I want to be Peruvian again

I'm going to repost something I wrote in Lima, 'cause I was trying to describe what it's like to live in that city, and I thought this kind of captured it. Since the past few blogs haven't been very writing-related, this one will be. This is one of the aspects of life that most foreigners hate - it happens to be one of the things I miss the most.

Window to a Peruvian Existence: My Lullaby is the Call of a Cobrador

Lima is a huge, sprawling, densely-packed mass of humanity ever pushing at the seams of its defined space. For those living on the seams, in the far reaches of the city, it has been cited that they will spend more than four years of their lives in public transit. For the Limeño, it is not just a mode of transportation: it is a way of life.

And for the visitor, it is a fascinating, frightening mess; quite possibly the most insane yet efficient form of public transit ("public transit" used in the loosest sense of the term) I have ever witnessed. To utilize this mess gives one an intimate look at daily life-- both at the lives of Peruvians and my life in Lima as a Peruvian.

There are three types of vehicles, and they all work the same way. The smallest are combis, essentially the size of a fifteen passenger van. Not including the cobrador and chaufer, they seat around 16, plus 3-4 people standing, hunched over in the low space. Those tall enough can brace themselves by bending at the waist and firmly steadying their upper backs against the ceiling; others can do this with their heads or shoulders. Next in size are the coasters, which I personally use the most. They are the size of a small bus. They are followed by micros, which are the size of large school buses. As for the last two: I've never been able to get a good head count. Suffice it to say it is many-- many more than should be legally or comfortably allowed.

All of these have two workers: the chaufer, who is charged with careening through the congested streets at breakneck speeds, and the cobrador, who manages the passengers. While the carro is racing down the road, the cobrador hangs out the window screaming the names of the route they travel. With a voice like an aluminum can, he yells all day long: yelling the routes, calling to let the driver know that passengers are getting on (sube) or getting off (baja), calling for passengers to have their fares ready or to advance to the back. In his free moments, he elbows his way through the tightly packed aisle, collecting fares of S/. 0,50; S/.1; S/1,20. The call of the cobrador, on constant replay, sounds something like this:

SubeSubeSube!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!SubeSube!AvancenPorFavor,AvancenAvancen
BajaEsquinaBajaBajaBajaSigueBajandoVamos!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!
PasajesenlamanoPasajesenlamanoPorFavor!BajaSemáforo, BajandoBajando....

As a passenger, especially a North American passenger, getting around Lima really challenges my concept of personal space. Namely, I have none. I have been in micros so crowded that no part of my body was untouched - so sandwiched that I had no need to hold on, because even though the stomach-lurching traffic dodging, there was nowhere for me to fall.

There are thousands of different mircos and combis, and they all drive different routes. They have the names of the major roads in their route painted on their sides. To know which car you want, you read the side and listen to the call of the cobrador. This in itself can be a challenge, as few people speak fluent cobrador. In the repetitious cycle of yelling, words get distorted, and you must understand - for example - that Javier Prado will sound as: JaiPrauJaiPrauJaiPrau!

To get on, you need merely wave at the cobrador, who will beat on the side of the bus, signaling to the driver to stop. To get off, you must yell loudly, telling him exactly where you need to stop - as there are few designated bus stops, it is generally an on-and-off free-for-all. Buses can stop as frequently as necessary, sometimes every half block. Sometimes it requires forcefulness, and there can be no shame: if you don't yell, the chaufer is likely to blow right past your stop.

Don't be fooled by the frightening speed at which the micros travel - you do not actually arrive quickly to your destination. They provide an excellent opportunity to develop your "sleep-anywhere" skills, listen to music (with caution: keep your mp3 player and cell phone well hidden), perfect your sense of balance, or soak up the warmth of many, many bodies, all a tad too close for comfort.

Two hours a day in this weaving, rushing, death-defying mass of smushed-together humanity, and you may begin to understand what it is like to really, truly be Limeño.