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 $0.40), occasional vendors selling everything from office supplies to jewelry, and salsa on the radio, they just might be the more enjoyable option, too. Great marketing strategy.
Last Thursday, my friends and I packed ourselves into a taxi outside of my apartment building and headed toward our usual Thursday night spot, Help! Retro Bar in the Bohemian district of Barranco. The air was fresh, the windows were down, and we were belting out the choruses to top 40 staples— Ke$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…
