The Business of Combis

On Wednesday I explored Central Lima, and its well-revered Plaza de Armas, with a Parisian fellow named Alex who I met at our shared ¨Flying Dog Backpackers¨ hostel. Once the heart of Lima (according to the irrefutable knowledge of "Lonely Planet: Peru"), this appropriately-statued square laps at the steps of La Catedral de Lima, and tickles the feet of several ceremonial guards (and two not-so-ceremonial, tank-like trucks) posted outside Peru´s Presidential residence. For me, it was as much an excuse for exploration as it was a desired destination. I had spent the previous day orienting myself by foot in the relatively comfortable current of a neighborhood called Miraflores. Recommended for its safer accommodations, and choice of clubs and cafes, I had roamed around with Lonely Planet´s Latin American Spanish phrasebook in hand, and down to the sea. Now, I was ready to push inland.

It cost us 2.5 Sol´s each (just shy of $1 USD per seat) to borrow taxi time for the 25 minute ride northwest, and we poked around the plaza and surrounding streets until reds were reflecting off everything, and lengthening shadows pointed towards home.

This time, however, the inevitable want for fresh experience took over, and we determined to board a Combi - local minibus - for our return trip. The roads were a-buzz with the rush of evening, and we posted ourselves on the sidewalk, unsure of protocol but unswayed by our ignorance. Dozens of desired shared rides sailed by, some flying the flag of our neighborhood; but none slowed for our signal. The fumes from what methinks were every third-world auto began to choke our resolve, and we wondered together about the possibility of designated stops. And as the hope of yet another ride was denied, we began to walk.

At the next block we saw people clumping. But as I stepped forward Alex called me back and onto a nearby Combi that had slowed, though it bore no signs of our destination. Whatever. Alex´s French-trained ear had caught the necessary syllables. We swung aboard to claim seats not designed for me, and with knees partially blocking the aisle we were off.

The stops and starts of this service extended our travel time; but this was just fine because I was soon focused on dissecting its operation. I could only assume private ownership; there were too many similar competitors to be publicly-run. But who were the owners? Could it be that the two operators - a driver and a fare collector, whose post was on the only steps and door in or out - be partners in this incredible enterprise? The driver was a constant for me, attending to the ever-changing scene beyond his windshield with stolid certainty; so my attention focused on the others´clues. There was the vigor of his calling out for customers, as if he cared to have one more on. I could not figure how his attention managed the fact that people did not pay upon entry. But there he was, at lights, knowingly collecting Sol's with a formula that seemed to be known by all but me. Several times he was caught in the back as we pulled up to another stop, and the way of his rush back to the door told me he must have incentive. But what was it? Did he and the driver split profits? Did they pay a set daily rate to a third party investor? Or was it simply fear of turning in too little each night that might end him in unemployment? I´m not sure. But the quality of this business, in all its circumstantial imperfection, was impressed on my mind. And its lingering questions help to incentivize my pursuit of fluency in this language, and this culture, and this country. And in the meantime, I paid 1 Sol for yet another lesson.

P.S. Check out Alex´s blog (in French, but with a few pics) at: http://tdm.sergeweb.com/