It’s looking bleak. It’s a bad spot with no room to pull in, and the motors are flying past. A battered estate pulls in and an old guy jumps out. He motions me over. Christ not another vagabond?! As I close in he jabs at my sign. He can take me to the border. I cut my losses and hop in.
It’s the kind of hitch I often prefer. No words. No idle chat. No same story over and over. Total silence for hundreds of kilometres, then deposited exactly where they said they would and where I want to be. A few quiet hours later and I’m on the Bulgarian side of the border. Astounding success in the face of defeat and or robbery.
Not five minutes I’m waiting and my favourite hitch pulls in. Young guy, perfect English, beautiful top-of-the-range motor, all the way to my door. Again unbelievable, but not only is he dropping me at my hostel, but I get a whistle-stop tour of the capital, and lunch to boot. What a hero. There’s that kindness of strangers again.
I started the day on a low ebb, upset to leave friends, struggling with a hangover, unconvinced at my hitch prospects. Two perfect rides and a few hours later and I’m in Sofia. And finally the chance to create new memories.