Now I can drive like a local

I drive myself around every time I'm here, but I have always pretended that I'm in a different mental state, or at least a different road. I can connect my iPod to the stereo and sit patiently at 25 km/h behind ancient belching trucks. I shake my head at bus drivers that overtake into oncoming traffic. I rely on the 4WD's size and weight to force my way through the clouds of Ticos that dart randomly around intersections.

Then yesterday, coming back from the farm, there was a stench of burning oil. It's a common smell, so I ignored it, at least until Ithe rear vision mirror suggested that the cloud of smoke was mine. I pulled over to the side of the road where a number of helpful pedestrians looked under the bonnet, checked the oil and water, and told me I needed a mechanic. I started the car again and crawled the rest of the way to Ica, half on the road, half off, slower than the slowest of the bent or broken trucks, spewing smoke, and feeling that I fitted right in.

The Toyota is now with the mechanic, and I am driving the farm pick-up (i.e. ute) which has completed my Peruvian driving experience.

Leaving the farm, some workers asked for a lift. I said yes, of course, and in moment the tray had a full complement of passengers. I'm not sure whether it's legal, but this is the way most workers seem to travel. Forget about safety, forget the seat belts, forget the seats. Of course I drove very carefully, slowing right down for the worst of the pot-holes. Earlier in the week I hit a pothole and two of the office staff in the Toyota banged their heads on the roof. A similar strike in an overloaded pick-up could spread our work force over the road.

So, while I'm not quite a naturalised Ican, I now identify much better with the drivers.