OK so I’ve cheated a bit. In order to cram in a few more sites (including my beloved communist party headquarters) I’ve taken the bus to Plovdiv, technically breaking the hitch rule of not paying for transport when I travel to a new place. It was only a few miles though I promise. And yet after what seems like an eternity, I’m finally back on the road, continuing what most people had begun to forget what I was attempting. I’m hitchhiking to India.
The next destination. Finally a new sign.
The sun is warm with the promise of a hot day as I strike out from the centre of town to the outskirts, accompanied by my friend Tan, who is showing me to the first hitch spot having used it before. Sunshine isn’t always your friend when on a hitch, and it isn’t long before its roasting rays are searing the skin on my arms and the back of my neck. For some reason, my legs are immune. This explains why it looks like I’m wearing white tights under my shorts in certain photographs. Anyway as per usual I’ve neglected to buy sunscreen, so I’ll be looking like a lobster in minutes.
Parting ways, no sooner has Tan disappeared over the brow of the bridge, than my first ride pulls in. I’ve literally had my sign out for seconds, and it’s easily explained, as the driver is a hitchers stalwart. Young guy, nice car, wrap around sunglasses. My bread and butter. I’ve lost count how many times these dudes pick me up. He can take me 100K down the road.
It’s a blessing to be on the move again. In the coming months, I’ll no doubt I’ll start to feel regret at continually going back on myself, or staying stagnant for so long. Indeed the pangs of guilt that I could travel for decades if only I didn’t spend my time languishing in drinking holes are already creeping in. The only way to beat that, is to press on. It’s not long before the thrill of the road is crushing contrition, and I’m dropped by a gas station edging ever closer to the border.
Walking two minutes to a decent spot away from the service station exit, and I haven’t even put my bags down before a driver has swerved in ahead of me. Bulgaria I love you. A little old fellow with a worn face and nicotine stained nails beckons me in. He doesn’t speak English, and inspite of showing him my google map print off, I’ve got no idea how far he can take me. His eagerness for me to join him rubs off however, and I pile in, hoping the miles will fly by.
I’m somewhat disappointed as he pulls onto the hard shoulder and jabs a grubby finger towards a junction, all of five minutes down the highway. But sure enough, the turning leads to the road to Istanbul. Almost about to curse his lack of distance, the old boy has done me an absolute solid, and driven me to where I actually should be standing. I could have been waiting for hours, and I’m more than happy to shake his hand and start the march up onto the flyover. A sign for Istanbul cheers my heart. Two rides, 120 odd kilometers, not yet midday, and I’m getting closer.
The day takes a turn for the disconcerting as the morning traffic thins to nothing. A scarcity of vehicles dwindles by every few minutes, but it’s not the constant flow the hitcher craves. Most drivers staccato an index finger twice to the floor, the universal sign for “I’m staying local.” I mumble obscenities at a number of trucks with Istanbul plates. The scorching ball of fire in the sky begins to take its toll. A couple of snakes scurry for cover as I wade into the undergrowth to take a bathroom break, but otherwise the minutes tick by slow and uneventful.
Then, just when I was contemplating a hike to find shade, a snazzy estate pulls in. I’m saved from cremation. The hero speaks good English, and not only that, he can take me out of his way to the border. As much as I hate to admit it sometimes, but people are good. The journey passes pleasantly, enthralling my driver with tales of my adventures in hitchhiking. I’m crossing into Turkey by the early pm.
I love walking through borders. You’re pretty much guaranteed to be the only soul doing it, and you get all kinds of looks. It’s liberating. It makes you feel alive. It panders to my narcissistic ego that demands being the centre of attention. A whiter than white Western kid with two bags, a guitar and a sign that reads “India.” No fear. I revel in striding passed a bus rammed with noses pressed to the windows. Yes that’s right; I’ve got balls of steel. Envy is a terrible thing. Your wives and girlfriends clearly want me.
A mosque stands a stones throw from the final checkpoint. The Ezan (Turkish call to prayer) really is beautiful to listen to. Portrayed as an evil sound by wrongdoers in Western film and popular culture, its misinterpretation is a terrible shame. It can make the hairs stand on the back of your neck, and for me and other travelers, really lets you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. It rings out over the landscape as I prepare to hitch the last leg into Istanbul. I’m finally in Turkey.
Normally an easy place to get a ride, this border is proving difficult, not least because a local shoeless gypsy has festooned himself to me, jabbering away with no English and expecting me to understand. As a result, it appears we’re hitching together, and two guys trying to get a ride is the worst possible combination. It’s only when he gives up and moves on, does a brand spanking new, top-of-the-range 4X4 swing in. It’s driver is a beaming Turk, and his little grasp of my language isn’t a problem. I ride to the capital in style sucking an offered Werther’s Original. My driver has currently clocked up some 1250 miles, having driven from France, and while he can’t drop me at my door, he nonetheless deposits me on the outskirts of a massive city. It seems the taxi into town takes longer than the ride to the border, but as I stumble through old narrow streets, that euphoric travel feeling rises inside. Four rides, 400 kilometres, and around 8 hours. I’m in Istanbul.
Hitchhike to India leg 32: Plovdiv to Istanbul
OK so I’ve cheated a bit. In order to cram in a few more sites (including my beloved communist party headquarters) I’ve taken the bus to Plovdiv, technically breaking the hitch rule of not paying for transport when I travel to a new place. It was only a few miles though I promise. And yet after what seems like an eternity, I’m finally back on the road, continuing what most people had begun to forget what I was attempting. I’m hitchhiking to India.
The next destination. Finally a new sign.
The sun is warm with the promise of a hot day as I strike out from the centre of town to the outskirts, accompanied by my friend Tan, who is showing me to the first hitch spot having used it before. Sunshine isn’t always your friend when on a hitch, and it isn’t long before its roasting rays are searing the skin on my arms and the back of my neck. For some reason, my legs are immune. This explains why it looks like I’m wearing white tights under my shorts in certain photographs. Anyway as per usual I’ve neglected to buy sunscreen, so I’ll be looking like a lobster in minutes.
Parting ways, no sooner has Tan disappeared over the brow of the bridge, than my first ride pulls in. I’ve literally had my sign out for seconds, and it’s easily explained, as the driver is a hitchers stalwart. Young guy, nice car, wrap around sunglasses. My bread and butter. I’ve lost count how many times these dudes pick me up. He can take me 100K down the road.
It’s a blessing to be on the move again. In the coming months, I’ll no doubt I’ll start to feel regret at continually going back on myself, or staying stagnant for so long. Indeed the pangs of guilt that I could travel for decades if only I didn’t spend my time languishing in drinking holes are already creeping in. The only way to beat that, is to press on. It’s not long before the thrill of the road is crushing contrition, and I’m dropped by a gas station edging ever closer to the border.
Walking two minutes to a decent spot away from the service station exit, and I haven’t even put my bags down before a driver has swerved in ahead of me. Bulgaria I love you. A little old fellow with a worn face and nicotine stained nails beckons me in. He doesn’t speak English, and inspite of showing him my google map print off, I’ve got no idea how far he can take me. His eagerness for me to join him rubs off however, and I pile in, hoping the miles will fly by.
I’m somewhat disappointed as he pulls onto the hard shoulder and jabs a grubby finger towards a junction, all of five minutes down the highway. But sure enough, the turning leads to the road to Istanbul. Almost about to curse his lack of distance, the old boy has done me an absolute solid, and driven me to where I actually should be standing. I could have been waiting for hours, and I’m more than happy to shake his hand and start the march up onto the flyover. A sign for Istanbul cheers my heart. Two rides, 120 odd kilometers, not yet midday, and I’m getting closer.
The day takes a turn for the disconcerting as the morning traffic thins to nothing. A scarcity of vehicles dwindles by every few minutes, but it’s not the constant flow the hitcher craves. Most drivers staccato an index finger twice to the floor, the universal sign for “I’m staying local.” I mumble obscenities at a number of trucks with Istanbul plates. The scorching ball of fire in the sky begins to take its toll. A couple of snakes scurry for cover as I wade into the undergrowth to take a bathroom break, but otherwise the minutes tick by slow and uneventful.
Then, just when I was contemplating a hike to find shade, a snazzy estate pulls in. I’m saved from cremation. The hero speaks good English, and not only that, he can take me out of his way to the border. As much as I hate to admit it sometimes, but people are good. The journey passes pleasantly, enthralling my driver with tales of my adventures in hitchhiking. I’m crossing into Turkey by the early pm.
I love walking through borders. You’re pretty much guaranteed to be the only soul doing it, and you get all kinds of looks. It’s liberating. It makes you feel alive. It panders to my narcissistic ego that demands being the centre of attention. A whiter than white Western kid with two bags, a guitar and a sign that reads “India.” No fear. I revel in striding passed a bus rammed with noses pressed to the windows. Yes that’s right; I’ve got balls of steel. Envy is a terrible thing. Your wives and girlfriends clearly want me.
A mosque stands a stones throw from the final checkpoint. The Ezan (Turkish call to prayer) really is beautiful to listen to. Portrayed as an evil sound by wrongdoers in Western film and popular culture, its misinterpretation is a terrible shame. It can make the hairs stand on the back of your neck, and for me and other travelers, really lets you know you’re not in Kansas anymore. It rings out over the landscape as I prepare to hitch the last leg into Istanbul. I’m finally in Turkey.
Normally an easy place to get a ride, this border is proving difficult, not least because a local shoeless gypsy has festooned himself to me, jabbering away with no English and expecting me to understand. As a result, it appears we’re hitching together, and two guys trying to get a ride is the worst possible combination. It’s only when he gives up and moves on, does a brand spanking new, top-of-the-range 4X4 swing in. It’s driver is a beaming Turk, and his little grasp of my language isn’t a problem. I ride to the capital in style sucking an offered Werther’s Original. My driver has currently clocked up some 1250 miles, having driven from France, and while he can’t drop me at my door, he nonetheless deposits me on the outskirts of a massive city. It seems the taxi into town takes longer than the ride to the border, but as I stumble through old narrow streets, that euphoric travel feeling rises inside. Four rides, 400 kilometres, and around 8 hours. I’m in Istanbul.