If we had thought that the Boliviaños were a noisy race, we had yet to meet their Perueño cousins. Horns. Klaxons. Sirens. Whistles. Bugles. True, their national road code requires that on overtaking you sound your intention and presence, yet that’s the same code that requires the use of an archaic right-hand turn signal. Strange how one act can prevail whilst the other doesn’t. One lorry was so pleased to see us, that he klaxoned for over a hundred metres to our rear, and was still in the mirth as he rounded the next bend. Such was his clamorous applause that I took to the verge, only to find he was on the other side of the road. Such a courteous, happy chap.
I hoot for dogs, and gringos on cycles, I hoot for llamas, and stones on the road, I hoot to find passengers, I hoot deliberately, particularly where I’m asked not to.
The insistence and the temper of these intrusions are no indicator as to the nature of the engine invading into my audio space. A yappy effeminate fluting will eminate from a lumbering truck, whilst a full throated bugling might materialise from an underpowered moto. Even the tricycle rickshaw comes with a rubber bulb horn; fortunately they’re the one vehicle that we can overtake, so ‘when in Rome…’ we reciprocate….with a polite ‘buen dia’.