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Simple ticket collectors or contemporary heroes of means of transport?

There are many of them, very many.

At least as many as the means of transport that allow, albeit with long hours of waiting in traffic and many changes, to keep a megalopolis like Lima connected and mobilized, hurtling across asphalt and potholes at insane speeds in a giant slalom feat without slow motion.

An unofficial but far from silent army, on the contrary: a cobrador must have the loudest of voices to be able to prevail over the roar of horsepower, over the heartbreaking screams of the horns, on the unbridled competition of his colleagues and manage to grab the greatest number of customers by feeding them to his ramshackle combi.

Anyone who has moved around the Peruvian capital without ever coming across one of these ticket and tailgate professionals, out of mistrust or fear, he cannot boast of having had a complete experience.

Before starting to praise the deeds of this contemporary hero of ours and mythological animal of means of transport, I believe it is necessary to start with a brief description of its natural habitat: the combination, a miracle of modern metaphysics.

This quadruped on wheels externally resembles in every way the old Volkswagen vans that made generations of flower children dream; for its part, however, this vehicle would better fall into the "child of the holes" category. Holes in the clothes of those who work there, holes in the seat upholstery, holes in the floor (from which you can easily entertain yourself during the journey by means of a splendid view of the road pavement) e, why not, every now and then an honest hole in the exhausted tires that have grinded up several thousand kilometers of road, as smooth as professional billiard cloth. Colors and letters, when not erased by scratches and dents, characterize the different lines in a riot of unpronounceable names such as ESTMARSA, Etuchisia, LIPETSA, IN EMTES, ETUPSA, ETGUSICSA, ETC, all accompanied by unlikely combinations of stickers that range from Jesus Christ to Che Guevara. And it certainly cannot be said that the interior of the vehicle is less imaginative! At night it shows off bright LED strips of different colours, so as to make even those who find themselves stuck in traffic after a long day at work feel like they're in a disco. There are those who also tell of models that made television screens hanging who knows where and who knows how available to customers and broadcast unlikely programs.

The will be, taking advantage of the amnesty of darkness very often two or more motorized coffins launch themselves into crazy speed races in a sort of Lima GP which does not include an audience but still manages to fill the news pages of the newspapers, all to get those extra soles that will barely pay for the waste of diesel. But it doesn't matter, because supported by the prayers of the passengers they almost always emerge unharmed and with the pride of still being up to it.

Despite the diversity that can be found between the various specimens, This breed is characterized by a few but unmistakable common traits. First of all the dimensions, comfortable and ergonomic for everyone, with the only requirement of not exceeding one and a half meters in height. Otherwise, patrons can always specialize in the art of contortionism. By doing so they can easily find their own way to survive the narrow spaces that would otherwise oppress them in the cruel dictatorship of the cubic centimeter.

The combi is the true queen of the streets of the capital and makes a host of subjects bow before it, ranging from luxurious cars to its smaller cousins, that is, the billions of motorbike taxis similar to multicolored, overgrown midges that crowd every corner of the suburbs. The only exceptions to its absolute dominance are huge trucks, who generally graze peacefully in herds for the Pan-American Highway, and scheduled buses, stubborn and overbearing, especially near the stops they find themselves sharing; However, they can do nothing against the agility and versatility of the city's favorite vehicle, who with skillful moves manages to insinuate himself into every space, now vaccinated against the honking of those he cuts in front of and close collisions.

In the end, l’incredibile propulsione di questa meraviglia delle più avanzate tecnologie in campo di scattante mobilità su ruote è… vabbè, let's leave out this part which in any case in the road infarction of Limeño traffic is not such an indispensable prerogative.

Let us rather resume the situation we left off, in which we had a cobrador camouflaged in the concrete jungle while he was preparing to get his daily bread again today.

The moment of the hunt is of fundamental importance.

After a few moments, without hesitation, the vehicle approaches the stop in contempt of speed limits and the laws, taking huge flocks of customers by surprise. These, ready to fight among themselves in an artificial selection process to obtain a seat, they know well that those who remain standing will not have the opportunity to rise to their full height but will have to face the journey bent over and subjected to the metal sheets and the music.

Inevitably, reggaetton.

But let's go back to the sublime scene of hunting art.

The vehicle brakes suddenly, regardless of the unfortunate people who are already suffering inside due to the heat and limited space, to get him down, our male and adult cobrador specimen, hidden until a few seconds before under a protective armpit or dangling just outside the rigorously wide open side door. He begins to invoke with all the air he has in his lungs the names of the stops that will follow, traffic and motor permitting, enunciated with the solemnity of a sacred hymn addressed to innumerable and mysterious saints.

Pamplona Alta, pray for us.

All Javier Prado, pray for us.

The Molina, pray for us.

Like watchful gazelles in the savannah, customers listen to the vibrations of the air in search of the long-awaited call and as soon as it arrives they rush into the race for the throne, pardon, to the seat.

A, due, cinque, new ones. But how many are there??

This is not a question that the real cobrador usually asks himself, well aware that in the metaphysical space of a combi, numbers and volumes are certainly not a problem and it never leaves a passenger stranded. Let it not be said that he is not fulfilling his biological obligations. Naturally these loading-unloading operations of human flesh require impeccable coordination and organization, innate qualities in those who have the profession flowing through their veins and the road beneath their feet.

It works more or less like this.

I unload: just before reaching your stop, guided by a built-in GPS (the outside world being obscured by walls of men and women) the passenger launches a universal command into the ether, an exit-only passepartout, “baja!”, which is repeated several times if necessary. The message is fished out from the never-sleeping ear of the cobrador who, with the dexterity of a first-class footballer, dribbles it to the driver who in turn, sooner or later and strictly without warning, he will push his foot onto the brake pedal in the sudden manner described above. From expressing the desire to put one's feet on dry land again to actually doing it, the passenger knows that he will have to travel a difficult and narrow route, between old ladies and corpulent gentlemen, which will lead him to the gate of paradise. Here he will not find Saint Peter to welcome him, but rather our dear cobrador, to help him in the undertaking by repeating the same command quickly and multiple times, “baja, baja, baja”. A sort of mantra of encouragement.

Bene. A few measly square centimeters of flooring were freed up, it's time to move on to the second phase of the "combi" operation.

This time it's the cobrador who speaks first, in front of the disorderly line of those who in the meantime have flocked in large numbers to the entrance to his kingdom. The password is now reversed, “go up”, naturally this too was repeated an inconsiderable number of times with a speed that would make the old crank machine guns jealous. Future passengers don't have to be told twice, actually no, actually much more than two, and one by one they begin to channel themselves into the meanders of the vehicle. As in all moving herds there is always that head of cattle that blocks the passage of the others and it is therefore up to the cobrador to bring it back to order with a third and different command: “advance backwards”. A true cowboy from these concrete prairies!

In his organization of spaces, our hero has absolute power over every form of life which, at its own risk, decides to enter the combi and, caught in flashes of good spirit, dictates transfer orders to young people with earphones to give way to the old ladies full of bags who occasionally appear at the stops. The children, who see the steps of the vehicle as an insurmountable obstacle, they are torn from the arms of their mothers to speed up the operations and are placed as ornaments in that seat that in the meantime, with bitterness, it was abandoned by a disillusioned man who hoped to finally be able to rest his backside after hours of travel. Now yes, the queue outside the vehicle has ended, dozens of passengers have been efficiently stored in that warehouse on wheels and our hero is outside the vehicle, alone, observing complacently his net full of fish.

Little enough: two indelicate taps on the suffering bodywork and the driver gives gas to the engine which does not spare himself in puffs, shouts and complaints, but in the end he leaves, leaving deadly black clouds behind.

In my opinion this is the most rewarding moment for the cobrador; what truly gives meaning to his presence on this earth.

The time has come to cobrar.

At this stage the fourth and final vocal command that has been given to him since he was a puppy is used: “passaje”. His eyes shine as he gracefully dances in the spaces he forcefully creates between his shoulders, backs and thighs to reach even the most extreme and unknown corners of his universe and ask them to pay the offering, often in the form of a kind of free offering. The cobrador has a memory that is the envy of the most powerful floppy disk and with it he can know at any moment which of the passengers has already paid their dues and which has not., in the meantime also keeping in mind the stops they have indicated as their destination so as to be able to collect before a premature escape. Despite this, very often a second pass attempt is made anyway; you never know that some unfortunate person under pressure will drop an extra coin. His index, with a full magazine, is pointed at everyone, men, women and children, without distinction or pity and the money doesn't take long to arrive in abundance. He generally wears a vest that changes color over time and as the brands of oil used for the engine vary, which as a fundamental characteristic must have a huge pocket to contain the hundreds of coins that he will collect during his long working day while wandering through the streets of Lima 17 ore. Large coins enter, small coins come out. God only knows what happens inside that pocket.

Once the harvest is finished, the cobrador can feel happy and satisfied, counting and ringing the pegs he still holds in his hand.

Like every farmer at the end of the working day he can sit and admire the fruit of his hands, rest, turn up the volume of the crackling radio and enjoy the few seconds that separate him from the next stop, and then start another ride on the carousel that accompanies his life. Whereabouts dopo whereabouts.

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