What I Learned Hitchhiking Around China

Posted: 12/10/2014 | December 10th, 2014

On the second Wednesday of the month, Kristin Addis from Be My Travel Muse writes a guest column featuring tips and advice on solo female travel. It’s an important topic I can’t cover so I brought in an expert to share her advice. 

It was February in China and, considering the town of Lijiang’s elevation in Yunnan province, still very much a cold winter wonderland. Standing outside waiting wasn’t how I wanted to spend the morning. But Ya Ting had such enthusiasm for the idea of hitchhiking that opting for the bus just seemed boring at this point. She had been hitchhiking around China for months and considered it such a casual and obvious option that it took the fear right out of me.

China had been on my bucket list ever since studying Mandarin in Taiwan seven years prior. I knew from conversations with friends that traveling around China would not be as carefree and easy as in Southeast Asia. What I didn’t plan on was spending about a month without coming across another foreigner, hitchhiking over 1,000 miles, and learning more about Chinese culture and hospitality than I think possible from traveling by bus or train.

Ya Ting had taken me under her wing after hearing me speaking Mandarin in a hostel dorm in Lijiang. She was fascinated by my fluency and wanted to travel together, which was how we ended up on the side of the road looking for a ride to the Tiger Leaping Gorge. Within 20 minutes, we had our first ride. I guess it wouldn’t take hours after all. He couldn’t take us all the way and ended up dropping us at a freeway crossroads. I figured that would be the end of our luck, but almost immediately we got another ride.

Hitchhiking turned out to be more of a study of anthropology than a scary, irresponsible joy ride. It was astonishingly easy and drivers turned out to be incredibly nice and normal. As a new hitchhiker, I expected creeps and serial murderers I’d have to fight off with mace. In reality, they came from all normal walks of life: members of minority village tribes, university students, and businessmen returning home from a work trip.

Not once did I feel threatened or unsafe.

Our most noteworthy encounter was when a twenty-something kid picked us up. He couldn’t take us the whole way so his uncle bought us lunch and a bus ticket for the rest of the journey. It’s as though he felt obligated to help us find a way to complete our trip. It brought tears of joy and gratitude to my eyes. This was the first time I understood the importance of generosity and the high esteem that guests command in China. It was a selfless act that would repeat itself in the weeks to come.

Ya Ting’s theory had been that we were so getting so lucky because we were a local and a foreigner together, and that had sparked intrigue. She didn’t think we would get so lucky once we split up. After a few weeks traveling together, we said good-bye and I would test her theory.

I stood behind the tollbooth on a heavily trafficked highway on-ramp in Sichuan province, casually lowering my thumb each time a police car drove by. I was well aware of the challenge before me. Ya Ting was no longer around to do the talking, nor did I have someone to lean upon if something went wrong. Now I was just a strange foreigner on her own who suddenly had to manage with a borderline-conversational Mandarin ability.

At first, a few cars slowed down for a closer look, only to speed off. Then others simply weren’t going in my direction. Minutes stretched on, and I was feeling defeated. After about 30 minutes (or an eternity depending on who is counting), a kind duo picked me up and took me the entire eight hours to Chengdu. They hosted lunch on the way, and, as I had come to learn was typical of Chinese culture, refused to allow me to pay for any of it. I was amazed at the kindness that was still extended to me now that I was just a foreigner on her own and no longer had Ya Ting’s dynamic personality to help me along. This reinforced my belief that people weren’t being friendly because of Ya Ting but that Chinese culture dictates a hospitality we don’t often see in the West.

A week later, two business partners returning from a trip from Tibet picked me up. They drove about twice as fast as the buses and, in between white-knuckling it in the back seat and eating the occasional slice of yak jerky (delicious dehydrated beef-like meat with Tibetan spices), we discussed the topography of California as compared to Sichuan province.

They stopped on the way for a lunch of the famous ya an fish, which the driver, Mr. Li, had selected from the fish tank, along with some six other massive dishes to be split among us three people. He explained that the fish had a double-edged sword inside its head. Given my perplexed expression he elected to show me, calling over the waitress and asking her to break the fish’s head open.

I was all but convinced I was going to have to eat fish brain until the waitress triumphantly pulled out a sword-shaped bone from the fish’s head. She then cleaned it and fashioned it into a bracelet. It simultaneously became the most sharp and lethal yet genuinely interesting piece of jewelry anyone had ever given me. It felt like my heart grew two sizes it that moment.

China smashed many of my perceptions. Before this, I never understood why anyone hitchhiked. Getting into vehicles with strangers seemed dangerous and stupid. In reality, it taught me about kindness, improved my language ability immensely, and provided an insider’s view as a foreigner in China. From eating meals with locals, to sitting in their cars, to hearing the music they liked most, or whether they preferred bagged chicken feet to dried fruit, I witnessed Chinese life in a way that almost nobody else gets to see. Without hitchhiking, I may never have understood the generous and communal nature of Chinese people.

Kristin Addis is a solo female travel expert who inspires women to travel the world in an authentic and adventurous way. A former investment banker who sold all of her belongings and left California in 2012, Kristin has solo traveled the world for over four years, covering every continent (except for Antarctica, but it’s on her list). There’s almost nothing she won’t try and almost nowhere she won’t explore. You can find more of her musings at Be My Travel Muse or on Instagram and Facebook.

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For a complete A-to-Z guide on solo female travel, check out Kristin’s new book, Conquering Mountains. Besides discussing many of the practical tips of preparing and planning your trip, the book addresses the fears, safety, and emotional concerns women have about traveling alone. It features over 20 interviews with other female travel writers and travelers. Click here to learn more about the book, how it can help you, and you can start reading it today!

Book Your Trip to China: Logistical Tips and Tricks

Book Your Flight
Find a cheap flight to China by using Skyscanner or Momondo. They are my two favorite search engines. Start with Momondo.

Book Your Accommodation
You can book your hostel in China with Hostelworld. If you want to stay elsewhere, use Booking.com as they consistently return the cheapest rates. (Here’s the proof.)

Don’t Forget Travel Insurance
Travel insurance will protect you against illness, injury, theft, and cancellations. I never ever go on a trip without it. I’ve been using World Nomads for ten years. You should too.

Need Some Gear?
Check out our resource page for the best companies to use!

Want More Information on China?
Be sure to visit our robust destination guide on China for even more planning tips!

A Lesson in Kindness While Hitchhiking Through Iceland

“Where are you going?” he asked from the driver’s seat.

“Thingeyri,” I replied. A confused look appeared on the man’s face.

“Thingeyri,” I said again, this time changing the intonation in my voice.

“Ahh, Thingeyri! Yes, I can take you there!”

I had been standing alone by the side of the road for two hours, hoping someone would give me a lift. Earlier that morning I’d taken the ferry to Brjánslækur, where I naïvely assumed the bus would align with the ferry’s arrival. But after landing, the dock master corrected that assumption: there wasn’t a bus until 6:30 p.m.

I looked at my watch. It was 11 a.m.

Crap, I thought.

I raced to the top of the dock in hopes a car would pick me. But as the cars exited the ferry, driving off to complete their journey, none did. Scores of other people walked toward waiting cars filled with friends and family. They too ignored my jutted-out thumb.

Alone, I went into the ferry terminal, ate some soup, and ventured back to the road. To my left was the empty dock and, past that, a vast, tranquil bay that shimmered on this sunny day. To the right side of the road were farms, sheep, and rolling hills. The only sign of human activity was the little red ferry building where, if all else failed, I could stay until the bus came.

No cars passed.

I waited.

And waited some more.

In the distance, a car.

I stuck out my thumb.

As the car passed, the driver looked at me but didn’t slow down.

A few more cars passed as if I wasn’t there.

It was a beautiful, warm, clear day — the first that entire week. The sun shone bright above, and the sheep grazed in the meadows. I decided to walk to the gas station, six kilometers away. Maybe I would have better luck at the crossroads.

I stopped often along the way to marvel at how quiet it was. The only sounds were the wind and my footsteps. I was in no rush, and the serenity and calm of my surroundings made the long walk bearable. I passed black sand beaches filled with sheep — even they knew to take advantage of the weather. Streams that started in the glacial mountains ended their journey in the salty bay.

At the crossroads I saw a family eating at the picnic area. Maybe they would give me a lift. I made sure to look in their direction often.

Hours passed. Cars came up the main road. I stuck out my thumb but the drivers shrugged, turned on their blinkers, and headed off in the wrong direction. The family continued to have the longest picnic ever.

Finally, as they packed up their picnic, the family looked over at me. This is my chance, I thought. Please go my way!

They got in their car, turned toward the crossroads…but then went right, heading to Reykjavik. I needed them to go left, toward me and Thingeyri!

I was defeated and hungry. When I had hitched Iceland’s main ring road, rides were abundant, but here they were nonexistent.

I was ready to give up, trudge back to the ferry building, and wait for the bus, but then, like an Icelandic angel descending from heaven in a gigantic steel cage, Stefan stopped his SUV and picked me up.

Stefan drove like Speed Racer. The road was in rough condition, opened only a few weeks ago due to a late winter and cold spring. There was still a lot of snow on the ground. “In the winter, this is all snow and you can’t drive here,” he said.

The road turned to gravel as we whizzed through the mountains. I was jostled up and down as we hit a few potholes, and I closed my eyes as we took turns too fast for comfort, hoping he would notice that and slow down.

He did not.

But for all the discomfort, I stared agape at the landscape that unfolded before me. Around me were melting glaciers, with rivers of clear blue water cutting into the snow. To my left were huge valleys where waterfalls fell down mountains into rivers and snows disappeared under the summer sun, leaving the growing grass a bright green. On flatter ground, the water pooled into lakes, and travelers stopped to take pictures.

Stefan and I talked a bit. His lack of English and my lack of Icelandic made long conversation difficult but we shared the basics. He was a fisherman from Reykjavik and married with four kids. “Triplets,” he says giving me a “right, I know” look. He was returning to Thingeyri to prepare for another ten days at sea.

During the journey, he pointed out landmarks and searched for the English word to describe them. I helped him when I could. I’d poorly repeat the word in Icelandic, Stefan would correct me, and I would fail again.

We drove through the mountains into a thick fog. When we could barely see a meter ahead, he slowed down, taking his time to drive the mountain road. As we crept along, I occasionally glimpsed the snow-covered precipices we would careen over if he wasn’t careful. I was relieved Stefan had finally decided to drive with caution. As we made our way down the mountain, the fog lifted and he pointed to a small town ahead. “Thingeyri.”

He dropped me off at my guesthouse and we said good-bye — he was off to sea, I was off to hike the mountains.

The next morning I awoke to see the fjord and mountains, clear of fog. As I hiked up Sandfell Mountain and enjoyed the beautiful day, I thought fondly of Stefan and his willingness to help a stranger my side of the road. Wherever his boat was, I hope he was filling it with fish and knew that somewhere out there was lone traveler eternally grateful for the experience.

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