Transportation in Lima Part 2: Killer Combi

The Peruvian combi--such an unassuming, quiet creature when it´s resting...

Let´s take a moment to consider the Peruvian combi.  Its stout, mini-van physique that proudly wears the names of all the streets and districts on its route.  Its torn-up pleather seats jammed-packed with Peruvians on their way to and from the office.  Its melody of horn honking, accompanied by the jingling of change as the cobrador comes ´round to collect travel fares.  The unfailing enthusiasm of the cobrador as he peers out the window or steps onto the sidewalk to chant the mantra of his route in a well-practiced monotone: ¨Arequipa, Arequipa, Arequipa!¨ he says, or ¨Todo Benavides, todo Benavides.  Vamos, vamos, vamos.¨   The reprise of his chanting as he ushers old passengers off the bus (¨Baja! Baja! Pie derecho!¨) and welcomes new passengers aboard.

The combi system is a push-and-shove of a transportation system that´s distinctly Peruvian, a well-oiled machine that´s barely detectable to the common traveler.  It starts at the ground level, with the two-man team of the bus driver and cobrador.  The bus driver darts in and out of traffic to shuttle passengers to their desired destinations in the fastest possible time, while the cobrador keeps track of the schedule, the number of passengers, and the number of tickets. It´s the ultimate drag race to the next stop—one combi always riding the exhaust pipe of another, looking for the next opportunity to pass, passengers and passersby breathing in the fumes.  All this hustle is to make money not for the city, but for privately-owned umbrella companies.  Some are legal, some are not.

They call them combis asesinas (killer combis), because in the rat race to the nearest paradero, they´ve been known to hit innocent pedestrians.  Here in Peru, it´s safer to be inside the combi than outside.  With fares averaging one sol (about $0.40), occasional vendors selling everything from office supplies to jewelry, and salsa on the radio, they just might be the more enjoyable option, too.  Great marketing strategy.

Transportation in Lima Part 1: Taxi Muggings

Last Thursday, my friends and I packed ourselves into a taxi outside of my apartment building and headed toward our usual Thursday night spot, Help! Retro Bar in the Bohemian district of Barranco. The air was fresh, the windows were down, and we were belting out the choruses to top 40 staples— Ke$ha´s ¨Tik-Tok¨ and Joey Montana´s ¨La Melodia.¨ (Listen below for a better understanding of how catchy songs decrease mental alertness and good-decision making.) The next logical progression should have been to sing along to one more party jam from the Black Eyed Peas, arrive safely to our destination, and find our names on ¨The List.¨
 

But that´s not what happened.

Like in any well-constructed plot line, there was some foreshadowing as to what was about to happen, but in the moment we were too negligent to notice.  The first sign was that our taxi driver drove us a different route than we normally travel, one that lead us down a back alleyway in Barranco, which predictably like all alleyways, was dark and deserted.  The second sign was that the end of the alleyway was gated and we had to wait for someone on the other end to open it.  The third was that a man in a hooded sweatshirt riding a bicycle stopped to speak with the driver for a few minutes.  In those moments, he must have realized how completely oblivious (naïve?) we all were—a cab full of girls riding with the windows down.  He must have noticed the open window.  And he must have noticed the purse sitting unattended on my lap, ripe for the snatching.


I remember that he circled around the cab one time before pulling up to the window next to where my friend and I were sitting. With one swift motion, he reached down inside, grabbed my purse, and pulled it the whole way out the window, leaving almost no time to react.  Yet somehow in the moment, my usually sluggish reflexes became cat-like. I yanked the purse from his grasp and pulled it back inside the window just in time for the gate to open ahead of us. Crisis averted.

Bohemian Barranco by night.

When I relayed the story to one of my coworkers, she said a similar thing happened to her brother once.  He had hailed a taxi to her apartment in the upscale neighborhood of Miraflores, but had ended up in a shady section of the city called La Victoria. By the time he and his travel companion finally realized they weren´t in the right place, the taxi driver had already parked in an alleyway, where two men were waiting and ready to get in and mug them.  He´d been in contact with them the whole time. Pretty profitable business model.

The point here is that, in my mind, I always thought I was safer riding in a taxi than walking or taking a bus.  I have ridden in 99 taxis here in Lima with no problems, but it´s always that exception to the rule that gets you. Maybe next time I´ll learn my lesson and take the gas-guzzling mini-van nicknamed the ¨combi asesina¨ (killer combi).  But more on that option later…

Ode to the Agrarian

¨How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?¨  ---Ernesto Che Guevara, The Motorcycle Diaries

I spent my Saturday in the company of cows, llamas, and alpacas. The visit didn´t involve travel to Cusco or the northern highlands, but rather a one-hour combi ride to La Molina, an affluent and somewhat suburban-feeling district of Lima that happens to be home to the Universidad Nacional Agraria La Molina (National Agrarian University—La Molina).  The trip was made possible by our good friend Enrique, who studied at the university and wanted to share it with us.

While some of us marveled at seeing farm animals up close and personal for the first time, others felt not as if they were experiencing something new and exotic, but old and familiar.  I belonged to the latter group.  Corn stalks and cows grazing are the typical scenery of a Sunday drive to my grandparents´ house, who used to operate a dairy farm in the quiet countryside of west central Pennsylvania.

Right at home, abroad--Universidad Nacional Agraria

Even though the instances of farm living are becoming rarer and rarer in my hometown, the agrarian tradition of our ancestors is still apparent in many rituals: county fairs, pumpkin carvings, hay rides through corn stalks, senior photos posed in front of props like tractors and wicker chairs. I´ve never milked a cow myself, but as I petted cow MRN 1067, I reflected on how my grandpa used to milk them every day, on how my mom used to say we skim-milk drinkers didn´t know what real milk tasted like, on how she said it was a special treat to ride along with my grandpa on Christmas mornings to make deliveries.  I thought about how my grandpa´s thick fingers and strong, wrinkled hands are the markers of years of dedication to hard physical labor.  Some jobs can be left in an office; others become a way of life.

¨I wouldn´t give you a nickel to travel,¨ my grandpa might say, dismissing my entire move to Peru with one decisive head shake. Likewise he´d probably make the city of Lima pay him before he would move into the thick cloud of smog and cacophonous soundtrack of car horns.

I´ve spent three years trying to piece together the connection I feel to Peru—why I´m fascinated by the lush green terraces and massive stone structures of an empire to which I share no common genealogy, culture, language, or history.  I´ve fumbled for logical explanations, reached for words I did not have.  Why would I spend six months halfway across the world at the expense of separating myself from everything and everyone I knew? 

I´m still not quite sure I can pinpoint the reason, but it seems to me it has something to do with a connection to seed and soil.  With the potato that stubbornly budges its way from the Andean earth against all odds, and the quiet resilience of a farmer, whose stubbornness brings even bigger surprises, defies even greater odds.

September is the New February

It´s September, but it feels like February. I don´t mean that just in terms of the winter weather here south of the Equator—the overcast skies, the lingering cold that settles into the tip of my nose—but in terms of the way the weather makes me feel. I can identify these feelings in the faces of passersby, all bundled up in their winter jackets and wearing fashionable boots: they´re tired of eating soups and drinking teas to keep warm, tired of putting an extra blanket on the bed at night, tired of spending their days in the office and their nights inside. I´m tired, too.

But wait—that´s not the way I usually feel in September, That´s the way I usually feel in February.

View from the office window: February in September.

At home, September means fall. Fall has always been my favorite season. Just one year ago, I wrote about the crispness and colors of autumn in Western Pennsylvania for a memoir class at Chatham.  I wrote about the smell of bonfire smoke after a football game, the tart taste of apple cider on a chilly night, the way the first frost covers the lawn like a delicate spider web. It´s the time of year when friends and family are talking about the first homework assignments and the first tailgates of football season.  Even though I know these things are really happening, in my mind Pittsburgh is just how I left it: tourists ambling down Grandview Avenue with half-melted ice cream cones, workers peering out their office windows, restless with the summer heat.

The stagnation of time is a curious component to living abroad.  I know time is passing where I am, but I can´t imagine it passing back home. For those I´ve left behind, the only time they can imagine passing for me is the time it will take me to come home. They´ve never seen me in this context, crossing the crowded streets of Miraflores or ordering coffee in Spanish. I won´t be the same way they left me at the airport.

It´s September, but it´s February. It´s winter, and I´m a long way from home.