Samuel Barger is a normal guy doing normal things.

I had just finished the cherry picking season in Canada, mostly in Creston Valley in the Okanagan. Someone there was like, “You should go trim weed in California.” Some people told me not to. At the time, it was illegal, every weed job was under the table. I got really lucky with the guy I worked for, but he told me a story of people that went to a different farm. At the end of the season, they put everybody in a barn, locked the door, dumped gasoline, and burned them alive. When you finish the season, you’re owed $20,000. If there’s a lot of you, that’s a lot of money for the farmer. If they’re an asshole or a straight up murderer, they’ll just be like, “No, I’m not gonna pay you.” Who are you gonna complain to? The cops don’t give a fuck. It’s the Wild West out there.

I was trying to get to Nevada City, which is weirdly enough in California. That’s where everyone said to go to find weed work. On that stretch, I had my worst hitchhiking ride ever. I got stuck at a place called Williams, California. Until that point, my rides were very quick. I would never wait more than 30 minutes. I got dropped off at a Love’s, a big truck stop, at 4 p.m. and waited for four hours, not getting any rides. Then it got dark. I slept in my tent, woke up the next morning, and another six hours went by. I’d been there for almost 20 hours. 

This white, rusty pickup truck slams on the brakes. They slowly back up. It’s this older man, missing teeth, Carhartt jacket, big beard, and an older woman with really ratty hair. They were filthy, straight out of the boondocks. The guy leans out the window, “Hey, where you headed?” I’m like, “Nevada City.” He said, “Well, we’re going to Yuba City.” That’s about halfway. I didn’t feel very good about these guys, but I thought, “Get me out of here, please.” So I threw my backpack in the back of the truck, jumped in the front seat, shut the door. 

As we started driving, I looked down. There’s guns and bullets all over the floor. Making small talk, I say, “So what did you get up to today?” The woman said, “I just picked him up from jail. He was in for aggravated assault of a police officer.” They’re giving me story after story of all this crazy criminal stuff. They make their money by stealing weed plants from farmers. They’re talking about the times they’ve been shot and the times they’ve done violent stuff. I asked, “What are you doing today?” They got really passionate. The woman says, “That bitch is gonna pay one way or another.” I’m thinking, “Oh my God, am I witnessing a premeditated murder today? Is that what these guns are for?” 

Then they asked me if I smoke. I’m like, “Yeah, sometimes,” thinking they’re offering me marijuana. The guy pulls off the highway and goes down this dirt road. I’m thinking, “No one knows where I am. I got in the wrong car. This is it.” He stops, fumbling through a bag, and then pulls out a meth pipe. It’s the first time that I'm seeing one in real life. I think, “Oh, my God, it all makes sense.” He blows out this milky white smoke. I'm rolling the window down as fast as possible, because I’m not about the secondhand meth smoke. She takes it and then they hand it to me. I’m like, “I’m more of a weed guy, I’m not really into meth.” The guy goes, “Suit yourself. Ain’t nothing like meth.”

We got back on the road. He asked me how much money I have. I lie, “I don’t have any money. That’s why I’m hitchhiking.” Then he started slamming on the steering wheel, screaming, “Young man, we can make $20,000 today, goddamnit!” He started elaborately explaining how we're gonna steal weed together, “There’s a farmer I know down here. We haven’t touched him yet. You’ll hold the gun. I’ll cut down the fence.” I’m like, “No, I’m not gonna get shot for this,” but I don’t want to say that to him. I’m a little afraid, he’s all methed out. So I’m like, “That sounds great. Oh, gosh, I totally forgot my friend’s waiting for me in Nevada City, but I’m free next weekend.” 

He pulls over at the turn off at Yuba City, writes his number on a napkin, and hands me it. He’s like, “You’ll call me.” I’m thinking hell no, but I’m like, “Yeah, totally.” He drives off. I sit down at this crossroad. I took a break from hitchhiking after that. I just needed to breathe. I got to Nevada City, it was only 20 minutes away, and found a job trimming. 

I stayed for about a month, sleeping in graveyards. At the end of the season, this guy was like, “Hey, man, thanks for working. Here’s a pound of weed and a bag of mushrooms. Also, here’s a DMT vape pen.” I started smoking a bit of the weed. I was like, “This is a literal pound of weed, there’s no fucking way I’m smoking a pound.” So I shipped most of it to my sister. I gave the mushrooms away. Did the DMT. It hit me within seconds. The whole world was like an accordion being squashed together. After ten minutes, I felt more sober than I’d ever been in my entire life. I had this realization that I was using drugs as a way to stop feeling a really deep pool of sadness, so, ironically, because of the DMT, I stopped taking drugs. I packed up my bag the next day and kept going south. 

I caught a freight truck. He actually said, “I’m not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but fuck them.” I got to San Diego, walked across the border. I was doing a volunteer thing on a boat in Ensenada with a guy named Boris. Boris would say he’s Canadian, but it was like, “Bro, you’re not Canadian.” I didn’t see him for four years after that. I saw him again in Panama, randomly. I was like, “Boris!” He turned around and he’s like, “My name’s not Boris.” I was like, “Yeah, it is. I used to work for you.” He’s like, “I don’t know this Boris you’re talking about.” I was like, “Okay, but you looked at me when I called your name.” He denied, denied, denied. I contacted a friend in Ensenada. Turns out Boris was dumping oil and got kicked out of Mexico. He was on the run. You never know people. 

From Ensenada, I met this guy taking his RV all the way down Mexico. I was able to hitchhike with him and his girlfriend down the coast. Every time we’d stop at gas stations, the locals would say, “This is great and all, but remember, when you get to Sinaloa, just keep going.” So we’re driving, there’s this kid broken down on the side of the highway. He’s out of gas. We’re like, “We’ll siphon you some.” He says, “If you ever need any help, come visit me. I live in Sinaloa.” We’re looking at each other, like, “Yeah, right. Have a good life.”

We're going through Sinaloa and, of all the places, that’s where the RV decides to break down. We hear this big ka-kunk. We get out, look down, there’s a pipe snapped in half, shit’s pouring out. We can’t drive like this. What are we gonna do? That kid! Let’s call the kid. We call him up. He’s only 15 minutes away. So we pull into this town. I look out the window and there’s a table and people are moving bricks of coke. All those guys come over to the RV. They’re banging on the door, going, “What are you doing here?” I’m like, “Crap.” We see this truck swerve in. It’s the kid. He yells at us to stay inside the car. Those guys all back away. I should have put it together then, but I didn't. 

We’re following him through the town. We come to this three story wall. Outside is extreme poverty, but when the gate opens, it’s green, luscious grass, banana trees, and a guava tree. There’s a pool and this huge mansion. It hasn’t clicked yet. This woman comes out wearing a fur coat, stiletto heels, a long Audrey Hepburn cigarette holder. The father comes out wearing a suit. He says, “Thank you so much for helping my son. He was in a lot of trouble. We’re happy to help anyone that is helping our son.” I asked at dinner, “What’s your job?” He says, “Import export industry.” I’m thinking, for sure this is a mob boss. They had their personal mechanic fix the RV. The next morning, we get escorted out of the town. Once we hit the highway, we go, “Whoa! What was that?” 

We split ways in Mazatlan. They were going to continue down south, and I cut over to see some friends that I cherry picked with in Canada in Mexico City, then kept hitchhiking down through Belize. My first ride in Belize was these three guys who were kind of crazy. The police stop was two cars away. They stop, get out, switch places, then they keep driving. The guy gives him the license. The other guy says he doesn’t have a license. Didn’t the cop just see you switch? The cop doesn’t ask about this. They drive two more car lengths past the cop, get out, switch again. There was one guy who picked me up in a really fancy car. He was trying to teach me Belizean Creole, it’s like a DJ has taken English and vrrr.

I stopped at a wildlife reservation and worked there for about a month with this New Zealand lady. Scientists from all over the world would come live at her place and do studies. We’d go out with machetes hacking up a trail. It was breathtaking. You had toucans and crocodiles. She would swim in the river and she’s like, “Come on in.” I’m like, “Fuck no, there’s crocodiles.” We were picking up pieces of this boat and I felt this horrible pain on my fingers. I got stung by a scorpion. I’m three hours from civilization. What am I gonna do? The lady was like, “You’re in for a world of pain.” I was like, “Am I gonna die?” She said, “No, but your hand will hurt for days.” And it did. It hurt like hell. 

From there, I went to Guatemala. I hitchhiked on my first one seater motorbike. Then I got stuck for months. I was volunteering in a hostel in Antigua, a beautiful town, with three other volunteers. Then covid happened. People tried to get away, but the airport shut down. The owners were like, “We’re gonna leave. You’re in charge.” I was like, “That’s insane, I'm not qualified.” They left and we had a big house meeting. It was 23 of us stuck in this hostel. There were one or two people who were really unhappy with it, but more or less everyone tried to make the best of it. It was a beautiful place to be stuck. You could see a volcano erupting in the distance on the roof.

Over the course of those months, certain countries would send repatriation flights. One week, the Italians would leave. Two weeks later, the Germans would leave. The numbers dwindled until it was just me and six other people. My repatriation flight came after four months. I used the stimulus check money to pay for the flight, because those flights were not cheap. I got a seasonal job in Montana. We’re talking almost a year of non-travel. Finally, I went back to Mexico and started hitchhiking back to Guatemala. I flew from Panama City to Cali, Colombia and kept hitchhiking down from there.  

Ecuador was really nice. I met this German lady. She’d never hitchhiked before, and she’s this tiny girl, Vicki. She was like, “Wow, you’re hitchhiking all the way down the Pan-American highway? Can I come with you?” I was like, “I’m going to tell you every reason why you shouldn’t.” I explained to her it’s really hard sometimes, you might be waiting for days, sometimes you’re dirty, you’re sleeping in a tent, you get in the car and there’s no predictability. She was like, “Yeah, I still want to try it.” For four months, she hitchhiked with me, all the way down the coast. 

Chile is hitchhiking heaven. The best country I’ve ever hitchhiked in. We got tons of rides from truckers that do big distances. There’s this magical gas station called Copec every 50 kilometers. They have showers, WiFi, a space of earth so you can camp. You can hitchhike ten minutes to the coast, sleep on the beach. Argentina is also very easy. The south gets windy, so that can cause problems. One night, we were in the middle of nowhere in Patagonia and had the tent up. It was so windy, the tent blew off. Victoria was laying on all the stuff to keep it from blowing away. I ran and brought it back. We put big stones all around the tent to flatten it out, which, of course, shrunk it so we were curled up.

We had some incredible rides, like a really nice Dutch couple doing a roadtrip with their RV. We snuck onto a ferry ship without paying. There was this truck driver, who’s bouncing up and down. “Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go.” We jump in. He’s like, “Is it okay if I’ve taken coca? I haven’t slept in 36 hours.” Near the end of the ride, he’s like, “Oh, you’re from Germany. Hitler was pretty crazy in some ways, but he had some really good ideas.” We’re like, “Uh-oh, this is our stop anyway.” 

We got all the way down to Ushuaia, which is the southernmost city. I was in shock. It was like, “I’ve just hitchhiked the entire fucking continent.” 

We hitchhiked back up to Santiago, stopping at a Rainbow Gathering on the way. If you think of a bunch of hippies hanging out, you’re picturing a Rainbow Gathering. It’s not a festival, because no electronics are allowed. Cameras are frowned upon. The only drugs allowed would be marijuana and some psychedelics like mushrooms or acid. Alcohol is usually not allowed. There’s a bunch of people naked. Everything’s free. You can basically do whatever you want, as long as you’re respectful. A lot of woo-woo, hippie-dippie types. It is an incredibly interesting subcultural experience where communism is basically functioning.

That one was in Argentina, near Bariloche, right next to a waterfall. This lady who picked us up hitchhiking was like, “I love Rainbow Gatherings.” She proceeded to explain festivals. I was like, “I don’t think it’s that actually.” She was like, “No, it is. I know the guy who organizes them.” I was like, “There is no guy who organizes them.” We get there. Me and Vicki and this lady walk onto the area. The rainbow people see us and they start singing, “Welcome, welcome home, brothers, sisters.” They’re really loud. Vicki’s like, “This is a crazy cultural experience.” The woman, you can see her face just horrified, she’s like this is fucking weird. We go off with the Rainbow people. We turn around, she’s gone.

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