It's a romantic notion, to hitch a lift, strike up a conversation, have an adventure. The reality, however, is quite different, reports Tom McKinlay.
The facial expression is crucial. Open. Engaging. Friendly. Not too friendly.
The rest of the body language is also pretty important.
Relaxed. Easy-going. Accommodating. Not too accommodating.
It's a little bit: "Hey, going my way?" A little bit: "Put yourself in my shoes."
And that's not always easy to pull off.
At least that's the way it seems after a long day in the same spot miles from the nearest comfort facilities.
At times like these the nature of your fellow man (fellow women don't pick up hitchhikers) is laid bare, dissected and catalogued.
In fact, there has to be a good thesis in it. Or at least a blog.
It could run under the headline: "Why there's no chance this approaching car is going to stop".
That's a near certainty if the hitchhiking is taking place on one of the long hot straights north of Christchurch.
One of the reasons why these stretches of road are perfect for such research is that much of the passing traffic is leaving Christchurch, so is unlikely to stop anyway.
There are two reasons for this.
1. The driver is from Christchurch.
2. The driver is not from Christchurch, so is trying to put significant distance between themselves and the town as quickly as possible.
The occasion on which I was in a position to make these observations was in the summer of 1985-86.
My travels had begun in Dunedin and were scheduled to terminate in Auckland on New Year's Eve at a pub in Parnell.
The stretch of road on which I had set out my stall was in the Waipara district, a barren desert of scorched grass where the dusty air is 90% carbon monoxide.
Nothing much survives here for long, which puts the pressure on.
While the rest of the locals make themselves scarce under the available rock cover, there is plenty of action on the highway.
Visibility is good for several kilometres south. The theory here is that oncoming cars have plenty of time to see you and decide to stop.
After several hours of standing in the one spot with the thumb out, a competing theory emerges.
Perhaps the drivers have too much time to think.
Rather than stopping on impulse, they have time to weigh their options and decide the chances of striking an engaging conversationalist, as opposed to a marginal personality with hygiene issues, are not sufficiently high.
From this point, five or six hours into the day, loose thinking begins to take a hold.
Perhaps my thumb is at the wrong angle.
Should the pack be clearly visible so the drivers know what they are getting themselves into, or hidden?
But if the pack is not visible, then what am I doing out here?
Will I look like a fugitive on the run, packless and dangerous?
Should I take my hat off? Would only a numbskull stand here without a hat?
By the time eight hours have elapsed, the reasons for the traffic's truculence are as clear as the smirks on the drivers' faces.
For example, drivers with green shirts are clearly a waste of thumb time.
They are obviously in an indecisive frame of mind; how else do you credit the green?
They are not going to stop, even where the front-seat passenger is wearing yellow.
Statistically (there is by this stage a considerable sample with a margin of error of a station wagon), the chance of being picked up by a car with two people in the front seat is significantly smaller than that of being picked up by a sole-occupant vehicle.
The issue there is the pre-pickup conversation.
"Shall we stop?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"Well, that last one we picked up was a bit smelly, but the Norwegian with the three words of English last year was pretty entertaining."
"Do you think he looks Norwegian?"
By this time, the issue has been resolved.
The car in question is two kilometres down the road. Ah, two kilometres down the road.
It seems certain that this distant and mythical land is an oasis of green. There are probably babbling brooks and bellbird song.
The cruellest of torments is the lone young male driver trapped in the middle of a line of traffic.
As the line approaches, it is clear the first car will not stop. It is driven by a neatly presented middle-aged gentleman, who probably vacuums the interior of the car.
The passenger seat is occupied by his neatly presented wife, who would be quite happy to stop but won't suggest it.
In the back is a single late-teen child, who will not want to sit next to a hitchhiker.
It is likely their boot is full, so the pack would have to be accommodated in the back seat. Awkward all round.
Nevertheless, it's important to appear sincere at all times.
So the thumb goes out, perhaps showing a little lack of self-belief but keeping up appearances.
The neatly presented middle-aged man whizzes by.
As does the commercial traveller behind him, more intent on an overtaking manoeuvre than stopping.
The two women in the Nissan pass, their conversation not missing a beat.
Next comes the lone young bloke. But he has an articulated lorry sniffing at his exhaust pipe, all the excuse he needs to keep on motoring.
Curses.
Body language is now: "Stop the @#!* car and pick me up."
There's an unspoken rule in hitchhiking. No matter how desperate it gets. Public transport is not the answer.
There's a further unspoken rule.
The aforementioned rule does not apply to North Canterbury.
