Most people have heard some version of the South American bus systems horror story. The story usually includes chickens and a bus hanging over the side of a cliff. This clichéd tale never allows for any variation of the in town travels and subsequent horrors that happen in the “urban” bus systems far away from the cliffs and chickens. Let me enlighten you.
The official bus system is less of a system and more of what American teenagers might refer to as a “Chinese Fire Drill” set in side a caged rat’s maze, with hopes of rich cheeses at the end of the maze. In translation, the wonderful cheese at the end of the maze is your intact body, the rat’s maze is the selections of streets the busses chooses at random to get to said destination, and the “Chinese Fire Drill” remains graphically self explanatory.
The buses whip in and out of traffic closer and with what appears as more calm control than a taxi driver in New York could ever wish for. There are generally two lanes on the main road, but here as in other foreign countries, they serve merely as a nice reminder of regulations rather than a law to be followed.
The system is a series of three sizes of buses painted a series of colors and usually painted with names of a few street destinations on the side. In every bus no matter the size there is a driver and a caller. Because there is no bus schedules, maps or machine to politely deposit your money in, as in the U.S., there is a Caller. The Caller hangs like a trapezes artist, especially during rush hour, out the door of the bus, hustling fares on and off the buss, calling streets and stops and collecting money from each rider.
The money paid is not a straight fare, rather it is based on the distance you travel, and surprisingly enough, even on the busiest days, the callers know exactly where every traveler got on, where they are getting off and has pre-calculated your price in the off chance a person tries to cheat them on a fare.
The busses come in thee sizes: bus, van, and what is most frequently used is the Combi. The Combi is somewhere between a Volkswagen bus and a full sized bus. It seats about fifteen tightly and stands between ten to fifteen more. Capacity depends on the size of the passengers, the relative tolerance of the riders to swing as the buses jolts in and out of traffic, as well as the desires for the Caller to want to hang out the side of the bus.
The next size down is the late 70’s Volkswagen turned bus called a micro, pronounced “me-crow”. The micro is an inventive peace of machinery wherein the municipalities here have found a way to raise the top of the van (not by much), throw in a bunch of seats and bars (which are necessary), and call it public transportation. Shockingly in these marvels of welding, they manage to pack upwards of twenty people in them.
Given the low ceiling in this type of bus, it becomes especially interesting on days that women wear skirts. Being the men are not quick to offer up their seat to a lady and after one terrible embarrassing ride for myself, I have chosen to avoid these busses if at all possible.
I have, as of yet, had the luxury of riding a city bus that was full sized, but they do make up only a small portion of the totality that is the bus system here in Lima.
Now that we have covered the necessary basics for getting on a bus, let me offer you a few pieces of advice should you ever find your self on a Peruvian city bus:
One- never, never, never sit in the front seats. It is best not to know how close you are every seven second break check, to crashing into the vehicle in front of you at great speeds.
Two- as previously mentioned, never where a skirt and ride in a Microw. It’s not good for your reputation and the stares and cat calls come louder than the atrocious sounds made by the shifting of the transmission.
Three- never expect to get out of even five minute ride thinking you might smell the same as you did when you went in (especially during morning rush hour).
Four- If at all possible, try not to touch the callers. A day hanging out the side of a bus in a city with nine million people and no real current emissions restrictions makes you filthier than a coal mine worker.
Five-white is not the most optimal color to where on the bus
Six – when the Caller yells “abajo” he is not asking politely. Rather, he is demanding for you to hurry and get out of the way or hurray and get off the damn bus. If you fail to listen, you get pulled off, left behind or worse than that, not off at all until the rat maze slows down again.
Seven- for gods sake hold on! As the bus whips in and out of traffic, your certain for elbows in placed you would generally rather them not be, if you don’t have a at least one firm grip on the railing.
Once you have mastered the art of riding the Peruvian bus system, there is nothing left in Lima for one to be afraid of, other than the seriously dangerous ghettos. But that’s another adventure for another day.
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