Kike is standing on the plaza, chatting with his colleague. They just reprimanded a group of foreign bikers for driving the wrong way. Cusco is a great place for sightseeing but a challenging one for driving, especially in the San Blas neighborhood, a labyrinth of narrow one-way alleys paved with cobblestone. I walk towards the two men in uniforms and ask whether it’s safe to park my car here. The policemen seem eager to help so I follow-up with my real question: where can I find a good hotel that will accept our two dogs? Kike browses through a stack of business cards taken out of his uniform pocket and punches numbers on his cell phone. Within minutes he has located a suitable accommodation and he says he’ll show me how to get there… but first I need to bring my car here. Kike’s colleague interrupts: speaking really fast in Spanish he objects that I would then need to take the one-way street and they would have to ticket me. The two men converse in Quechua for a few seconds, then Kike turns to me with a smile: “Go get your car, I’m going to block traffic the other way so you can come here.” Instinctually I decide to trust this man. I run to the car, explain to Mai that we’re going to drive the wrong way through a one-way street to meet a cop friend but it’s OK because he’s going to block traffic for us. She accepts the explanation with laughter – maybe she thinks I just lost my mind.
Before we make the fateful turn into the one-way street a passerby waves his hands and shakes his head: “You can’t do this!” Yes I can. At least I hope so. Slowly I enter the alleyway. I feel my heart thumping for a few seconds until I get a sight of Kike’s bright yellow reflective jacket and his smiling face. He seems deaf to the sounds of honking horns from the traffic jam he created for us. We make it to the plaza and wait until the short policeman catches up with us. Kike and I look at the city map together and he comes to the obvious conclusion: “You’re going to get lost, it’s too complicated.” A quick look at our back seats covered in suitcases reveals that we can’t get him on board, so he improvises a solution: “Let me find a taxi and I’ll show you the way. Follow me!” Mai and I look at each other in disbelief. We both know Kike is expecting some kind of tip out of this… but we really need the help. I am totally opposed to bribes, but would this be a bribe? There is no trap, no intimidation and no blackmail, just a cop that’s going out of his way to help us out. My mind is made up: Yes, I can give Kike a tip without breaking my moral principles. Meanwhile he hails a taxi and hops on-board.
We start following the vehicle in the pocketsize streets of Cusco with our American-size 4×4 with California license plates, causing looks of bewilderment on the faces of passersby. The tiny alleys of the San Blas neighborhood soon give way to the larger avenues around the main square (Plaza de Armas). The taxi stops in front of a hotel. Kike springs out, signals us to wait for him, and runs inside the lobby. Then he springs out the same way and bounces back to the passenger seat. A few hundred yards later we stop in front of another hotel and Kike springs out of the car again. We realize that he hasn’t found a hotel for us yet: he is looking for one. This time he waves at us from the lobby: “Come on in!’ It turns out that there is availability and the price is reasonable but this hotel is in dire need of renovation. The front desk lady shows me the room: small, dark, slightly smelly, antiquated shower, no Internet. I thank her and say that I’ll think about it, which as we both know means that she’ll never see me again.
Back in the street I thank Kike for his help and hand him the equivalent of a $20 tip. A wide smile connects his two ears. He puts the money inside his anemic wallet. We shake hands and I get back behind the wheel. I’m expecting him to vanish immediately but instead he pays his taxi ride and walks back toward us. “There is another hotel at the corner of the street, do you want to check it out?” Kike already had his tip, so why does he keep trying to help? The truth is simple: money was never his real motive. We walk up the stairs into a sketchy lobby. “This place is more economical!” he beams with pride. I take one polite look at the room and realize that although Kike means well our criteria for selecting a hotel are totally divergent.
We say goodbye again, this time for good. He pats my shoulder in a way that only friends do, wishes me a good life and jumps into a ridiculously small taxi. Kike waves us goodbye until the tiny car turns out of sight.
Cedric, 5/26/2012
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