I never thought I’d grow up to become a child trafficker. 

Don’t worry; I didn’t.

One of my favorite things about going to other countries is what I learn from the people who live there. Their worldviews, perspectives, values, and thoughts can challenge mine and shape me into a better person. 

It was on one of these journeys that I learned the value some other cultures have for helping anyone that is within your power to help. In the US, we tend to be concerned about too many things to help a person in need: Is that person safe? What if they ask too much from me? What if my help actually hurts them? What if it’s more than I bargained for? We use the answers to our questions to confirm that we did the right thing by staying out of the way. 

Would you ever pick up a hitchhiker? 

Most of us would answer with a resounding “no.” Cue the questions listed above, and we can pretty easily draw up a list of all negatives and no positives to helping a hitchhiker. 

In Africa, though, there’s no reason to say “no” to a hitchhiker. You have a car and they don’t. You have some extra seats, and they could use an extra seat. What more is there to ask?

I learned this lesson on a journey through Southern Africa. My friend and I were traveling through multiple countries, an African road trip unlike our family road trips traveling through the States. It was in Botswana that I learned the principle of, “Have a seat and wheels? You’ve met the basic requirements to help someone in need.”

The first hitchhiker we saw on the side of the road barely registered in my mind. Someone standing, facing the road, right on the edge of it, with a hand gesture to beckon the next traveling car to help them out. Before I knew it, my South African friend had pulled the car over and a new travel buddy was coming around to the side of the car with a spare seat. 

“What are we doing? What are they doing?” I asked, alarmed from years of “stranger danger” messaging in the US.

“They need a ride,” my friend told me.

“And we’re just… going to do that?” I asked.

“Umm.. yeah?” He asked back, with a question indicating that my question was as absurd to him as his answer was to me. 

Before I knew it, they were settled in and we were on our way. 

“How do we know where they are going? How long will they be with us?” I asked, realizing they were useless questions.

“They’ll let us know when they want out,” my friend told me. He didn’t even speak the local language, so how would he know? But I knew better than to ask more questions as I was quickly coming across as a Scrooge over my free seat available in the car.

Sure enough, after a good 15 minutes, the hitchhiker said something and we pulled over. They got out and waved a goodbye of gratitude. 

From that point on, I realized that we would be stopping for every person who wanted a ride.

I remember a woman and a young child who joined us on a journey for about a half hour. Just like all hitchhikers, she eventually indicated that it was time for her and her son to disembark.

With no town, buildings, or even the slightest sign of civilization in sight, I wondered out loud, “How did she know where to get out, and where she is going?”

Like a sage, my friend offered the quip, “She just knows.”

As we continued on, it became almost a game: who would spot the hitchhiker first, how far we would travel with them, and figuring out where they were going. 

Sometimes the hitchhiker was not a preferred guest. We picked up one woman who was carrying a bucket with her; it turned out that it was a bucket of raw fish. As soon as she got out of the car, our held-back gag reflexes kicked in as we opened all the windows and tried to swat the fishy air and accompanying flies out of the car.

One late afternoon, we came across a group of people standing by the side of the road, desperately waving at us for us to stop. It was a family of seven people, and they all wanted a ride. We had only one seat available in the car and told them that, if they wanted, they could send one person with us; otherwise they would need to wait for someone with a bigger vehicle.

After a few moments of deliberation, they decided they would take advantage of the one seat. They carefully selected which family member would be our passenger. 

It was the nine-year-old girl.

Instead of being fearful of being sent off with strangers, the girl was giddy and all smiles. Had she ever been in a car before? Had she ever been this close to a white person? Did she feel special traveling independently? I had no way to know what she was thinking, but I could tell from her face she couldn’t wait to start this journey with us.

“They said they are going to Namibia, so it’s perfect,” my friend filled me in on the details. We were headed to the Namibian border ourselves, and this family needed to get there, too— one family member at a time, it appeared.

But that’s when the alarm bells went off in my head. Big time.

“What?!” I said. “We can’t take her with us. We cannot bring a child that is not related to either one of us, isn’t even from the same country as us, and probably doesn’t actually even have a passport.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s child trafficking!”

I knew we weren’t doing anything wrong with our motives, but how do you explain that to immigration? That we picked up a girl—whose name we don’t know— from the side of the road, and decided to transport her out of her own country? There’s no way that would pass, and I wasn’t interested in going to jail, neither in Botswana nor Namibia.

We explained to the family that we could not take her with us. We offered the seat to any adult in the family, but for some reason, they declined the offer and decided to stick together. It was probably for the better that way.

That was the only time on our road trip through five African countries that we rejected a hitchhiker. Even after the raw fish lady we didn’t turn people down. 

And you know what? It felt good to help people out. It also felt good not to be a child trafficker.