Getting around Lima, for those without Land Rovers, was all about jumping on and asking questions later. The shortage of transportation was severe enough, and the job market thin enough, to drive many men to throw their own cars or vans into service as informal cabs and buses. They would stick a hand-lettered sign on their dashboard with the name of their ultimate destination, and take to a major street. They were always packed. Even during off hours, buses routinely sped along with people hanging off their steps, and sometimes some boys sat up on the roof, gripping the luggage rack.
For a slightly more civilized ride you could catch a “colectivo,” which was a sort of taxi that ran a regular route. This is mostly how we got around when my Dad was away with his Land Rover. The four of us stood on the sidewalk while my mother leaned into the window asking, in surprisingly good Spanish, where the car went on its way to the place named on the sign. We piled onto strangers’ laps and rode. Our favorite place to go was Parque de las Leyendas, a sort of combination zoo and theme park on the outskirts of town. We took a colectivo to an outdoor bus depot downtown, then got on a special bus to finish the trip. The park was near a collection of markets where knick-knacks for the tourist trade were sold wholesale, and tourist shops lined the boulevard that led to the park from the bus stop.