Turning to the School Yard to Solve a Peruvian Driving Conundrum

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The Problem:

Peru seemed to be dominated by roadways that were developed before vehicles.  And, it turns out they were. From the old section of Cusco, to the rural countryside, we frequently observed two-way roads that were only barely wide enough for one-way traffic.

We walked along a sidewalk wedged between the storefronts and the street. The sidewalk was so minimal that not only were two pedestrians unable to pass without one stepping into the road, even a single pedestrian needed to carry parcels in her street-side hand, or more commonly on her back, to keep them from rubbing against shop windows. Seemingly as an afterthought, squeezed between the facing sidewalks was a cobblestone street nearly too narrow for one small car to negotiate. Yet the streets were all considered two-way. Consequently, when two cars met traveling in opposite directions, one needed to reverse to the preceding intersection to get out of the way. But not always. We watched as two cars crept past one another, each with two tires on the sidewalk, side mirrors nearly scraping as they passed.

The Solution:

While some municipalities might solve this problem by widening roads or designating some streets as one-way, Cusco leadership seems to have thought out of the box for a resolution: driving classes during elementary school recess. Yup, as we wandered up the narrow streets, we spotted a large school yard with several dozen kids at play. A few were enjoying a game of soccer while the vast majority were eagerly pedaling Fred Flintstone-style cars around roadways painted on the playground asphalt. This wasn’t simply an oval track. This road system included traffic lights, stop signs, crossing guards, pedestrian crossings, left turn lanes and lots of pint-size cars all driven by 8-year olds.

This novel approach to too-narrow streets seems to be working. As we wandered the old section of Cusco, which was snarled with traffic, we didn’t see one fender bender or even a driver who appeared agitated at backing up two blocks up a cobblestone street. Quite to the contrary, road rage was nowhere in evidence; schoolyard exercises seemed to be paying off in the streets of Cusco.

You Got This Mom!

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“Vamos!”

While offered with a cheery inflection, “vamos!” none-the-less conveyed a command to resume planting one foot in front another as we climbed to the 15,200-foot pass. My footfalls were slow and consistent. With each step I repeated to myself one word of a four-word phrase: Step, “you”, step, “got”, step, “this”, step, “mom.” However, as I continued up the incline inching closer to our goal, my pace slowed dramatically. I adjusted my mantra to: right foot, “you… you,” left foot, “got.. got”, right foot, “this… this,” left foot, “mom… mom.”

I looked ahead hoping to spy horses coming down the trail. Turns out that the best course of action when meeting a horse train while trekking near Salkantay in Peru is to stop, move to the side of the trail and let the horses pass, which offered easily a minute’s rest. Unfortunately, no horses were in sight.

An alternative hope: perhaps our guide Dalmiro would spot a flower or snake or point out a butterfly to us. Any educational stop offered more than sufficient time to regain steady breathing and simultaneously gain insight into the flora and fauna of Peru. For instance, one morning Dalmiro actively poked a snake with his hiking poles as he informed us it was indeed poisonous.

“Why are you poking it then?” I questioned.

“To catch it so everyone can see it!” Dalmiro responded enthusiastically.

Fortunately, the snake escaped into the undergrowth neither poisoning someone in the group, nor having its head chopped off.

During our downhill walks, our group’s conversation would be filled with laughter and plenty of games of broken telephone.

Just yesterday as we returned to our lodge, I found myself defining prophylactic for our Peruvian guide, who offered an animated analysis of why sexual drive is much stronger among jungle inhabitants than up in the mountains. His analysis—it all comes down to the amount of skin showing.

However, as we slowly progressed uphill, no voices broke the still air. The only sound was heavy breathing and, wait? What was that? An avalanche?

I looked toward Salkantay Peak and pointed with my hiking pole. My husband stopped and looked in the direction I was pointing.

“What do you see?” he asked.

As his question wasn’t of the yes or no variety I was unable to answer, having absolutely no spare breath to form words.

He seemed to catch on and followed up with, “An avalanche?”

To this I was able to actively respond with a nod of my head.

By the time we had paused a minute looking for the telltale puff of snow on the peak, I had regained my ability to speak and even pulled out my water bottle for a few gulps.

Looking ahead, I could actually see our destination—we were nearly at the pass—and with a final bit of focus and a couple dozen repetitions of my mantra, I indeed did have this and soon was happily basking in the sunshine at the top of the pass.