Combi adventures

One thing that happens to me just about every day (usually several times a day) is riding on a combi. It's quite an adventure, one I actually usually enjoy. A combi is a Peruvian method of public transportation. It's quite economical really, costing anywhere from $.10 to $.20 a ride, depending on how far you're going. A combi is slightly smaller than a 15-passenger van in the States, with seats for about 15-19 people. However, it is not unusual to have between 20-25 passengers aboard at any given time. Let me give you a peek into my transportation to school every morning. Our house is about a block from the end of a combi line (there are various lines that go all over the city). Usually, when I'm ready to head out to school (around 7 AM), there is at least 1 combi getting ready to leave for the day. I climb aboard and wait till the driver figures they have enough passengers to make it worth leaving. I sit as close to the door as possible, since I'll have to get out before long. My bag sits on my lap and my knees stick out into the aisle. The cobrador (the person who collects the money) slides the door shut and we are on our way. As we go down the hill to the main road, we stop for many people who have their arms stuck out, signaling they want to climb aboard with the rest of us. Many of them are students in the uniforms of various schools. The combi fills up quickly and I wonder how I am going to get out the door at the main road, since there are people stuffed in my way, holding on to the metal bars always conveniently attached to the top of the combi. I try to discreetly fish the 30-centimo pasaje (money you pay to ride a combi) out of my money pouch in my bag. As we approach the main street, I call out "Baja pista" (I'm getting off at the highway), and the cobrador sticks a grimy hand out to collect my 30 centimos, simultaneously transferring my message to the driver up front. When we reach the corner of the main street, one or the other of us will usually relay the message to the driver, to make sure he remembers. Then the combi rolls to a stop, the door slides open, and I manage to somehow extricate myself from the mass of humanity crammed between me and the door. I am barely out of the combi when it's on its way again. I wait till the light turns, then run across the street, stop in the median and run across the other side when it's clear. Now I am one of the ones who waits with outstretched arm for a combi to pick me up. Finally, one comes. I clamber aboard, again trying to sit as near the door as possible. I am barely on when the cobrador calls out "Lleva" or "Vamos", both of which mean "Let's go!". I lurch toward my seat, resembling a tipsy drunkard and fall into it as gracefully as possible. My seatmate might be anyone - a young professional, an Andean woman with her brightly colored blanket on her back holding who knows what, a young mother with her child and a market bag, on the way to buy food at the market, an older man, a child on the way to school. We bump and rattle over the rough roads, the cobrador shouting out an almost constant litany of stops, followed by a short pause, then "Baja" or "Nadie", depending on whether someone is getting off or not. The car part stores whiz past, interspersed with tiny restaurants and some of the numerous typical Peruvian grocery stores, which contain an amazingly large variety of items in an amazingly small space. Then we pass the jail and we're officially entering the town of San Jeronimo. Soon, we turn off the main road to head up to the farmers' market, where the human (and otherwise) contents of the combi often change drastically as many people get off and on. Soon, we're headed back down the hill. I know I'm close now. "Farmacia", the cobrador calls out. "Farmacia, nadie" (No one's getting off). Then "Piscina". "Piscina baja" I respond. He relays the message to the driver, the door opens, and I get off. I walk down the road to the school and thus begins another day in my life in Peru.